by Megan Mulry
In fact, Selina was beginning to entertain the previously preposterous notion that she might actually wish to marry the Marquess of Camburton.
She accepted the handkerchief out of polite habit, then, without thinking, brought it to her nose, wanting to inhale the warm scent of Archibald Cambury’s pocket square . . . wanting to inhale Archibald Cambury.
“Thank you,” she murmured through the fabric. He watched her hands; he always watched her hands. But her hands were so close to her eyes that he was forced to meet her gaze.
“Archie . . .”
When he licked his lips, she reached for him, and her book fell from between her arm and her ribs. “Damn it, Selina!” she chastised herself.
They both bent simultaneously to fetch the book and nearly banged heads. He got to it first, and they rose slowly at the same time. He was a good four or five inches taller than she was and, unaccountably, that made him even more precious—like one of those German boarhounds on the estate that, despite its size, still thought it fit on her lap.
He held out the book for her to take it back, but she ignored the gesture and reached for his face. She gripped the handkerchief in one hand and trailed the other along his slightly rough jaw. It was the first time she had really touched him, skin to skin, and the surge of power through her fingertips was even greater than she had dreamt it would be. “Archie . . .”
His eyes closed and a gentle moan escaped him as her fingertips continued to explore the planes of his cheeks, the turn of his jaw, the arch of his brow. She avoided his mouth, savoring the anticipation, watching him closely as his nostrils flared and the tip of his tongue touched the corner of his lips and then retreated. She toyed with his ear, lightly caressing the edge and wondering if the silky texture was similar to the sensitive skin of a man’s cock.
Standing perfectly still, except for those stunningly desperate breaths, Archie resembled a statue, or a treasure—something awaiting discovery, or about to be pillaged. “I want you, Archie . . .” Words escaped her when she saw the color flood up his neck and cheeks. She had never seduced anyone, and the power of it was beginning to fill her with a throbbing energy. Not that she’d ever been passive—she’d been with three loving, attentive women over the past five years, with whom she had been exuberant and fearless—but she had never initiated any of those relationships. In the first two instances, they had found each other, a shared joining of equals. And Beatrix, well, Beatrix was like a force of nature; she had taken Selina with her sheer intensity, in a passionate night that had unfurled into three years of companionship and deep, abiding love.
And Beatrix had encouraged her over the past few months, egged her on even, when it came to the marquess. “Why don’t we invite him over?” she’d taunted.
“He would never!” Selina had replied, knowing what Beatrix was suggesting. “Archibald Cambury is looking for a wife, not an orgy.”
But Beatrix was gone for now. And it was just Archie and Selina standing here under this beautiful tree, with him holding her book and her touching his magnificent face.
“I’m going to kiss you now, so if you don’t want me to, you must stop me.”
His eyes opened slightly—amber shards burning with desire—but otherwise he remained perfectly still. She stood on the tips of her soft-soled summer shoes. When her lips touched his, they both pressed against each other, quivering. He dropped the book again, God bless him, and put his strong hands on her upper arms the way he’d done earlier when he was trying to stop her from falling. But now it felt like he was holding on, afraid he would be the one to fall.
“Selina . . .” His voice was thick and full of want, as he brushed his lips against hers. “Selina . . .” He pushed her away, but kept his hands on her in that firm, almost accusatory way. “It’s not proper.”
God, how she loved his propriety. She wanted to slink around it like a randy cat, rubbing herself against his upstanding self. “I don’t want to be proper when I’m with you,” she whispered.
He shook her slightly, then looked ashamed that he had manhandled her. The inner battle was divine. She wanted to push him to the edge of that conflict, force him to release all that inappropriate, violent lust despite himself. She adored his aristocratic ways, because unlike the airs and grasping of her own family, his devotion to his place in society was entirely authentic. In all their walks around the estate and quiet strolls across his lands, she had seen the depth of his commitment to a life that many would see as a burden of birth, or something to be leveraged for financial or social gain. Not Archie. Getting to know him over the past few months had proven to her that he was that rare creature: a true gentleman.
But beneath that, simmering just there where no one else could see it—or perhaps no one but she had ever been permitted to see it—resided a crouching animal, some part of him that he held in check. That was the part of him that she wanted to break free. Against his better judgment. To get him to unleash it on her.
He exhaled through his nose. “Please don’t say such things. I don’t want to do anything to compromise you, Selina.”
She repressed a laugh at the idea she could be compromised. “Very well.” She stepped back, and he was forced to release her. With Beatrix gone for at least three months, she had more than enough time to pursue Archibald Cambury. Three months? Three days would probably be enough to get him to his knees, where (quite certainly) he very much wanted to be. “I know proper matters to you.”
“Does it not matter to you?” He bent to pick up the book from its second tumble, and handed it back to her.
They began walking again. “I suppose not. My parents were very strict, and I decided many years ago that I would not live my life in the same way, filled with fear of society or the opinions of some imaginary jury. Or God.”
He held his forearm out again, defaulting to tradition. She went along, resting her hand easily on the fabric of his coat and walking in time with him. “Do you not feel the prick of your own conscience?” His voice held a hint of worry.
She let the silence spread easily around them while she thought about that, finally answering with a slight laugh. “Of course I have a conscience. I just— Oh, I don’t know. I don’t believe in sins of the flesh, I suppose.” She paused again, and then blurted, “Did you know I was in hospital?”
“What? No. Were you ill? I’m so sorry to hear it.”
“No, actually. I wasn’t ill. But I was a problem. I wouldn’t be quiet. My mind wouldn’t settle. I didn’t like embroidery.” She laughed again. Without looking at him, she realized the truth of it. “I think my parents put me into a lunatic asylum because I refused to broider.”
“How long were you . . . there?” The tenderness of his concern almost made her feel more sorry for him than she did for the injustice done to her. Almost.
“How long was I imprisoned, you mean?”
“No! Your family wasn’t imprisoning you; they were caring for you. They must’ve thought they were doing what was best.”
“Oh, but you have a generous heart.” She remembered the daily ice baths and restraining devices, and suppressed a shiver of disgust. “My family does not care for me, not in the way you mean.”
They walked on quietly, and she could tell the unaccountability of her parents not loving her was causing his brain to stutter. “Was it for a few weeks, then? They put you in someone else’s care?”
“It was over a year. A full cycle of the seasons . . . so I have something to remind me . . . all year round.”
“But they must’ve wanted you to be healthy.”
“No, they wanted me to be tamed.”
That silenced him completely. He was a brilliant man, she knew that from the way he looked at the world, from the walks they’d taken—the very proper walks—when he’d discussed his research, or the sonata that Beatrix had played, or Nora’s latest painting. He saw things clearly. And those things that perplexed him, he was able to ponder at great length. He was patient.
“I can’t imagine such a thing.”
She burst out laughing again and pulled her hand from his arm. “I can see why!” She spun around, her arms wide and free, encompassing the seemingly infinite breadth of Camburton Park, with Camburton Castle shimmering in the distance. “You were raised here in paradise, and you were raised by Vanessa. Did she ever tell you no? Even once?”
His brow furrowed adorably. How a man of twenty-eight could have the innocence of a child, she knew not, but she never tired of his virtue. He looked as though he were quite methodically going through every interaction he’d had with his mother over those twenty-eight years, before he finally replied. “I can’t think of . . . Now that you ask . . . I think not. Of course there were matters of etiquette and behavior and that sort of thing, but when it came to our own ideas? No. In fact, I think she may have even encouraged us to disagree with her. She would laugh and throw up her hands when we would question her authority, and kiss us on our heads and tell us how beautiful we were.” The realization appeared to strike him hard, perhaps the guilt of how lucky he was.
“See? Heavenly. Whereas . . .” She hated being glum. It was so tedious talking about her puritanical childhood. Beatrix had been a glorious remedy to all of that. Any time Selina even approached the dark edges of memory, Beatrix would laugh and tell her to celebrate her freedom, her escape from the clutches of those small, mean minds that had raised her. She would usually make love to her at times like that. “You are free now. Dwell in that,” Beatrix always said.
Archie reached for her hand and, rather than the formally proffered forearm, he laced his gloved fingers through her bare ones. They walked hand in hand like that for another quarter hour or so. Eventually they ended up at her cottage as dusk fell. She looked appreciatively at the late summer wildflowers and riotous blooms that filled the small front garden. And she was lonely already.
And grateful. She sighed. Lonely and grateful.
The writing life had turned her into a walking conflict: she craved the peace and isolation that would allow her to write, but she loved the sounds and scents of another person nearby. She was selfish, and she knew it. About that, at least, her parents had been quite astute—Selina Ashby wanted things.
“Here we are.” He stood away from her and clasped his hands behind him.
“Yes, here we are.” She stared at the bright-red front door, then back into his eyes. “Would you like to come in?” She’d meant to ask it in a casual way, but her desire betrayed her, and she knew she sounded like some sort of throaty seductress.
He stepped back another pace. “Oh, I think not.”
“Of course, yes. You need to get back to the house in time for supper.” She turned toward the setting sun as if it held all the answers between them. “I’m going to stay here at home for dinner tonight. I think I need a bit of quiet.”
“I’m going to London.” He said it like a bark.
“Oh?” She looked back at him. “Yes, that’s right. For your sister’s wedding.” She wasn’t sure why he was telling her. Initially, his advances and withdrawals had amused her, but lately—today especially—she was feeling agitated and needy around him. She wanted to go into her cottage and pleasure herself before she did something stupid like beg him to touch her. When he failed to elaborate, she continued, “Very well. I hope you have a pleasant journey.”
“Come with me.”
“What?” Good God, when he spoke in that halting, desperate way, she wanted to tear off her clothes and pull his lips to her breasts. “To London?”
He settled somewhat, still with his hands clasped behind his back, which (unfortunately for his propriety), drew her attention to the bulge in his tight, revealing breeches. She forced her gaze back to his eyes.
He spoke softly. “Yes. Would you like to accompany me to London? In addition to my sister’s marriage celebration, I have several appointments and a lecture to attend, so I am going to town for the week. With my prior obligations, I wouldn’t be able to escort you anywhere, but I thought perhaps you would want to see your publisher, or might wish to visit a friend. I have room in my carriage. Mayhap it was a silly invitation. I regret—” He began to sketch a small bow of apology.
“Yes.”
He startled. “Yes?”
“Yes.” She smiled broadly through the word. “Yes, I would love to accompany you to London. And once there, I shan’t inconvenience you. I shall stay with my father’s sister, the one from whom my mother is certain I inherited all of my worst attributes—she is forward and brash and shameless. And wonderful. She designs sets for the theater and lives near Drury Lane, and she has been wishing for me to visit all this past year.”
“Very well, then.” He was pleased, she could tell, but he was keeping it all buttoned up in that riveted way of his. “We will leave Monday morning at first light.”
“Very well. And thank you . . . Archie.” Saying his name aloud felt like the greatest intimacy. She lifted herself up on tiptoes and kissed him quickly on the cheek, then turned and ran the last few steps into her small home. The door shut behind her, and she waited breathlessly until she heard his footsteps recede down the path and off into the park. Then she slid to the floor, set her book aside, and reached her hand between her legs, burrowing under the multilayered folds of her dress. She was swollen and wet, and it didn’t take more than a minute—imagining Beatrix suckling at her breast while Archie pounded into her pussy—for her to come in a brilliant flare, right there on the floor.
In the misty dawn of Monday morning, Vanessa and Nora stood close by in the forecourt while the footmen hoisted Selina’s bag onto the rack at the back of the carriage. Archie watched out of the corner of his eye as Selina waited slightly apart from the rest of them, in that observing way of hers, as if she could look and not look all at once.
Vanessa kindly included her. “Farewell, Selina. I’m sorry we won’t see you in London. You know you are more than welcome to attend the wedding.”
“You are too kind,” Selina replied graciously. “But it is a family affair, and I will also have my own commitments. But thank you again. I look forward to hearing all about it when we return here in October.”
“Yes,” Nora agreed. “We will all be back in a few weeks, isn’t that right, Archie?”
“Yes, Nora. We’ll all be back.” He opened the carriage door for Selina. “But now we must depart if I am to reach London in time for Jenner’s lecture tomorrow evening.”
“Yes, you must go.” Nora hugged him and smiled. “We will see you in a few days, my dear.”
As soon as the carriage door shut, the horses began trotting away at a steady pace. It was an excellent carriage, well sprung, comfortable, and amply stocked for the rigorous three-day-long trip ahead of them. He removed his hat and set it on the seat next to him. After checking to make sure everything was secured properly, he stared across at Selina and let himself look his fill. She happened to be peering out the window with a seemingly oblivious concentration, the edge of her poke obscuring part of her profile, yet accentuating the turn of her jaw and her delicate chin.
He loved observing the world; he especially loved observing Miss Selina Ashby. Archie was no artist himself, but even though Nora was not his mother by birth, she was still one of his parents. He had inherited her habit of seeing the world carefully, noting the hints and shadows of things.
“Archie?” Selina asked without turning from the window.
“Yes.” He almost said, Yes, love, as he did to his mother or Nora or his sister, Georgie. Selina was beginning to reside in the same chamber in his heart.
“What do you think of me?”
He tried to laugh it off. “What a strange thing to ask, Selina. I think very highly of you. You must know that.”
She turned slowly, and the way her hat framed her face made her look even more like a portrait, a perfect ivory cameo or immaculately painted miniature. “I mean, do you think of me? Do you . . . imagine me?”
He suddenly reali
zed six hours spent in this confining manner would be an eternity. He might need to ride up on the box with the coachman if this sort of intimate conversation was the only alternative. “I think of you often. I think of you . . .” His throat was dry, so he reached for the hamper. “Would you care for some tea?” He took out the flask that had been wrapped in cotton wadding to hold in the heat, and held up a small cup. “Yes?”
She ignored his offer. “Am I being too forward?”
He unscrewed the top of the flask and poured it carefully into the cup. “Here. Have some.”
As he handed it to her, the coach jostled and a bit of the hot liquid spilt onto her finger. She didn’t flinch, and she was actually smiling when he looked up.
“I am so sorry for being so clumsy.”
“It’s not your fault.” She took the cup in two hands and held it close to her chest, still with that lovely smile playing at the corner of her lips. She held his gaze as the warm liquid passed her lips and slid down her throat. He watched her swallow. The image of her taking his cock like that—lips taut, throat working—flashed in his mind like a pornographic firework. An impossibly inappropriate vision.
He blinked it away, cleared his throat, and sat back abruptly, then refastened the top of the flask.
“Aren’t you going to have any?” she asked.
“No. I’m fine, thank you.”
They rode in silence for nearly an hour after that. He spent most of the time wondering how he could appropriately distance himself from her in the current circumstances. It was much too close in the coach; perhaps at the first stop for the horses he could suggest that she might prefer privacy.