For the Earl's Pleasure

by Anne Mallory

  “I have no idea,” he said glibly. “Isn’t this your area of expertise?”

  She frowned, but her maid saved him from further questions as she knocked, then entered the room.

  “Telly, we are going out. Have the coach prepared. Mother will say nothing.”

  Valerian wasn’t so sure of that, and Telly didn’t look as if she was either, but she disappeared back through the door.

  Surprisingly, Abigail was correct and the coach was ready for them in half an hour.

  They sat securely inside, rocking toward their first destination. “How many places with M-A-L do you have on the list, Telly?”

  “Thirty, miss. Right popular, those letters. Mal-folk’s, Maling’s, Remallard’s…”

  “Well, we will just have to tick them off one by one. Perhaps section by section.”

  They broke down the list, Valerian adding his opinion and Telly twitching nearly every time Abigail spoke to or answered him. He watched the maid, watched the look on her face as she watched her mistress. There was something odd there. He’d have to keep track of her, perhaps follow her when they returned.

  They made it through fifteen of the places on the list, stopping to have supper at a cozy hotel near the Strand. Valerian could nearly smell the juices of the succulent duck as Abigail chewed thoughtfully on each piece.

  Food, top-notch cuisine, had always just been…inherent. He’d never questioned it or paid too much attention. A poor meal was an anomaly. The first meal he had when he was back in his body was going to be exquisite.

  They ticked off ten more addresses before giving in to the pending darkness and returning home.

  “We will tackle the last five tomorrow morning.”

  “But your appointment, miss—”

  “We will make it in plenty of time, Telly. We looked at twenty-five sites today. Quite exhausting. But the last five are near one another. I am confident that we can get to them and still be on time.”

  “Very well, miss.” Telly looked upset. “I just think that you should be concentrating more on the prospects you have and the—”

  “Thank you, Telly.” Abigail’s voice was steely. “I plan to do that, do not fret.”

  Her maid remained silent the rest of the trip.

  Mrs. Smart was waiting in the foyer when they returned. Probably sitting in the front drawing room, watching for them.

  “Abigail, I’d like to speak with you about today and about the future.”

  Telly slipped away and Valerian was torn between following her and staying to watch the confrontation.

  “Perhaps tomorrow, Mother.”

  But her mother blocked her way. “We can bring in someone else. Someone better suited—”

  “Good night, Mother.”

  Abigail pushed past her and ascended the stairs. Valerian watched Mrs. Smart a moment more and thought about trailing her as well when she turned sharply and headed to the back of the house. But Abigail’s stiff shoulders made him choose to follow her instead.

  Abigail didn’t say much as she put her things away. He opened his mouth to say something, he didn’t know what, when Telly walked in and started to help Abigail change.

  “To bed early, miss? Yes, I think it is a good idea too. Should I bring you some warmed milk?”

  “No, Telly, I’m sure I will be sleeping soundly shortly. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Telly hesitated, then nodded and slipped from the room.

  “Your maid is worried for you.” Or something more, he still had to find out.

  “She just wants me to find a nice young man. She says it often enough.” Her voice was distracted.

  A spike of jealousy, sharp and piercing in its intensity, struck him. “You have plenty of suitors, to my knowledge. I’ve been on enough outings.” And tried to get rid of more of them than he could count before that.

  “I know you hate the outings.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Perhaps you will be able to see how tiresome they can be from the female perspective as well.”

  “Stop going on them, then.”

  She gave him a look full of exasperation.

  He thought of the next day. The outing he truly dreaded. “You shouldn’t go anywhere with Basil.”

  “We’ve talked of this already. My mother and Mrs. Browning will both be there.”

  “You don’t know that he doesn’t intend you harm.”

  “He is your brother.”

  “Doesn’t that make it worse?” He grimaced, admitting his own fault in her circumstances.

  She said nothing for a second, just watched him with her lovely blue eyes. “As much as Basil has been acting strangely, I can’t believe he wishes you ill. He will likely be absolved.”

  And me?

  “I don’t share your confidence,” he said instead.

  “That is because someone is trying to harm you.”

  “Someone is trying to harm you too,” he said pointedly. “Because of me. Unacceptable.”

  She fiddled with her brush as she was wont to do when she was near her dressing table. He paused for a second and looked more closely at the handle. He hadn’t paid much attention to it previously, usually more interested in what she was saying when she fingered it then in focusing on the object itself. The familiarity of the brush clicked and he brought his head up sharply, but she was looking away.

  “I am confident that once we find your body all interest in me will be lost.”

  A memory of a quaint Windsor shop filled with trinkets and personal items filled his mind. His third year at Eton. The scent of the tobacco pipes, the creams and perfumes. The shaving and dressing items for the men. The more delicate fripperies and expensive gifts for the women.

  Her voice was hazy on the edges of his mind as she continued to speak. “It does little good to dwell on things that will not change.”

  A rosewood box with an ivory handled brush. Impetuously purchased in the inept and gawking manner that had overwhelmed him at that age between youth and manhood.

  “I’ve been in worse situations,” she said.

  The embarrassment when one of his roommates had found it.

  “And I feel as if we are close. You will be free.”

  He had considered throwing it into the Thames. Had considered throwing himself into the Thames. Had buried the brush deep beneath his clothes instead, vowing to dispose of it soon. Vowing to dispose of all the uncomfortable thoughts connected to it.

  “Free to return to your life.”

  Had instead saved the damn thing and taken it home, buried in his trunk. Shoved awkwardly to the recipient on her birthday. A horrifying, tongue-tied moment. He had promised himself he would never to do such a thing again.

  “And everything will be as it should.”

  He had stupidly purchased the matching comb that autumn anyway. It still rested deep in the bowels of his closet.

  “I’m sure of it,” she said softly, her voice breaking through the memory.

  He looked at the brush, at the way her fingers stroked the handle.

  “Abigail—”

  One hand touched his chest sending all sorts of strange feelings through him—feelings tied to the memory, feelings new, and feelings old, but newly charged.

  He looked at the desire on her face. A face that rarely withheld emotion from him. He loved to taunt her, to see the anger and passion. To feel something from her after all the barren years of not having her near. A purgatory that he had created through his actions. A gawky boy on the edge of manhood unable to deal with his feelings. A man at the top of his game unable to let go of his pride.

  Her other hand played with the ties on her nightdress. “It is not tomorrow though. Tonight, tonight I want you to touch me.”

  She was taking a huge risk, she knew it. But she didn’t care. She could see the desire reflected in his eyes, could read the lines of his body, and she couldn’t deny that she had wanted him to touch her for the longest time.

  “Just a little,�
�� she whispered. “Just to make me feel alive. To feel that you are still here.”

  His eyes darkened and she pulled the string of her gown allowing it to fall away.

  “Abigail,” he said, his voice hoarse. “What are you—”

  “Thinking? I’m not.” She stepped forward against him, her hand still between them. “I don’t want you to think either.”

  He was here, with her. Still alive, at least within her madness.

  She let her palm skim the edges of his never-changing shirt, still in the state she had seen it in at the ball. She had never given a thought to how he must have unconsciously kept it that way. Just as his appearance reflected his emotional state. More bedraggled when he returned from wherever he was being kept, more vibrant when he was passionate or enraged.

  Her fingers caught in the edge of the material and glided over the button connecting the two sides. The material disappeared beneath her fingers, and all of a sudden, she was touching smooth skin, just slightly cool, as if it once had been a hot cup of tea that had warmed and then cooled to the room. A side effect of his state in the in-between.

  His indrawn breath made her bolder, and she ran her hand along the curves of his chest, touching the curling hair there and the chiseled planes.

  “My clothes?”

  “You have discarded them,” she said, not even glancing to the side, maintaining contact with his eyes, which were smoldering instead of cynical. “I’ve seen new spirits change clothing instantly. Sometimes in such a flurry that one outfit becomes the next ad infinitum until they settle.”

  One hand rose toward her in a more tentative gesture than she was accustomed to seeing him use. “Abigail.”

  “Are you going to touch me, Valerian?”

  His fingers bent around the plait of hair that hung down her shoulder. He stroked the strands there. “I don’t know. Is it real?”

  “It’s as real as we make it.” She undid another tie of her gown, the material spreading so that more skin was bared.

  His hand smoothed the ends of her plait and then lifted to her nape. He tilted her head back and drew her closer. “Like a dream.” He pulled her to him and her eyes closed as his lips touched hers. As they drew careful strokes against the contours of her own, the smallest amount of resistance between them as they slid together.

  Heaven. Perhaps she was in it. Perhaps this was her heaven, having Valerian all to herself, touching and depending on her. A wicked thought.

  He deepened the kiss and traced the hollows of her throat. A trail of fire lit across the path, at odds with the cool touch of his hands. The coolness just intensifying her already burning skin.

  His fingers descended down her throat and to the curves of her shoulders and collarbone, dipping to the valley below. She could feel her breasts tighten, an odd sensation that promised pleasure if she could just do…something.

  He grasped the edge of the third tie, his fingers lightly stroking along the edge of her left breast as he did so. The sensation grew and her nipple hardened. “I’m looking quite forward to seeing what is behind this tie. You have clung to that shift beneath. I’m going to unwrap you finally.”

  The tie fluttered between his fingers, then fell through, the same way that her glove had refused removal. He paused for a moment and she breathed heavily against his neck, eyes tightly shut, hoping that he wouldn’t pull away like he had before.

  Fingers, gentle, protective, possessive fingers, curled around the hand she held at his chest.

  “If you only knew,” he whispered and pulled her hand down. He pressed her hand to her own body, stroking back up, over her breast, circling the taut peak, causing her eyes to half close, using her own hand to do so. Her fingers touched the tie. His hand stroked up hers and took her forefinger and thumb between his, pinching them together around the ribbons. She looked up sharply, breath catching. His eyes were hot as he slowly pulled her pinched fingers away from her body, dragging the end of one ribbon from the clutch of the other, setting the edges of the fabric free.

  Her heart thumped. He hadn’t stopped. The look in his eyes said that he wasn’t even considering the possibility. That she would be stripped naked before him if he had to have her undo and stroke every part of her body to do so.

  “I don’t know whether to speak to your surprise or just revel in the look in your eyes and the flush across your throat.” He bent his head to her neck. “Beautiful.”

  She leaned her hips into him while tilting her head back and giving him more access. His fingers took her hand and drew them down the valley between her breasts and to her stomach, to the next tie in the gown. He gripped her thumb and forefinger together again and pulled, more insistently this time. The gown parted further.

  Another slow descent of her hand to her abdomen and then the vee below. Over the coiling heat and fire. He pressed her hand into her body and leaned back. “Have you ever touched yourself, Abigail? Watching the spirits as you say you do? Wanting to emulate their actions?”

  She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t answer. She shook her head in the negative.

  “I’m surprised. You are one of the most intrepid souls I’ve met.”

  But it had seemed so wicked every time her hand had gone near. Every time the lack of touch from others had impressed upon her. That somehow she was not worthy of touch, even her own.

  He pressed her hand more firmly against the center of her heat, and his lips touched her ear. “I want to see you touch yourself, Abigail. But right now I want to touch you even more.” He gripped her fingers firmly and ripped apart the tie, the gown parting as if by command.

  He let go of her hand and it dropped boneless to her side. His palm was immediately upon her, cupping her through the shift, making her gasp and arch into him, partially in shock and partially because her body demanded it. Long fingers stroked a trail along her most intimate area, the cloth of her shift providing little barrier, and in fact urging the heat onward as it pulled against her. Her mouth parted on a silent phrase and her eyes locked with his.

  He used his free hand to pull her head toward his and he kissed her with all of the passion that she had ever hoped for. His fingers continued their trail of fire, burning her, making something inside of her tighten and throb. He pressed two against her, nearly lifting her an inch, and then his fingers fell through the cloth, touching her skin, her curls, the throb that seemed to have blown into something tangible and physical.

  A small sound worked from her throat and he swallowed it, pressing his lips more firmly, his tongue seeking entrance to her mouth and causing more of those sounds to work forth. One finger below imitated the action and curled into her heat, through the barriers, dipping inside. The sensation nearly undid her and her fingers wound into his hair, pulling him more firmly against her, the only thing that she could do in the increasingly deep, maddened frenzy to complete the action. To climb against him and make him undo the almost unbearable throbbing that had coalesced.

  He broke free, and only the bright, swollen lips and heated eyes, his bare chest heaving to the same beat as hers and his hair gloriously out of place, caused her to stop from panicking. He leaned back against the pole of the four-poster, his eyes still hot, but some sort of tenuous reserve—held by tenterhooks—called to the fore. “Remove your shift.”

  “Pardon me?” she asked, unable to work up the correct words for what she really wanted to say, which was something more along the lines of asking why he had stopped touching her, demanding he continue, and perhaps adding a few curse words to the entire diatribe.

  “Remove your shift.”

  She caught the light upon his darkened eyes, the way he was gripping his fists in the cross of his arms across his chest. She leaned down to the edge of her shift, looked up at him, and slowly began dragging it up her knees, her thighs. She paused, self-consciousness asserting itself as she reached the part of her that few had seen.

  “Remove your shift, Abigail.”

  She met his eyes again; saw the cha
llenge there, the soft mocking, not against her, not indicating that he was going to poke fun at her, but a challenge to see if she was really ready to do this. She took in his clutched fists and pulled upward, the fabric sliding across her belly, up and over the peaks of her breasts, causing them to lift and then fall as she did so, then finally over her head.

  She held the fabric there for a second before reconnecting with his eyes. She took in his heated gaze, saw the way his body started to move toward hers before he regained control, and a different sort of throb, of pleasure, flowed through her, a womanly confidence and she let the cloth fall to the floor, pooling there in a reflection of her state.

  He moved toward her swiftly, twirling her and pressing her down against the bed, lifting her leg and opening her to him as he kissed her again, more urgently, both hands reaching up to grip her neck, the kisses consuming her soul as he took, took, took. Then his mouth moved downward and he took her right nipple in his mouth. She arched off the bed with a silent scream, the sensation too surprising and overwhelming to vocalize. Strong tremors rocked her as he tugged her nipple and she arched against him and then bowed back straight repeatedly, her body unsure that it could withstand the treatment.

  “Valerian,” she gasped as he switched to her other breast.

  Fingers drew down her ribs, stomach, abdomen and curled right back into her heat. The arch of her body grew more taught as one finger breeched her an inch, circled, and then stabbed again. Her fingers wound into his hair, her body spasming nearly uncontrollably as he sucked and stabbed, sucked and stabbed. The heat became more pointed, more focused, the coil straightening into an arrow, almost painful in its intensity.

  His long finger circled just inside of her and she arched for the teasing stab, wanting it, waiting for it, but instead he pushed fully inside, a trail of heat pushing up that connected to the arrow, a crook of his finger knotting them together and everything exploded.

  Chapter 16

  Abigail woke, stretching. When she didn’t see Valerian she instantly panicked.

  “Lemons. I saw the first one on the vine. It must be cultivated or it will wither.”