BOUND BY THE EARL

by Alyson Chase

  “Take me deeper.” He covered her hand with his and tightened her grip. “When you suck, take me as deep as you’re able.”

  Rising up on her knees, she enclosed her lips around him and sucked him into her mouth as far as was comfortable. He moaned, gripping her head but letting her maintain her pace. She looked into his eyes intently, loving the pleasure she saw there.

  He tightened his right hand in her hair and dropped his left to her breast. He rolled her nipple and pinched hard to match the deep draw she took. She whimpered, the sound muffled as he drew her head closer.

  The apex of her thighs grew slick. Her core ached. She sucked harder. She let his shaft slide over her tongue until it nudged the back of her throat. Her body involuntarily swallowed.

  His hand jerked in her hair, making her eyes sting, before he relaxed his hold. “Do that again,” he breathed.

  She tried. Her body rebelled, and she had to pull back for some deep breaths, before going in again. A bead of liquid oozed from his tip, and she licked it away. She wanted to taste all of him. Swallowing his head, she bobbed up and down, gripping his base with both hands. She squeezed her thighs together and whimpered.

  With his hand guiding her movements, she took him deeper each slide until she developed a pattern. Her mind blanked as her body focused on this one act. Her throat loosened, and she inched him deeper.

  His scent filled her nose. His taste was imprinted on her tongue. In that moment, he was her world.

  Her whispered name roused her from her stupor.

  “Touch yourself,” he demanded. “Put your hand between your legs, and stroke yourself, just like this.” He caressed the side of her breast. “I want to watch your face as you come, feel the vibration of your moans around my cock as you break apart.”

  He took control of her head, smoothing out the up and down motion, slowing the pace. Leaving her free to concentrate on her own pleasure. Slowly, she eased her fingers between her thighs. Touching herself in front of Julius, felt … wicked. Wanton. Like something one of Madame Sable’s girls would do.

  At the first glide of her fingers against her clit, she stopped thinking about propriety. She widened her legs and rubbed harder.

  “Easy.” Licking his thumb, Julius circled her nipple. “Slow, like this.” He shifted his hips. “Brush your fingers down your lips and ease two into that sweet cunny. Get them good and wet. Then glide them in circles around your little bud.”

  Amanda obeyed. Somehow, her foray into taking control had rebounded. From the hand at her head to the commands he gave, Julius was directing the show.

  If her body wasn’t on fire, and her mouth hadn’t been full, she would have one or two choice things to say about that.

  Her fingers slipped through her folds, circling her clit faster and faster. With her other hand, she pressed Julius’s hand tight to her breast. He got the message and tugged on her nipple, rolling it to a hard point. Sensation shot from her breast to her core. Her fingers faltered, gave one last swirl, and her body pulsed with pleasure.

  She moaned, and Julius twitched in her mouth.

  “Mother of God.” Threading his fingers through the hair at her scalp, he brushed her cheek with his thumb. “That was beautiful.” After she recovered her breath, he urged her head lower. “I’m going to come in that pretty mouth, and you’re going to take it all down. Isn’t that right, mouse?”

  Yes. She wanted that, too. She clutched at his trousers, and let the feel of him rolling against her tongue, scraping against the roof of her mouth, subsume her. She wanted his release, as much as he’d wanted hers.

  He thrust his hips to meet her mouth. His heaving breaths melded with the crackling of the fire. “I’m going to …”

  Amanda sucked him as deep as she could, felt him jerk, and liquid heat coated the back of her throat. She swallowed and watched his eyes slide close, saw his cheeks stain the color of brick. He groaned, loud and long, and satisfaction oozed through her body.

  When he sagged back into the chair, a boneless heap, she eased her mouth up his length. She licked around the crown, cleaning him up, and he made a sound of protest. “No more. I beg of you.”

  Laying her head on his thigh, she calmed her own breathing. As far as educations went, Julius had turned out to be an outstanding teacher. Never in her life had she thought that she’d be capable of doing so much with a man. Of feeling so much.

  When Liz and Marcus returned, would he …?

  She slammed the doors shut in her mind on that thought. No use hurting herself today on what was sure to come tomorrow. Enjoy the moment. If her past life had taught her anything, it was finding the joys in the seconds between.

  Julius stroked her hair, a soothing caress. She closed her eyes, fatigue digging in its claws. She blinked back awake as Julius scooped her onto his lap. He picked his coat up from the floor and draped it over her.

  “There is a very nice bed not five feet away,” she mumbled. “Why don’t we move over there?”

  “We will. When I have recovered.” He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Although Reggie seems to be taking up half the thing. He pretends to sleep, but I know he was watching.” His chest rose and sank with his sigh. “Debauched dog.”

  She threaded her fingers through the hair on his chest and smiled.

  “The next couple of days in the papers are going to be rough.” Resting a hand on her rump, he pulled her closer. “Perhaps you shouldn’t read them. I can tell Carter to keep them out of the morning room.”

  “Don’t bother. I can handle rough.”

  He hesitated. “You don’t know how vicious the ton can be. Even the Cits love nothing more than to moralize. A woman who killed her father lecturing about capital punishment? They will eat you alive.”

  She rubbed his shoulder and tried to sound more confident than she felt. “It isn’t people’s words that frighten me. A little public mockery is nothing I can’t handle.”

  “Fine.” His voice was resigned. “It should all die down in a couple of days, now that Mr. Wilson has stopped writing.”

  Amanda nodded, her heart thumping painfully, and braced for the storm.

  ***

  The storm arrived in the form of five bluestockings on her doorstep the very next day.

  Her morning had started out badly. Waking up with cold sheets beside her and nothing to keep her warm but a banked fire. She should be accustomed to it. No matter how entwined her body was with Julius’s when she fell asleep, she always awoke alone.

  Julius couldn’t stand to be trapped with her until the morning.

  She shouldn’t take it personally. She suspected he had been more open with her than with any of his past lovers. But when she stared at the expanse of empty bed, her foolish heart couldn’t help but twist.

  Breakfast hadn’t fared much better. Julius was absent, leaving her alone with the Lady Mary. Her companion felt the need to read each and every word written about the scandalous Mr. Wilson and his secret identity. She read them with relish, as if expecting Amanda to find the same joy at each insult to her person as her chaperone seemed to feel.

  She had taken a book from the library and was about to scurry upstairs and hide away in her bedroom when she heard Carter speaking to someone at the front door. And informing her that Amanda was not receiving visitors.

  She paused, foot on the bottom step. Did she receive visitors? For the past two years the question had never arisen. Liz had visited her in prison, but that hardly counted. Did she want to receive visitors?

  She squared her shoulders. As Carter seemed set against the idea it seemed only right that she engaged in the pastime.

  She hurried forward as the butler began to shut the door. “Wait! I’m here.” She ignored Carter’s sniff of disapproval and peered onto the porch. Five sets of owlish eyes stared back.

  One of the woman, wearing a patchwork gown of colors so garish it made Amanda dizzy, stepped forward. “You are Miss Amanda Wilcox? The Amanda Wilcox who wrote under the
pseudonym Mr. A. Wilson?”

  Amanda’s shoulders drooped. They were an unusual looking group for a morality league, with their abundance of spectacles and sturdy boots. But she supposed indignation came in all shapes and styles.

  “Yes. I wrote the pieces.” She clasped her hands before her. “If you have any responses, I know The Times is only too happy to publish them.” Each and every last excoriating letter.

  The woman clasped a parasol to her stomach. “I am Mrs. Elizabeth Fry. We are the Ladies’ Society for Prison Reform, and we’d like to discuss the next steps of your plan.”

  A woman with a small nosegay of violets pinned to her bonnet poked the speaker in the back. “I thought we’d agreed to call ourselves Women Standing Together Can Break the Chains of Bondage.”

  Mrs. Fry rolled her eyes. “A bit wordy, don’t you think? May we come in? There is much to discuss and little time.”

  Amanda’s gaze darted between the women and she snapped her mouth shut. She cleared her throat. “Yes. Of course.” Throwing open the door, she stepped to the side. “We can adjourn to the … uh …”

  “Perhaps your guests would be most comfortable in the bronze sitting room,” Carter suggested. Amanda almost sent him a grateful smile before she remembered that sitting room was at the rear of the townhouse, its windows only facing into the backyard. Less chance of anyone seeing the motley group in the duke’s home.

  Still, it was a comfortable room. “Yes.” She turned to lead the women back. “Please have refreshments sent up,” she told Carter, her voice airy, as though she gave orders to servants every day of the year. She could feel his disgust burning into her back.

  The Ladies’ Society settled themselves on the settees. Mrs. Fry sat on the armrest, her leg swinging. “We didn’t expect to find a fellow reformer in the home of a duke.” Leaning forward, she picked up a Venetian glass bowl and turned it in her hands. When she casually flipped it over, Amanda’s heart lodged in her throat. She didn’t know how valuable the bowl was, but knowing the duke’s tastes, she could guess it was worth more than she was.

  She gently pried the bowl from Mrs. Fry and placed it back on the table. Out of the woman’s reach. “What was it you wanted to discuss? I believe I laid out all my views in the two pieces The Times published. I don’t think I have much more to say on the matter.”

  The woman with the flowers in her hat scooted to the end of her seat. “Nothing more needs to be said. It’s action that is called for.”

  Mrs. Fry sighed. “Perhaps we should start with introductions. The firebrand over there is Miss Bernice Shaw. The one next to her is Mrs. Jane Smuthers.” The redhead nodded a greeting. “And the two sisters”—Mrs. Fry pointed to the two women with strikingly similar features on the other settee—“are Gladys McGuire and Gwyneth Bartlett.” She poked her parasol into the floor. “The six of us are going to end capital punishment in England.”

  Amanda counted, and counted again. “Do you have another member?”

  “Of course.”

  Amanda’s shoulders sagged with relief.

  The parasol poked at the air by Amanda’s chest. “You are the sixth member of the Ladies’ Society for Prison Reform,” Mrs. Fry said.

  “Women Standing Together Can Break the Chains of Bondage,” Miss Shaw muttered.

  Amanda blinked rapidly. “I’m really not one for joining groups.”

  “Nonsense. The cause needs you.”

  “Then the cause is in trouble.” Perching on the edge of an armchair, Amanda linked her fingers together, the tips turning white. “In case you haven’t yet read the morning papers, I am the last spokeswoman your cause needs.”

  “Rubbish.” Mrs. Fry slashed her parasol through the air, the tip knocking a brass box off a side table. Cigars spilled across the Aubusson carpet.

  One of the sisters popped up and put it all to rights. She tucked a lock of her short ash blond hair behind her ear and gave Amanda a small smile.

  “You are exactly what we need.” Mrs. Fry leaned forward. “A woman who’s faced the devil. Who’s felt the burn of the noose against her neck, only for the government to later realize its mistake.”

  Amanda laid her hand on her throat. Rope had never encircled it, thank goodness, but after Mrs. Fry’s impassioned statement she could almost feel the sting. She’d have to tell Julius her neck was off limits to his rope.

  “Only a person who has escaped the Tyburn Tree has the true authority borne of experience to speak of reform.” Mrs. Fry stabbed the air. “You are exactly what we need.”

  Amanda shrank back from the make-shift rapier. The reformer would be wicked in a duel.

  “And you’ve already brought such consciousness to the issue,” Mrs. Smuthers said. “All of our efforts combined haven’t garnered as much attention as your two pieces. And you’ve even made that despicable Lord Hanford try to defend himself.”

  “Exactly.” Mrs. Fry stood and paced the room, a bundle of bright colors and contained energy. Grey was just beginning to encroach on the hair at her temples, and Amanda was surprised the woman didn’t demand its retreat. She seemed much too indomitable to submit to anything, even time. “By responding to you, Lord Hanford has given you credibility. People have to listen. I think we should call for a public debate.”

  One of the sisters, Gladys perhaps, clapped her hands. “Ooh, that’s a lovely idea. Where should we hold it? On the front steps of Parliament? Or perhaps The Queen’s Palace?”

  Amanda curled back into her chair. She shot a longing glance at the door. Why had she contradicted Carter and let these women in the door? She licked her lips. “I’m sure a debate would be most informative. And I think you should do it. You. Not me. Never me.”

  Five rounded sets of eyes landed on her. “Of course, you must do it,” Miss Shaw said. “You against Lord Hanford. It’s the only partnering that makes sense.”

  Amanda smothered a hysterical chuckle and pressed her fingers against her lips. Ever since she’d awoken this morning, nothing had made sense. The idea of her, in public, debating a marquess …. That was the exact opposite of sense.

  She gripped her skirts. “I’m sorry you’ve come all this way, but that just isn’t possible. You’ve wasted your time.”

  “Hogwash.” Mrs. Fry had as many colorful interjections as patches on her dress. “We can help you prepare, of course. And we’ll advertise it in other papers to ensure a large audience. But it must be you to debate. Surely you see that.”

  What Amanda saw were five dotty women who actually thought they had a chance at getting a debate with a member of the House of Lords. Who thought that Amanda was as mad as they were, that she’d join in their insanity.

  Amanda firmed her voice. “It’s not possible,” she repeated. The back of her throat burned with restrained emotion. Had she a typical childhood, a loving parent, would her answer have been different? If she’d never set foot in Newgate Prison, would she have had the courage of these women? Stood in front of hundreds of people and spoken her mind?

  Perhaps. But if all those circumstances had been met, she most likely wouldn’t have given the topic of capital punishment a second thought. She would have been married off to a country vicar, or a man of business, and taken the views of her husband.

  She pursed her lips. Either way, these women expected too much. But she did want to help their cause. “I can’t debate Lord Hanford in public, but I will respond to his article in the paper. If the editor will publish it, now that my identity is known.”

  Mrs. Fry scoffed. “Of course, he will publish it. Do you know how many people will buy his paper now that an admitted murderess is writing for it? You should demand a percentage of his profits.”

  Amanda’s eyes widened. “I admitted to killing my father, but murderess goes a bit far. I was defending—”

  Swishing the parasol inches from Amanda’s face, the reformer cut her silent. “Irrelevant. The point is that capital punishment shouldn’t exist for anyone. Getting the law passed eliminat
ing it for children is merely a start.” She sat on the coffee table, her knees bumping Amanda’s. “Your letters are all very well and good. As a first step. But the next step is confronting the men responsible for that archaic policy. You simply must agree to the debate.”

  Amanda freed the Venetian glass bowl from under the woman’s skirts. She ground her jaw. Her admiration for the Ladies’ Society for Prison Reform was swiftly declining. “The debate that doesn’t exist? Lord Hanford would never debate any of us. There is no benefit to him. And I will say for the last time that my leaving this house to enter into any debate is impossible.”

  Gladys, or perhaps Gwyneth, piped up. “You’ve already engaged his interest enough to respond to your letter. Is it really so outrageous to think you might lead him to a debate?”

  “Very well said, Gwyneth. Now”—Mrs. Fry tapped the ground between her feet with the tip of the parasol—“about your debate.”

  “There. Is. No. Debate.” Amanda breathed deeply through her nose, trying to calm her irritation. “I will send another letter to the editor, and that is all I’ll agree to.” And she was beginning to regret even that commitment. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I should get started on my response to Lord Hanford.” She stood and strode to the door.

  Mrs. Fry flattened her mouth into a hard line. Using the handle of her parasol, she pushed to standing, and the rest of the women followed suit. “Very well. I look forward to reading your next piece.”

  Miss Shaw pressed a folded piece of paper into Amanda’s hand as she passed. “We meet every Tuesday evening at Gwynnie’s house. Her husband is bedridden, so doesn’t mind us in his sitting room. Come if you’re able.”

  “Thank you.” She led the group to the front door and waited as the footman pulled it open. “I wish your group much success.” But she wouldn’t be part of it. Lord, was that how she sounded to Julius when she discussed her ideas? Like a zealot? Mrs. Fry’s passion, while admirable, was also highly provoking.

  She should refrain from discussing her next piece with Julius. He could wait to hear her ideas when they were published, like everyone else.