“Indeed? How so?”
“I have only anecdotal evidence, but I draw my conclusion from the many repeated requests for this position.”
She appeared deep in thought, then moved to the third engraving of a satyr and nymph. A mound at the foot of a tree served as a chair for the nymph to sit upon while the satyr prepared to spear his member into her womanhood. To Andre’s relief, she asked no questions of this engraving.
“This is not unlike the second,” she remarked of the fourth engraving, Julie Avec Un Athlete, in which the man was upon hands and feet, but with the body turned upward as if to form a table top with the chest and torso, while the woman straddled him, “but appears much more difficult.”
“I have not attempted this position in its exact form,” he said hastily.
The fifth engraving made Mildred straighten. “Surely this is not possible? Not a for a sustained period.”
He said nothing as he looked upon the engraving, Hercule et Dejanire. Hercules stood upright holding Dejanire in his arms, his erection buried inside her.
“You do not contradict me,” she noted. Her eyes narrowed. “You have done this position.”
Many times, he thought to himself.
“Is this position superior in enjoyment?”
He turned to face her, wanting an end to her queries. “A definitive principle cannot be stated. Your enjoyment will differ from mine and even those of other woman, just as the preference for hues and fashion varies in your sex.”
Satisfied, she moved on to the engraving, Ovide et Corine.
“I suspect this a more common position,” she said of the couple in bed. Corine lay upon the legs spread and Ovide between them.
Upon moving to Mars et Venus, she said, “Though I have tried this position as well.”
The two gods were locked in nude embrace upon a bed. Mars lay against the pillows with Venus upon her knees, settling atop his tall erection.
“Good God, how many times has the stableboy given you a gown of green?” Andre asked.
She made no reply but laughed at the next engraving. “This I very much doubt would be comfortable for the woman.”
In Bachus et Ariane, Bachus stood holding Ariane, upside down with her face planted in the pillow upon the ground, by the legs.
“It looks as if he intends to use her as a wheelbarrow!” Mildred said.
“It is one of the more difficult positions to sustain,” he admitted as he recalled his first attempt.
“You have tried this one as well? Is there naught you have not attempted?”
Remembering that she had not answered his earlier question, he began, “This stableboy—”
She waved a dismissive hand. “I am done with him. He no longer works for your aunt.”
Andre would have to have a word with Katherine about her employment decisions.
“I wish I had your liberty to attain such experiences,” she said as she glanced through the rest of the engravings. Most were variations of the first several they had seen.
Her statement prompted him to ponder a society in which women had similar freedoms to men to pursue their passions. As women possessed the same desires as men, and to the same depths, though most would not exhibit the truth of it as readily as his cousin did, there was much sense in removing the shackles that burdened the gentler sex.
“I think Angelique et Medor to be my favorite,” Mildred pronounced. “I should like to try this position. May we?”
He turned to her with a frown. Though the engravings had provoked a warmth inside him, and though he had begun to see that Mildred was not as plain as he had first thought her, he was not prepared to ravish her.
But then he noticed the unevenness of her breath, her parted lips, and the blush in her cheeks. The primal in him stirred.
Chapter Twelve
HE WAS HESITATING, she saw. Was it because she had not the beauty of Miss Hollingsworth? Did propriety, a quality which, till tonight, she would have doubted to reside in his bosom, stay him? But then, why had he kissed her? The pressure of his lips still lingered. His offer had taken her completely by surprise, and if he had not wanted her to accept, he ought not have kissed her. She understood now why so many of her sex delighted in his presence. They knew what he was capable of.
She had known it, too, but as she knew she would never receive his attention in that way, she had suppressed her acknowledgment of these qualities in Alastair. And because he had many faults that she did not admire, she had chosen not to see his seductive qualities. They might as well have been cousins by blood.
Alastair was right. If she had been in full command of her faculties, if her reservations were not thawed by the port, she would not have allowed this to come to pass. She would not be standing before him in a room full of naughty art, propositioning him.
Alastair narrowed his eyes. “This stableboy. How many times have you lain with him?”
She frowned at the stall. “What does it matter?”
“How many?” he demanded.
“More than once.”
His pupils constricted, and a muscle along his jaw rippled.
“But not more than thrice,” she added with exasperation.
In disbelief, he exclaimed, “Thrice?”
“The first instance should count not, as the act could not be completed. I think my cries frightened him. His, er, entry hurt more than I thought it would.”
Alastair shook his head. “Where is the little bleeder now?”
“Do you suggest that you would have done differently than him? You, who have lifted the skirts of any number of women—how many have you taken into your bed?”
“I have never deprived a woman of her maidenhead.”
“The Marquess of Alastair has scruples? Dear me, what have you done with my cousin?”
She yelped when he closed the distance between them and gripped her arm. “Take care, Millie, my tolerance of your insolence wears thin.”
“I was merely calling out your hypocrisy. Would you truly have hesitated to tumble a willing maiden?”
He released her, perhaps in acknowledgment of her point.
“I would you did not hesitate now,” she said more quietly. The art had provoked a roiling tension in her body, and she wanted release. “Perhaps we could…retire to your bedchamber?”
He stared at her, and she could not make out his expression save that his earlier anger might have dissipated. His pupils had dilated.
“If you had not wanted the boldness you now possess,” he replied, “you would not find yourself engaged to Haversham.”
She acknowledged this to be true. “As such, I am now in some desperation, and desperation breeds courage.”
“Or foolhardiness.”
She waved a dismissive hand, impatient to address the longing inside her. “Let us say I am determined.”
“That you are.”
If she were not awash in port and desire, she might have thought her cousin to speak with a dash of admiration.
“We are a long way from my bedchamber,” he said, his voice slightly husky.
“Do you intend to retract your offer?” she asked, upset by his delays. “You would not with my father, but perhaps you are less inclined to integrity because I am a woman?”
His hand circled the back of her neck, drawing her in close. She gasped at the tightness of his grip. Perhaps her desperation did engender foolishness. She had already tried his patience. Why was she choosing to provoke him further? Poking a sleeping tiger with a stick might be a wiser act.
“I think what you truly desire is a sound spanking,” he said near her ear.
A shiver went through her. She swallowed with difficulty before responding, “Did I vex you? I thought you cared not a wit what accusations are thrown at you?”
He released her. A grin seemed to tug at one corner of his lips. She tried not to stare at his mouth and recall how delicious his had felt upon hers.
“Indeed,” he declared, crossing his arms.
“Let us commence that which you desire. There is no need to waste time retiring to a bedchamber.”
She furrowed her brow. What did he mean?
“We do not require a bedchamber and have more than we need here.”
She followed his gaze and glimpsed a four post bed dressed in samite with a tassled canopy. The bed invited with its luxury and sumptuous drapery. At first, she had thought the bed part of the art collection.
Alastair looked at her from head to feet. Having dried, her gown no longer clung to her curves as intimately.
“It was quite wanton of you to have dampened your gown,” Alastair said, “but the effect will be much more promising if you did away with the garment.”
“Here? Now?” she quizzed.
“Here,” he answered nonchalantly. “And now.”
“But…” Nerves came upon her as she anticipated what was to happen, that her desires were to come to fruition. “I shall lock the doors.”
He stopped her. “There is no need.”
“No need? But what if someone were to enter?”
“That concerns me not.”
Her eyes widened.
“This is the Chateau Debauchery,” he explained. “Were you not clear that all forms of debauchery occur here?”
“Yes, but…this is my first visit.”
“You agreed to do as I bid. If you prefer to do otherwise, we may call an end to the evening. Is that what you wish?”
“No,” she replied resolutely but still hesitated. Was she truly to undress before her cousin? Did he expect to call a dressing maid?
As if in answer to her question, he said, “Turn around. I shall unpin you.”
Letting out a tense breath, she turned her back to him. “What—what if someone were to enter?”
He removed the first pin. “Then they may watch.”
She whipped around. “Watch?”
He turned her back around. “You invited others to ogle you when you dampened your gown.”
She regretted having done so. She glanced at the doors.
“Many find the witness of others titillating.”
His voice had lowered, its allure beckoning the warmth in her to grow.
“I find it disconcerting,” she voiced.
The bodice of her gown relaxed about her when he had removed the final pin. Her breath caught in her throat as his fingers grazed her shoulders and he slid the sleeves off her. She closed her eyes, half wondering if she were in a dream. She would have bet a thousand pounds that such a thing—being undressed by Alastair—could come to pass.
The dress pooled at her feet. She gulped. Perhaps she ought not proceed. She was no beauty and far below the standards the marquess was undoubtedly accustomed to. He was granting a favor, his reluctance obvious. But if he had not interfered and left her to her own devices, it would be Lord Devon removing her gown. Perhaps. Perhaps she should be grateful that she was not alone. Perhaps she should take full advantage of the moment.
“Oh!” she gasped when she realized he had untied her lone petticoat.
“Do you wish to reconsider?” he asked.
“I had not thought you intended…”
“I intend you should be undressed, your body bared to me.”
Once more her breath caught. Her courage faltered. Perhaps she ought not. Perhaps it were safer, wiser to call an end to the evening.
Chapter Thirteen
HE COULD HAVE PAVED the path for her with soft kisses, rousing her desire so that she should wish to shed her garments. As she might yet reconsider, he would not go easily upon her. Her unease was palpable.
But the act of undressing a woman had an effect Alastair could not be impervious to. Her body was not unlike the full and supple nudes in the I Modi. The tightening at his crotch grew as he observed the swell of her rump through her shift and petticoat. There was, too, her boldness. It both vexed and impressed him. As he was not one who favored coquetry, he appreciated her directness. Her curiosity amused him. What manner of experience could he provide her? His arrogance made him doubt the stableboy could have been greatly inspiring.
Damnation.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
She turned to face him, crossed her arms as if her limbs could replace her lost clothing, and pleaded once more, “Will you not consider locking the doors, my lord?”
“Ask again, and I shall open the doors.”
She pursed her lips in dissatisfaction. “Are you to undress as well?”
“At present, no.”
As if deciding to cover her lower body, she dropped her arms but knew not how to place her hands. She bent one arm and gripped the other. Not satisfied, she crossed her arms once more over her bosom and held herself near the shoulders. Her nervous movements unsettled him.
“Come.”
He took her wrist and drew her to the bed. After having her stand before one of the bedposts, he untied his cravat, which he used to bind her wrists above her head to the bedpost behind her.
She tried to struggle from him. “Wait! What do you do?”
But his strength easily overcame her resistance. He secured the linen above her.
“This is most…uncommon,” she remarked with some alarm.
He smirked. “Not at the Chateau Debauchery.”
She flushed. “For what purpose do you tie me here? What if someone should enter and find me like this?”
He contemplated leaving her tied to the bedpost for an hour or so. It would serve the little ingrate right.
“Alastair! This is mortifying!” she continued, yanking against her restraints, but his cravat held strong. “If someone should come upon me like this—”
“They could have their way with you,” he could not resist.
Her mouth dropped open. “I wish you had let me alone with Lord Devon! Surely I would have been better off in his hands.”
The name disconcerted him, and Alastair closed the distance between them. “You would trust Devon over me?”
“I know for certain what you are like. Do you fault me for putting the odds in his favor?”
He considered the sense in what she said. Indeed, knowing little of Devon and knowing too much of him, she had made a reasonable deduction.
“Your hands were a distraction,” he explained. “By removing them from your concern, you are better able to mind the pleasure.”
Her breath stalled as she accepted his reasoning. Her expression softened, and once more he found he was not impervious to her. He took a step back lest his lust took the reigns.
“Do you speak truthfully?” she inquired. “This is no trickery?”
“You are not the first to be bound to a bed,” he replied, “and they have all enjoyed being restrained.”
She ceased pulling against the linen but asked, “But how are we to attempt—?”
He could not resist brushing back a curl of hair that had fallen before her face. She looked quite delicious tied to the bedpost. “Call upon your imagination, my dear.”
She stared up at him in almost childlike wonder. The brightness of her eyes called to him and he found his resolve to make her reconsider her desires wane.
“I am ready for what you would do,” she said quietly.
The huskiness of her voice made the heat flare in his veins. Perhaps it was knowing that his own satisfaction, that which he had eagerly anticipated for a sennight, was to be denied. Perhaps he was simply easily titillated, and it did not matter that the woman tied to the bedpost was Millie. Bereft of other company, perhaps any woman would have caused his desire to swell.
Her stays laced conveniently in the front. Above them, her breasts swelled enticingly. He ran his knuckles along the top of one mound and heard her breath catch. Lightly, he slid his fingers to the cleavage and then down to the ribbon. After loosening the laces, he pried the stays apart enough for the breasts to spill forward. He cupped an orb. She inhaled sharply.
It was a delicious sound, a delicious moment, knowing that such a simple tou
ch could elicit such a reaction. He groped the supple flesh. Her lashes fluttered.
It was wrong. Wrong to manhandle his cousin in this manner, to strip her and fondle her. However, the impropriety of it was beginning to have a titillating effect. He never would've allowed himself to go this far if she had not acquiesced—even prompted him into action.
She had lovely full breasts. He passed his thumb over the nipple, making her shudder. The bud hardened further. He played with it, tugged it, rolled it between thumb and finger. She emitted a soft groan, a rumble at the back of her throat. He palmed both breasts and gazed upon their likeness. Wicked thoughts went through his mind with what he could do to such beauties. He tried to ignore the heat churning in his groin.
Releasing her, he went to fetch a glass of water for her. The port still presided in her body, and as she had not partaken of the tea that had been brought to her room, she would require hydration. He held the glass to her lips, and she drank without protest.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said after she had consumed half the glass. “I require no more.”
“You will finish it.”
He put the glass to her mouth. She dutifully complied, then looked to him much like a child might wait for praise or acknowledgment. Had her eyes always held so much sparkle? He found himself pulled into their depths. An odd desire to kiss her again tickled his fancy.
Resisting, he stepped away and retrieved another glass of water.
“I have had enough—”
He noted that her shift had mostly dried and did not cling to her body as tightly as it had during the dinner. He had to admit the effect of the wet garments had been provocative.
“It was quite naughty of you to have dampened your gown,” he remarked in a low voice.
She flushed. “Yes. I had never done so before. I promise I shall not do so again.”
He leaned in toward her. “Why not? It was quite appealing.”
Her breath caught.
He tipped the glass over her bosom. She gasped when the liquid spilled over her, slowly seeping through the shift. There was not enough water to dampen the entire garment, but the fabric clung to her hips and parts of her thighs nicely.
Tempting A Marquess (A Steamy Regency Romance Book 4) Page 7