But he couldn’t maintain this frenzied fucking forever no matter how much he wanted to. Like an oncoming tidal wave, his orgasm was building, rising, threatening to engulf him. And he had to withdraw before it was too late.
Taking his weight on one arm, he lifted one of Abigail’s legs beneath the knee and adjusted his position. But the movement changed the angle of his penetration and triggered something deep inside Abigail. On a harsh cry she climaxed, her inner sheath spasming around him with such force, bright sparks exploded behind his eyes.
Christ. He couldn’t hold on any longer. As his throbbing balls contracted, he slid a foot to the floor to brace himself before jerking out of Abigail. Grasping his slick, pulsating cock in one hand, he pumped it once, twice, and then came in a cataclysmic rush of searing pleasure, his hot seed shooting over Abigail’s thighs and belly.
Panting, spent, yet blissfully replete, he collapsed on top of Abigail. She cradled him in her arms and stroked his sweat damp hair. His back. Kissed his temple.
His chest tightened in the oddest way. Her tenderness was not lost on him.
He’d never had such an intense experience with any woman before. The sex he’d just shared with Abigail had been raw yet intimate—and he hadn’t expected that. It was almost as if he’d begun to care for her. And that was a sobering thought indeed because surely only a fool developed any sort of affection for his mistress.
Chapter 9
Sir Nicholas lay on top of her, nuzzling her neck. A heavenly state of affairs at first considering Abigail had just experienced the most amazing sexual intercourse in her life. She was utterly sated and completely boneless; it felt like warm honey flowed through her veins.
But all too soon, discomfort dispelled the buzz of contentment. Sir Nicholas was a large-framed, well-muscled man and as he relaxed, his weight became harder to bear. Actually, Abigail soon began to feel like she was being suffocated.
Knowing she risked sounding like an ungrateful harpy, she drew in what little breath she could in order to gasp, “That... was wonderful... but might I ask you... to move?”
Sir Nicholas immediately raised himself onto his hands and knees. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m crushing you. And I’ve made a bloody awful mess of your stomach,” he looked lower and grimaced, “and pretty much everywhere really.”
Abigail summoned a smile as she cupped his jaw. “Don’t worry about that. I appreciate you made the effort to look after me. I really do.” It wasn’t a lie. She didn’t think many men would be so considerate.
Then she remembered the promise she’d made to herself—that she wouldn’t develop tender feelings for the man; that she would keep her heart safe. Damn Sir Nicholas. Why was he making it so hard for her to maintain any emotional distance?
Seemingly oblivious to her change in mood, Sir Nicholas rose from the seat and helped her to a sitting position. He then retrieved his royal blue silk banyan and draped it around her shoulders. “I had a bathing room installed some time ago,” he said with an almost boyish grin as he tugged her to her feet and led her across the room, “after I came back from a trip to Paris. We might have trounced the French at Waterloo, but I must say, they at least do some things well. I’ve never seen such bathing houses. Come and see.”
Curious, Abigail followed him through his dressing room into a breathtaking chamber beyond. The polished, wooden parquetry floor and the walnut wood paneling on the walls gleamed softly in the muted candle and firelight. A large looking glass and several beautiful gilt-framed paintings—perhaps by Boucher—adorned the walls above the wainscoting; semi-clad nymphs frolicked with cherubs and swans besides pools in leafy glades. A completely naked woman reclined upon a silk-draped bed. It was a decadent room. A room made for whiling away the hours in the impressive sized plunge bath that stood on a thick Oriental rug in front of the ornately carved, red marble fireplace.
A room designed for indulging in pleasures of the flesh.
“It’s so beautiful,” she breathed. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Yes.” But Sir Nicholas wasn’t looking at the room. He was looking directly at her. “A sight to behold.”
Abigail’s heart tripped over itself. Oh, my.
Whilst she inwardly cursed her vulnerability, Sir Nicholas snagged a towel off a nearby dresser and wrapped it about his lean hips. “Right then, Miss Adams. Off with that robe and those stockings and into the bath with you.”
Oh, dear Lord. Abigail bit her lip. It seemed Sir Nicholas was going to wash her. Could she bear the closeness? The intimacy?
Somehow, she must. Drawing in a deep breath, Abigail gave a small shrug of her shoulders and the banyan slid to the floor. Her cheeks burned as Sir Nicholas’s gaze sharpened and raked over her body with renewed hunger. But at least the soft expression in his eyes had gone.
Live in the moment, she reminded herself. Let lust alone rule you. Nothing else.
Guard your heart.
Remember to play the harlot...
She placed one foot on the edge of the bath and slowly pulled the blue ribbon garter at her knee undone. Sir Nicholas’s gaze was avid, unwavering as he watched her roll the cotton stocking downwards, over her calf to her ankle. Then with a quick tug and a flick, she tossed it to the floor. The other stocking soon followed and she found herself completely naked. And undeniably aroused.
Her nipples pebbled and her folds ached as she watched Sir Nicholas reach for a washcloth and a small cake of soap. He was mightily aroused too. Her gaze dropped to his groin; the linen towel was tented by another impressive erection.
The wanton woman inside her wanted to make him as hard as she possibly could. She tossed her hair over one shoulder and trailed a finger between her breasts until she reached her belly, still sticky with Sir Nicholas’s seed. She ran her fingertip through the wetness and brought it to her lips. The musky scent of sex filled her senses. “I know you wish to wash me, but I love the way you taste,” she murmured. That wasn’t a lie. Holding his gaze, she delicately sucked her finger.
Sir Nicholas’s nostrils flared and his eyes darkened to the deep blue-black of the midnight sky. The towel, soap, and flannel fell to the floor unheeded as he took two steps toward her. Threading his fingers into her hair, he claimed her mouth in a brief, searing kiss before he uttered in a lust-roughened voice, “I think the washing can wait until later.”
Abigail couldn’t have agreed more.
* * *
When Abigail awoke early the next morning it was to find herself still entangled in Sir Nicholas’s fine cotton sheets. And his strong arms.
Both of them were still deliciously naked.
It was a novel sensation to be held this way by a man. By this man. Not once had she slept in Harry Blake’s arms. All their encounters during their short-lived affaire—whilst sexually satisfying—had been hasty, snatched exchanges in out-of-the-way rooms. Once they’d even had sex in a linen closet. Whilst it had been exciting, it had never felt like this.
Abigail’s face heated as she recalled everything they’d done in Sir Nicholas’s bathing room. Then this enormous tester bed for at least half the night. She’d never dreamed sexual intercourse could be so fulfilling. Or that she could be so wanton.
Sir Nicholas had certainly been appreciative of her efforts.
Exhausted, a little sore in certain places, yet undeniably sated, Abigail felt the tug of sleep once more. She pressed her lips to Sir Nicholas’s bare chest; it made the most wonderful pillow. With the steady thump-thump of his heart beneath her ear, she felt cocooned in contentment. And then she heard the distant chime of the longcase clock in the gallery—five o’clock.
Oh, no!
The servants would be up and about. Sir Nicholas’s valet, Godfrey, could walk into the room any minute. She had to leave, go back to her room, right now. The servants’ breakfast was served at six; if she hurried she might be able to make it in time.
As carefully as she could, Abigail disengaged her limbs from Sir Nicho
las’s and inched herself toward the edge of the wide bed. She needed to retrieve her clothes. Her stockings were on the bathing room floor where she’d tossed them and her muslin gown and linen shawl would undoubtedly still be lying in a heap by the sitting room door. Her slippers were probably there too. She had a vague recollection that they’d fallen off when Sir Nicholas had lifted her up to have sex against the door.
When she slid from beneath the covers onto the thick carpet, she chanced a glance back at Sir Nicholas. Her lover. He hadn’t stirred at all. The dawn light filtering into the room was weak, but Abigail could just discern his face—his eyes were closed, his breathing steady and even. When her gaze traced over the shadow of dark stubble along his chiseled jaw, her fingers twitched with the need to touch him again. He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. To her dismay, her traitorous heart cramped with longing.
Enough, Abigail. Get dressed and go.
Within a few minutes, she was ready to leave. The mirror in the bathing room had revealed that her hair was a riotous mess but without a hairbrush or hair pins, there wasn’t a thing she could do to make herself look presentable. She would fix it when she reached her bedroom.
Clutching her linen shawl and her balled up stockings in one hand—she hadn’t bothered to put them on because it would take too long—Abigail reached for the sitting room door with her other hand and cracked it open. The Long Gallery was deserted, the curtains still drawn, although faint sunlight lined the edges of the emerald green velvet.
The door leading to the east wing servants’ stairs was only a short walk away, thank goodness. And her bedchamber was directly above Sir Nicholas’s. All going well, she’d reach her safe haven within a minute.
Drawing in a deep breath, she started forth but she’d taken less than half a dozen steps when disaster struck. The servants’ door swung open and Mrs. Graham stepped into the gallery.
The housekeeper’s brow plunged into a thunderous scowl the moment her gaze settled on Abigail. “What in God’s name are you doing, acting like a sneak-thief outside Sir Nicholas’s suite at this time of the morning, Miss Adams?” she demanded in a tone so shrill, it could have cracked the glass in the casement windows.
Abigail opened her mouth to offer an excuse but before she could utter a word, Mrs. Graham advanced and seized her arm in a vice-like grip. “You spent the night in his bedroom didn’t you? You little slut.”
Anger and embarrassment washed over Abigail in a hot wave. “I thought I made it clear yesterday that I don’t answer to you, Mrs. Graham. Now please let go of my arm and let me pass.”
“And what’s that you’ve got there? Have you stolen something from Sir Nicholas’s rooms?” Mrs. Graham snatched up Abigail’s hand and tore her wadded up stockings from her fingers. “You are a slut,” she exclaimed, holding up the offending garments as if she’d caught a mouse by the tail. “A dirty, disgusting trollop.” Her glittering eyes bore into Abigail’s. “Wait ‘til Lady Barsby hears about this. I shall write to her straighta—”
“You’ll do no such thing.”
Sir Nicholas. Thank God.
Mrs. Graham gasped and let go of her arm. And Abigail turned and met his gaze.
“Are you all right, Miss Adams?” he asked in a deceptively mild voice. Even with sleep-tousled hair and clothed in nothing but his rumpled banyan and loose silk trousers, he still exuded undeniable, aristocratic power.
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded. “Good.” His attention shifted to Mrs. Graham and Abigail shivered. The cold, hard stare he directed at the housekeeper clearly indicated he wasn’t happy.
Mrs. Graham dropped into a curtsy. “Sir... I’m so sorry to have disturbed you...”
Sir Nicholas crossed his arms and a muscle ticked in his jaw. “You’ve done more than disturb me, Mrs. Graham. You’ve insulted Miss Adams. And that makes me very angry indeed.”
Mrs. Graham’s gaze fell to the Turkish runner. “Sir. If I could explain—”
“There’s nothing to explain. I witnessed the whole damning exchange. You will not write to my sister-in-law. You will return Miss Adams’s stockings. And you will apologize to her.”
“Yes, sir.” The housekeeper turned to Abigail and handed over her stockings. Her eyes focused on a point over her shoulder. “May I extend a most sincere apology to you, Miss Adams. I’m sorry for... for misjudging... the situation.”
Sir Nicholas arched a sardonic brow. “Hmph. I suppose that will suffice. But mark my words, Mrs. Graham, you will not breathe a word about this incident or Miss Adams’s situation to anyone. Because if I learn that you have, you will no longer have a position here. Do I make myself clear?”
Except for two bright red flags of color on her cheekbones, the housekeeper’s face had blanched to the color of whey. “Yes, sir.” She bobbed another curtsy.
Sir Nicholas waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “You may go.”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as the housekeeper disappeared into the servants’ stairwell, Sir Nicholas crossed over to Abigail and took one of her hands in his. “You’re trembling,” he observed before glancing a light kiss over her fingertips. “I’m so sorry that you had to go through that. And I meant what I said. Mrs. Graham is an absolute witch and if she spreads malicious gossip about you, or insults you again, she will be given marching orders.”
Abigail smiled, touched by his unexpected act of gallantry. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I had hoped I’d risen early enough to avoid the other servants but it seems I did not.”
“Yes...” Sir Nicholas frowned. “I think from now on I should visit you in your bedchamber.” He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers and his blue eyes grew soft. “You are not any of those things Mrs. Graham said you were. I think you are wonderful.”
Oh, my goodness. Abigail’s breath caught in her throat. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Sir Nicholas dropped a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Now go, sweetheart. Before anyone else catches us together. But I will see you later. To help you in the library.”
“Yes. There are an awful lot of books that need sorting. But I’m sure Bessie or Colin—”
Sir Nicholas scowled. “There is no way in Hades that I’ll let that impudent footman help you again.”
Abigail shook her head. “I don’t understand. Colin has never been anything but polite to me.”
“Ha. The blasted sod isn’t being polite when he looks at you like you’re a bowl of sugared almonds he’d like to devour in one sitting.”
Abigail blinked. Was Sir Nicholas jealous? Surely not...
Before she could think on that odd notion further, Sir Nicholas added in a low voice, a voice that made her shiver with anticipation, “Besides, we won’t be sorting books all the time. I’m sure I can think of something else for us to do. Something infinitely more diverting.” He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “I wouldn’t bother wearing stays, petticoats or a shift either. They’ll just get in the way.”
That’s right. He only wants you for the sexual intercourse, Abigail. His chivalry and tenderness, his consideration, they mean nothing.
At least that’s what Abigail tried to tell herself as Sir Nicholas walked away.
If she started to believe he cared for her, even just a little, it would surely be her undoing.
Chapter 10
Over the next week, Abigail found that she and Sir Nicholas began to fall into a routine—of sorts. Every night, he would come to her bedchamber and fill the hours until dawn with untold sexual delight. She would breakfast with the other servants then return to her room and sleep until noon. No one ever remarked upon the fact she was absent most of the morning. Mrs. Graham and Keziah barely regarded her and Abigail began to believe her remaining days at Hartfield might be smooth sailing after all.
Of course, her afternoons were spent in the library, usually with Sir Nicholas. At the present moment, he was seated at his desk, looking over some papers whilst she shelved the la
st of the books that were to go into the blackened oak bookcase by the fireplace. As she quietly closed the mullion-paned door, her gaze drifted over to him. Even dressed in shirtsleeves, an azure blue waistcoat and ivory silk breeches, he was a visual feast. He’d raked his hands through his black hair and it was deliciously messy as if he’d only just risen from his bed. She didn’t think she would ever grow tired of looking at him. Indeed, just being with him in any sense.
And that was a problem.
She sighed and wandered over to another pile of books on a carved mahogany sideboard. The more time she spent with Sir Nicholas, the worse things got. This past week, she’d quickly discovered that he was a most entertaining companion. As they sorted and shelved the books together, he regaled her with amusing anecdotes of his exploits on the Continent and in London. His knowledge seemed boundless and they chatted about anything and everything—tales from childhood, the books they’d read, their tastes in music, the arts in general, their other interests, and their dislikes. She learned Sir Nicholas was very much a Corinthian with a love for fine horseflesh and racing. He boxed, he fenced. She knew he swam. And he learned that she loved to read, could sew but detested it, enjoyed sketching and painting, and had a good ear for languages but not for music.
Although, cataloguing and conversing weren’t the only activities they’d engaged in...
Abigail blushed just thinking of all the wicked things they’d done in this room. On the hearthrug. On the stairs. On Sir Nicholas’s desk... Despite Abigail’s best efforts to think and act like a wanton there were times—especially during the night when Sir Nicholas shared her bed—when she’d felt their sexual encounters had been more than just sport. When he stared into her eyes, paid attention to her needs as much as his own, it felt like making love.
Of course, she told herself over and over again that spending hours on end in Sir Nicholas’s company, and sharing her body with him in every conceivable way, was bound to make her fanciful.
An Improper Governess: An Improper Liaisons Novella, Book 2 Page 9