“My hotel is just across the square. It’s too cold to sit here for long.”
“The bench is damp besides,” Matilda said, though she didn’t move. Then, though, she slowly let her head drop back, to rest against his belly. Her hat brim protected her from actual contact with his coat, but it felt like a surrender.
He felt a surge of power. She trusted him. “Do you want to go to my room with me?” His cock swelled in agreement with the notion of taking her there.
“I could use some privacy. I shouldn’t sit out here.”
“No, it isn’t wise,” he agreed, continuing to rub his fingers in small deep circles on the sides of her neck.
She tilted her head from side to side, and he could hear crackling noises as she moved. So stiff, poor girl, so tense. He moved forward, and his swollen cock brushed the iron again. They could both use some stress relief. If she went to his room, would she know what that meant, to him at least?
Her head lifted from his belly as wind rustled the trees. A carriage passed in the street, and he could hear a dog yipping, and another dog answer. Something darted across the ground in front of them. He saw her shoulders move as she shuddered.
“A rat?”
“It might have been a squirrel. I was just thinking of Sir Barks being left here during the day, when anyone might have taken him, never seeing the note.”
The truth being that the note might mean nothing or everything. They could only wait and see. He walked around the bench and held out his hand to her. “Come, Matilda.”
She stood obediently enough but lifted her chin to him. “Matilda?”
“Am I being too intimate?” He took her gloved hand between his bare ones, then slid his hands up her arm until he grasped her securely. “I think of you as Matilda. My Matilda.”
He let her go as she sighed, her entire body relaxing. “That’s nice. I would like to be someone’s Matilda. I need an anchor. I’m so lost, Ewan.”
“I know. Let me take care of you for a little while.”
“I need that. I’m afraid I won’t be able to go on if I can’t rest. I can’t eat. My entire body is betraying me.”
He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her next to him as they went through the gate on the opposite side of the park, then walked down a block to the small hotel that was on the edge of the residential area. Empty and hushed, the streets seemed to be waiting for news. He hoped that news could wait for a while. His body hummed with awareness, with lust for the woman next to him. Could he make her forget her pain for a while?
The reception desk was empty as they walked in, and they were able to reach his small room on the second floor without anyone noticing them.
He shut the door and drew off his coat, then took off his hat and set it carefully on the table next to the door. He’d spent a lot of money on it, and it would be a long time before he lost the habit of parsimony.
Matilda didn’t smile at him, or even look at him really, as she took off her own hat, coat, and gloves. Her hair was matted, as if she’d sweated under the hat for hours. Maybe she had. It had been a hard day. Underneath she wore a simple, severe gray skirt and coat, well-tailored to her curves, something she could take on and off herself.
She unbuttoned and removed her coat without looking at him. At a loss for words, he went to the window to close the curtain. Light from a streetlamp outside provided their only illumination, but he could drop money into the gas meter to bring the lights in the room to life.
He pulled the curtains shut and went to the meter box. Her hand came down on his arm.
“Leave it off. I like the dark.”
His throat went dry. “Very well, Matilda.” Enjoying saying her name, he fumbled with his coat, as if he had never undressed in the dark before, though he was used to the light of a single candle.
He heard her exhale. Could she possibly be as aroused as he was? Was she in the same dreamlike state as he? His hands went to his suspenders, but then he remembered he still wore his shoes. He sat on the edge of the small bed and removed them, then cast off the rest of his clothing. She made small rustling sounds. He wanted to peek, but it took all his focus just to get his own clothing off.
Concentrating on his own nudity, he was surprised to see only her skirt on the bed next to him. Patiently, he waited, hearing the whispers of fine fabric, his very soul aching with desire to touch her. How long had it been since he’d done this? Could he last more than a minute? What did she expect from him? Release, certainly, and he needed to provide it.
Finally, the soft sounds of her movements quieted, and he felt rather than saw her come to stand in front of him. His mind was in turmoil, so buried in lust, the scent of her body revealed as her clothes came off, that he could not think rationally. Her hands touched his shoulders, then left. He heard the sounds of fingers against skin and lifted his own hand, felt strands of her hair falling around her shoulders as she took out the pins.
“I love your hair.” He kissed the flaming strands. The sweet scent of roses surrounded him as he buried his nose in the hair on her collarbone. It seemed to take a long time for her to find all the pins. Her hair covered her breasts, hanging to just below the small, full mounds. “I remember you used to seem larger in this area, though you were always slim.”
Her hands went to her chest. “Bust improvers. Such a silly vanity.”
He tugged her fingers from her soft flesh. “You have beautiful breasts. They need no improving.”
She pushed her hair off her neck so that it drifted down her back. He lifted his head so she could free all the strands.
“I don’t remember what I wanted three or four years ago. I am not the same person.”
He wasn’t sure he entirely agreed with that statement, but then, the Matilda Redcake of 1886 would not have undressed in Ewan Hales’s hotel room. As he lifted his hands toward her breasts, she remained still, so he touched the soft, satiny flesh with his fingertips, then circled her nipples before brushing them. They hardened. He leaned forward and softly kissed each one. Bolder now, he parted her legs with his own foot and sank to his knees in front of her, next to the bed.
She gasped. “Oh. What?”
Wrapping his arms around her smooth, warm, naked hips, he buried his face in her soft, musky curls.
“Oh,” she said again, as if in understanding.
He followed his desire down, using his lips and tongue to part the way to her inner secrets, oblivious to anything but the scent of her heat. Her pelvis canted toward him, welcoming and eager.
She let out a tiny shriek when his teeth closed over her pearl, already exposed for his delectation, but she didn’t push him away, just wrapped her hands around the base of his skull and drew him in, letting him lave her and suckle her and circle her until her knees buckled.
“I want this,” she panted. “Oh, Ewan, don’t stop.”
He had the presence of mind to turn her, then. She half-sat, half-fell against the bed, and then he could truly feast, licking up the nectar her arousal offered. He tested her with one finger, finding her shockingly tight, but as he drove her higher, she loosened enough for two. Sliding them both in, he blew warm air against her pearl, then sucked hard until she shattered a few seconds later.
She bowed on the bed, crying out and shuddering with tearful gasps of pleasure. He stood, almost staggering his one step to the bed, tugging her legs to turn her the long way, so he could mount her body. He didn’t give her a chance to second-guess his actions, just climbed up, rubbing his torso along hers as he lifted himself above her, and notched his body to hers. His cock jerked, felt damp at the tip with his own fluids. Grabbing her hips to angle her properly, shaking with eagerness, he pushed the head of his cock into her creamy depths. Still panting, she seemed watchful but said nothing.
“Matilda?” The word was etched with lust, almost staccato.
She put her hands to his cheeks and brushed her index fingers in a circle around his temples, then rubbed her cheek against hi
s chin. Sensing her approval, he slid home, easily, luxuriously, sweetly, until he could feel his sac against her skin. When he covered her mouth with his, he found her lips apart and willing to trade tastes. Her hands grabbed his back and slid lower when he pulled away, mouths still together, guiding him back inside her.
She moved her hands rather than her hips to urge him on, but her legs bent to cradle him, and eventually, she slid her inner thighs alongside the outsides of his legs. Squeaking when he took her thighs in his hands to open her wide, the sound turned to a gasp of pleasure as he moved even deeper inside her.
All too soon, he could feel the pressure building in him. His mouth moved from her lips to her neck, his hips bucking uncontrollably. He felt her clasp at his cock with a silken interior grip, and heard her hoarse cry as she came with him, beautifully, inexplicably, for he hadn’t been a suave, experienced lover. Yet he had pleased them both.
His torso calmed over hers, feeling heavy even to him. His head relaxed onto the mattress, his mouth still on her neck. She moved her hips, as if testing to see if he was still hard. He was.
“Give me a second,” he muttered. He kissed her throat, then canted his hips, feeling the ghostly aftershock of his orgasm as he pulled out of her. Tilting to his back, he slid his arm beneath her slim shoulders and pulled her to his side.
Her head fell against his shoulder and she molded herself against him. “I just wanted the world to stop.”
“Did it?”
“It fell right off its axis for a few minutes.”
“But?”
“But.” She was silent for a moment, while he played with the strands of her hair. “I shouldn’t have taken my hair down.”
“I’ll braid it for you. I think I can remember how to do it.” He made a clumsy braid with the lower part of her hair.
“No, that’s not how I had it before.” She sat up abruptly and began to smooth the strands.
Sensing her mood change, he got up and started the lights, then found his comb. “Here, this will help.”
She nodded. He sat on the single cane-bottomed chair in the room and watched her make her toilette, offering his assistance, silently, only when she turned her back to him so he could help her with her stays.
“I’ll walk you back,” he said, then realized he was still nude.
Matilda took the chair Ewan had just vacated while he dressed, staring at the powerful lines of his body. His lower body was particularly well-developed, with strong legs and a taut backside. For all the dark hair on his head, he didn’t have that much body hair, just a light dusting around his pectoral muscles and a trail that led down to the soft nest around his manhood. This allowed all of his musculature to show, and his skin glowed golden in the gaslight.
“You must walk a great deal.”
“Hansoms are expensive and I don’t like buses,” he said, buttoning his shirt.
She watched him, feeling empty and peaceful, a slight soreness between her legs, until he finished dressing. He put on his coat and hat, then held out her coat, reticule, and hat. He held her coat while she shrugged into it, then did the buttons while she stood like a child. She didn’t want to think.
Thought returned when they reached the street. The wind blew through her clothing. The resulting shiver brought reality back. Where was Jacob? What if she had missed something while she was engaging in mindless passion with Ewan? How could he have taken a grief-stricken mother away from her home during a crisis of this magnitude? Was he a predator? He had already told her they could never marry, given his future title and her stained past. She knew for certain this lovemaking had not been a proposal. No, she’d learned that the hard way.
Oh God, what if she’d conceived another child? She keened softly, uncontrollably.
“Matilda? What is wrong?” Ewan wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close.
She found her strength again, pushing him away. “How could you?” she rasped. For the first time in her life, she sounded like her brother when he had been at his most broken and bitter. “How could you make me forget, even for a moment?”
He held up his hands. “What?”
She pointed a shaky finger at him. “I have no right to comfort while my son is missing. Stay away from me, Ewan Hales. Don’t tempt me again.” She turned away from him and made her way down the street.
When she heard footfalls, she knew he was following her, but she didn’t have the energy to turn around and face him, and certainly didn’t want to continue their confrontation so near her home. Just what she needed: further confirmation that she was a wanton slut.
She already felt like one; she didn’t want to offer her family any proof. What had happened to her self-control? She didn’t even have the excuse of bad advice this time. The mistake had been all her own fault.
When she reached her front gate, she turned back. He lifted his hand in farewell. When she put her hand on the gate’s latch, he proceeded down the street.
Inside her house, all was quiet. Her family had gone to bed. No drama of any kind, but also no news. She could only hope tomorrow would change things. The fire had been lit in her bedroom and as she warmed, her mind quieted, like a landscape after a storm. She fell asleep easily, at first.
The next morning, she still felt groggy as Daisy helped her dress. She had tossed and turned after midnight, unable to shake the horrible realization that Jacob had been gone almost a week. If neither Jacob’s father nor the Gipsy horse trader were responsible, who was? Who was Izabela’s lover?
Downstairs, she poured coffee from the pot and stared at the rack of toast. She needed to eat so that she had the strength to search for Jacob. Her father had aged a decade in the past few days, and even her mother’s serene face was unusually lined. Ewan had not appeared. Had she chased him off for good? Gawain sat in an armchair, staring at the ransom note as if some clue remained to be found.
She took a bite of toast, the eggs smelling too sulfurous to touch, and the sausages seemed off, though surely Mrs. Miller would never allow it, and went to lean over Gawain’s shoulder.
“‘i am rite you want yer baby. You goin to pay for the littl one. 5000 pounds,’” she read.
“I think it’s a fake,” Gawain said.
“What do you mean?”
Gawain’s wife, Ann, dropped her knitting and leaned forward in the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace.
“The first letter of the first sentence isn’t capitalized but the second is. See?” He waved the paper at Matilda.
“What does that prove?”
“They are trying to make themselves sound more ignorant than they really are,” Gawain said. “Probably someone with more education than it seems.”
“I don’t see how that helps us. Both Mr. Bliven and Mr. Majewski are intelligent men.”
“Yes, but we can safely rule them out anyway. Tell me, is Izabela literate?”
“Of course,” Matilda said. “I’ve never seen her handwriting, but she read stories to Jacob and consulted Mrs. Beeton’s book, read shopping lists.”
Gawain made a noise and returned to staring. Ann resumed her knitting.
“Have some more toast, dear,” her mother said. “You should try some of the lemon curd. It’s from Hatbrook’s farm.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Matilda muttered. While normally it behooved all of the family to stock and use a relative’s various products, she couldn’t care less at the moment who had made the lemon curd. She didn’t even want to eat the bloody lemon curd.
Mrs. Miller came into the room. If Sir Bartley had aged ten years, the housekeeper had aged twenty overnight. She looked ready to be packed off to a small cottage in the country.
“Your sister is here, Miss Redcake, with Mr. Courtnay.”
Sir Bartley’s head came up. “Good, another cool mind on the case.”
Matilda’s two bites of toast lurched in her stomach. She didn’t want to see her happy sister, nor have to feel guilty again about the ruined weddin
g. Her father, on the other hand, heartily approved of Rupert Courtnay.
Mrs. Miller nodded. “I shall send them in to the breakfast room, then?”
“Must have left Liverpool very early. Probably drove one of Lewis’s horseless carriages,” Gawain said.
“Yes, Courtnay did say he’d just acquired one,” Sir Bartley remarked.
The door opened and Rose bounded in. Normally a rather languorous girl, courtesy of her lung issues, she did not bound, or have pink cheeks. Yet Matilda saw her sister transformed.
Behind her stood the solid, graying form of Rupert Courtnay. A bit mysterious, he nonetheless had the charm to find himself in the lower rank of aristocratic circles. Matilda had thought that Rose took him on not to be a spinster, but as she saw her sister’s beaming face now, she would have believed it a love match.
Rose pulled off her gloves and held out her hand. On it was an ornate gold ring. A wedding ring.
Matilda reached for a chair and half-fell into it as her mother pushed her chair back and rushed her youngest child.
“You married without us?” her mother asked.
Rose nodded. “I’m sorry, but I could not wait a day longer.” She smiled shyly at her new husband. “Forgive us. We could not make it a ceremony, but at least this way I could talk Rupert into taking the week as we had planned for our honeymoon trip and return to Bristol.”
“Are you staying here?” Matilda realized she’d spoken much too loudly when Ann stared at her.
Rose waved her hands. “I cannot imagine there is room under the circumstances. No, we went to a hotel. Mr. Hales is staying there as well. He said he would be here directly.”
“Why?” Sir Bartley asked. “Doesn’t he have his new duties in London?”
Gawain narrowed his eyes at Matilda, then shared a glance with his wife. Matilda didn’t like the direction her brother’s thoughts were heading. He saw too much with that brilliant cynic’s mind of his. “No doubt he wants to help.”
Rupert Courtnay cleared his throat. “I understand there has been a ransom note?”
Wedding Matilda (Redcakes Book 6) Page 13