by Megan Mulry
“Archie?” She tilted her head slightly.
“Yes, Selina?” He’d been working his way through the periodic table in his mind to pass the time, while she’d been reading a novel.
She’d removed her hat, and her hair was coming loose, a few blonde tendrils snaking down the side of her neck. It was much easier when he didn’t have to focus on her, but she’d asked for his attention and it would be rude to look away. The silence lengthened and his heart rate increased. She just gazed at him like that, quietly taking him in. “Will you come sit next to me?”
His cock twitched, and even though the flaps of his coat concealed his lap, he suspected she somehow knew how his body reacted to her. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Why isn’t it a good idea?” she asked, sounding a bit short-tempered.
“For obvious reasons.” He exhaled. “When I get close to you, I . . .” He couldn’t finish that thought. What could he say? When I get close to you I want to touch you? When I get close to you I want to pull the pins out of your hair and burrow my face into your neck? And I want to make love to you? I want to put my face between your legs and swallow every ounce of what makes you who you are?
“What happens when you get close to me?” She set her book down and came over to his side of the carriage. She moved his top hat and set it respectfully on the other bench, where she’d just been sitting. He wondered if the seat was still warm, if his hat was somehow enjoying the warmth of Selina Ashby’s body. She was touching him, lightly caressing his hand. “Do you want to touch me, Archie?”
His heart was pounding so hard now; it was becoming difficult to hear her over the ferocious drum of blood in his ears. “We shouldn’t . . .”
But she didn’t stop. Her fingers traced his, skimming the sensitive skin between each one, then the flesh at the base of his thumb. “You have amazing hands. I love them.” She brought his knuckles to her lips and began kissing her way across each ridge. “I imagine you touching my body.”
He ripped his hand from hers and gasped. “Please go back to your seat, Selina. This is entirely improper.”
She didn’t move. In fact, she smiled. “It is, isn’t it? Deliciously improper. The two of us in a closed carriage. The noise of the horses concealing my screams of passion. The clatter of wheels and springs muffling your moans.”
He leapt away as she reached for his now-hard cock beneath his straining buckskins. Then he settled on the other seat, nearly crushing his hat. “Perhaps I should sit with the coachman—”
She didn’t even try to stop him. He was about to pound on the ceiling of the carriage to alert his man that he wanted to stop—his arm extended for a seemingly infinite moment—yet still he hesitated. And she saw it. She saw him so clearly.
Selina looked at him, all tense and pulled in every direction, his strong arm reaching for escape, but his whole body yearning to stay. “You want this, Archie.”
His arm fell, but he said nothing.
“Why else would you have asked me to join you?” She began to unbutton her spencer, and his eyes widened as her fingers worked at the tight fabric buttons over her breasts. “I kept thinking about it over the weekend. Why would he invite me? Does he want me as much as I want him?” She spoke casually, as if she were alone and musing aloud.
His breath caught when she said “want.”
She tugged at the spencer after she’d undone the buttons. The rose velvet was close-fitted, the garment one of her best, so she had to arch her back to tug the sleeves free. He kept staring at the edge of her gown where the bodice skimmed across her straining bosom. After she’d managed to get one sleeve off, she breathed a sigh and reveled in the new freedom for her ribs and breasts.
“So confining.” Her other arm finally slid free, and she smiled as if the marquess would understand her sartorial frustrations.
“Selina . . . you should . . . you should not . . .”
Her eyes caught his as they skimmed her arms, bare except for the short sleeves that capped her shoulders. It was cool in the carriage, but not uncomfortably so. The autumn air was beginning to whip across the hills and the morning was still brisk. “That is the problem, isn’t it? I should. And I should not. That has always been my difficulty. I want things. And then I think about the things I want. I think and think. My imagination takes over. I imagine things in great detail. I imagine you.”
He swallowed, the loud gulp echoing through the compartment.
“Have you imagined me, Archie?” He stayed silent. “That’s fine, you don’t have to answer. I know it’s hard for you.” She loosened the laces of her dress as she spoke, and felt the throbbing between her legs. God, the way he looked at her, paying attention to every detail, every movement of her fingers and arms, the way her legs shifted or her neck tilted. He almost didn’t need to touch her, his gaze was so powerful. Almost. For now. She could live without his touch for now, but eventually . . .
Eventually she would have his skin against hers, even if it meant she had to tie him down to accomplish it. He would like that.
She smiled devilishly at the prospect. “I think about you while I touch myself.”
He began to perspire, the sheen of sweat making his face—that perfect patrician face, usually all cool authority and solid planes—even more desperate, more eager.
“I’m going to touch myself now.”
He grunted or moaned or something that might have constituted some form of resistance in the high court, but he didn’t move. He sat there like a statue, a prisoner of what he so obviously wanted but could never actually ask for. She could see his cock pressing against his breeches.
She rolled her shoulders, first the right and then the left, enjoying the liberty of her loosened stays and her absent spencer. “If you don’t care to watch, you should close your eyes.” His eyes stayed open, and she felt it like the greatest victory—she almost tossed out a cavalier I thought so, then decided that would perhaps break the spell, and put him back on the side of propriety. She brought her fingers to her mouth. “I often think of kissing and licking your hands, like I started to do before . . .” She licked her fingers, then dipped her thumb and forefinger into the front of her gown, where she’d loosened the fabric enough to pinch one of her nipples. She bit down on her lower lip as she did so. “I think of your mouth on my breasts. I want that so much. I want that beautiful mouth of yours on me.”
He moaned, and she saw his knuckles strain as he gripped the squabs on either side of his powerful thighs. Poor, beautiful man. So tight. So contained.
She squeezed her nipple hard and sighed at the bittersweet satisfaction of it. “I would beg you to be hard with me. Strict and strong. You would know how much I need that, for you to be strong for me. For us.”
He ground out some unintelligible epithet or plea, and it was more than enough to prod her on. One day she would make this man scream out what he wanted.
“And I will be strong for you, as well. I will be able to take what you so obviously want to provide.” She used her other hand to lift up her skirts, slowly revealing her stockings and the pretty rose-colored ribbons she’d used to tie them. “I thought of you while I dressed this morning. I wanted you to see me like this.” She spread her legs and exposed her naked, swollen sex.
He rubbed both of his hands over his face, viciously scraping his palms against his eyes and cheeks. “Selina . . .” His voice was ragged and so deliciously conflicted.
“Yes, love. I’m right here.” She began to stroke her pussy, lightly at first, trailing her finger along her slit while she kept toying with her nipple. “I do this while I think of you.” She traced the shell of her opening. “I imagine you being tentative and curious at the beginning.”
He whimpered and pressed his hand over his engorged cock, as if he could make it go away.
She slid her hips forward to get a better angle—better for her to see her hand working and better for him to see as she did. “But then I would want more, wouldn�
�t I?” She began to circle her clit, to pinch and moan. “Because the way I want you . . .” She panted through the words. “There is nothing tentative about the way I want you, Archibald Cambury.” Thrusting two fingers in, she kept up the pressure on her clit. Her ragged breath made it hard for her to speak. “I can make it last, when you finally come to me, I promise I will make it last . . .”
He pressed cruelly against his crotch, groaning in near pain. “Selina . . .”
“But right now I am going to take my pleasure fast and hard, picturing you thrusting into me—” She rode her hand for three or four harsh strokes and then exploded, crying out his name as she arched and quaked for him. For him to watch.
When she was once again able to focus, she saw his jaw was clenched, eyes murderous. Breathing in steady, controlled pants, he kept his lips in a firm line as he inhaled and exhaled through his nose. He looked so angry, so furious, because she had . . . what? Sullied his opinion of her?
She wasn’t about to let him deny what was so obviously true for both of them—he wanted her as much as she wanted him; she was sure of it. Refusing to let his supposed irritation limit her lingering pleasure, she removed her hand from her breast, adjusted her bodice, then pulled back the fabric of her petticoats to get a better look at her hand pressed against her pussy. Her slick moisture was glistening against her inner thighs, and she spread it around, imagining a time his seed would be mixed with it. “God, what you do to me. I’m so wet—”
“Stop it! At once!”
She peered up with a slight smile. “Well, it’s pretty much over at this point. For now. But fine. I’ll stop.” She dragged her hand away from the still quivering flesh between her legs and put her dress to rights.
The coachman called “Whoa,” and the coach began to slow.
“Perfect timing.” She adjusted her hair and tightened the laces of her dress. “I could do with a bit of fresh air and to stretch my legs.”
He stared disapprovingly at her spread legs when she said that, and she couldn’t help laughing at his furious censure. Surely he would admit his own desire at any moment. Wouldn’t he?
“Do not laugh at me, Miss Ashby.” His voice was cold and empty, as if she were a stranger, or a servant. Though she’d never heard him speak in quite that stony way to anyone, servant or otherwise.
She ceased giggling at once. Her heart was pounding, with a heady combination of fear and desire. “Yes, my lord. As you wish.” She bowed her head slightly and put her knees primly together.
“I suspect you are mocking me, or mocking the formal show of respect you are now employing, but I shall take you at your word—that you will do as I wish—and you will permit me to ride the rest of the way with the coachman, outside the confines of the carriage.”
“Oh, Archie—” She reached for him, and he withdrew as best he could. More like recoiled. “I’m very sorry,” she whispered.
“So am I.” He opened the carriage door before the horses had come to a complete stop. Unable to abandon his manners entirely, he waited patiently for her to exit the carriage, so he could aid her descent. She had to put her spencer back on, and the arms were too narrow and she almost cried in frustration. She refused to cry, damn it. He wanted her. She knew it. Just because he was ashamed or embarrassed by his desires, didn’t mean she had to be ashamed of hers. She would never be ashamed of that. She slammed her stiff hat on her head and tied the satin ribbons tightly beneath her chin.
When she stepped from the carriage, she ignored his offered hand. “Thank you, Lord Camburton, but I’m quite capable of stepping out of a carriage—and accomplishing many other things—without your assistance.” She walked toward the tavern across the stable yard where the carriage had stopped to water the horses. Selina entered the modest establishment in search of a privy, a bracing drink, and a secluded room where she could avoid the scathing, judgmental glare of the Marquess of Camburton.
Archie had so hoped Selina Ashby would prove to be the woman he had long imagined in his rather particular vision of what he wanted in a wife: a woman who would be an attentive, loving mother to his children; a woman with a keen intellect, who would perhaps share his interests in Camburton Castle and the responsibility of keeping it in high fettle for future generations; a woman, in short, he could respect.
As they approached London, he did his best to shove all those hopes aside. Selina was not that woman. She was a sexually precocious trollop. Well, maybe he didn’t need to go as far as trollop. She was sexually precocious. And that simply did not coincide with his wishes for a happy, secure home life. She was too pressing, too forward. It was probably for the best that she had accosted him in that way, revealed herself, as it were. He groaned at the double meaning.
Of course he had responded physically! What man wouldn’t? But he was not a beast. He could control those base desires. He didn’t need to act on them. Why did she have to act on every careless impulse?
“Damn it,” he mumbled to himself.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” The coachman turned to him. They were both sitting on the raised driving seat of the large carriage.
“Oh, I was just thinking aloud.” Archie paused and looked around at the encroaching city. They would reach Mayfair within the hour. “Are you married, Granger?” He realized the coachman had worked for his family for as long as he could remember, and yet he had no idea about the man’s personal life.
“I am indeed, my lord. Twenty-two years of wedded bliss.” Granger turned and winked ironically, but Archie remained perplexed. The driver resumed his serious concentration on the crowded street ahead.
“I didn’t mean to appear humorless. Congratulations on your domestic happiness.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
They rode in silence the rest of the way. Archie was in knots. Was he a hypocrite? He’d never thought so, but damned if he didn’t resent Selina for what amounted to honesty. The entire situation was far too vexing. He eventually decided such vexation was yet another indication Selina Ashby was not the right woman for him. He did not wish to be vexed.
When the carriage finally pulled up in front of Camburton House on Grosvenor Square, Archie leapt from the high perch as if he’d been riding on a bed of hot coals for three months, rather than a mere three days.
And here came said hotbed. The footman held the carriage door open as Selina peered out. She smiled when she saw the glorious autumn leaves in the center of the square and then she beamed appreciatively when she scanned the sparkling mansions along the north side.
“Miss Ashby.” Archie sounded especially formal, even to his own ears.
“Lord Camburton.” She adopted the same cool tone, taking the tips of his fingers for support as she stepped down without making eye contact.
He had tried not to notice her appearance earlier in the day, but there was no avoiding it now that he was helping her from the carriage—she was gloriously dressed for town in another damnably tight spencer that pulled affectionately across her full bosom. Beneath, she wore a pale blue dress of some sort. Archie had never taken an interest in fashion, but the dress seemed to skim her body in the most distracting way.
She avoided looking at him. “Shall I hire a hackney to take me the rest of the way to my aunt’s?”
They had stayed at two of his favorite inns during the journey, and he had originally envisioned private dinners with the pair of them chatting comfortably in front of a low fire. After the disastrous carriage ride on the first morning, he wasn’t surprised when Selina chose to dine alone in her room both nights. He knew it was for the best. Of course it was. But damn it. Why couldn’t she just behave like a normal young woman?
“Of course you will not hire a hack!” He sounded more exasperated than he intended, but he was at his wit’s end with this woman. The least she could do was adhere to the last few threads of propriety until he deposited her at her aunt’s townhouse. “I will drive you to your aunt’s in my curricle as soon as your luggage is transferred. It
is easier to navigate the smaller vehicle on the narrow lanes near Covent Garden.”
“Very well.” She removed her fingers from his and clasped both hands around her reticule.
“Won’t you come in for refreshment before we go to your aunt’s?” He gestured toward his grand home behind them.
She looked up at the imposing façade of Camburton House. “Thank you for your kind invitation, but I think not. I told my aunt I would be to her by five, and I have already gone far beyond the boundaries of your kind consideration. I also know you are eager to attend Mr. Jenner’s lecture.”
Everything she said was true, but he was irritated nonetheless. For some reason, it felt as if she were giving him a set down.
He spoke to one of the passing footmen. “Have my curricle brought round at once.”
“Yes, my lord.”
They stood silently for the next ten minutes, Archie refusing to engage Selina in conversation when she was in this icy mood. The curricle arrived at last and the matched bays pranced and snorted. He watched as Selina reached for one of the animals, about to stroke its shimmering russet coat.
“You do not wish to be late.” His voice was overly stern, but he’d had quite enough of watching her touch things. “Let us not tarry, Miss Ashby.”
She gasped at his obvious effort to prevent her movement, and withdrew her hand before she touched the animal. “Yes, my lord.” She dipped her head in apology and accepted his hand with cool detachment when he assisted her up to the elevated seat. He double-checked that her luggage was attached to the back of the curricle, and then he took the long whip and reins out of the driver’s hand. He leapt up to the high perch next to Selina and they were off in a trice.
He had very few vanities, but this vehicle was one. He’d redesigned the suspension system himself, and the flow and movement of the two wheels beneath them was smooth and exhilarating, especially after the large traveling carriage and team of four they’d used to come down from Derbyshire. Trying to ignore the close press of Selina’s thigh against his, he focused on the horses and held the whip more as a gentle reminder than a form of discipline. His sister Georgiana had trained these two mares herself several years ago, before she’d left for Egypt the first time, and they were a perfect pair in both temperament and appearance.