The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 5

by MacMurrough, Sorcha

  "Intercourse without touching? " she laughed incredulously.

  "If that's a request for me to tie you or hold you down, think again. You'd enjoy it far too much, I can tell." He stared at her for a time. "Of course, there are other ways."

  Lawrence dragged one huge hand down her breast, titillating her nipple abruptly. It crested in his hand, but instead of teasing it lingeringly to fullness, he impatiently moved on down to her thighs, spreading them with one knee before twirling his middle finger around her entrance to paradise and dipping it in.

  "No, don't touch me!" he hissed when Juliet reached to put her arms around his waist.

  He turned her and laid her on the bed face down, her bare bottom in the air in what she thought was a most shaming manner. For moment she was sure he was going to spank her, and she steeled herself for the first blow. She tried to push off the bed with her elbows, but he planted one hand in the small of her back.

  "You might like it rough, but I don't fancy wasting my energy struggling. I'm not going to hurt you. This is just an illustrative lesson. Spread your arms and legs. Go on, spread them."

  Lawrence lightly stroked his hands along her arms until they were straight out away from her sides, while with his knees he spread her legs wider. He tested her readiness once more, then unbreeched himself, pressing his huge length inside her. She gasped at the new angle which seemed to massage every secret place within her dedicated to the delights of Venus.

  "Oh, Lawrence--"

  "Not one word. Not one sound, or I'll punish you. No caresses, nothing. You will lie there and take it, for that is what wives are fated to do. As often as I like, any position I like, as hard as I like, as fast as I wish. Or as slow." He punctuated his words with matching movements of his hips.

  As she lay there, Juliet could feel two contrary urges within her. One longed to give in to his mastery. The truth was that every touch, no matter how simple, flooded her with a passion so acute she felt as though she were being swept out to sea.

  The other urge told her sexual relations weren't something to be done to her, but something to be shared, actively participated in as she had done last night. That even as Lawrence thought he was teaching her some sort of lesson, shaming or controlling her, she could turn the tables on him.

  She knew Matthew and his wife were a most romantic couple. That their passion was heady, compelling, sultry. Althea had told her there were no rules to marriage, just whatever worked, felt good. Juliet decided Lawrence's rules be damned.

  Juliet felt her body respond to him, go on fire everywhere. Even flat on her stomach she could still move. He had said no touching or sound, but he hadn't said anything about moving. She clamped her muscles and raised her hips, bringing him even more deeply into her. The friction against him and the rough fabric of the taspestry coverlet thrilled her in the most unexpected ways.

  She heard his surprised gasp, and she swung her hips down and up even harder. Her muscles spasmed of their own accord. She could feel the flush of passion creeping down her thighs and up to her breasts. Perspiration trickled under her arms, in her palms, and even on the soles of her feet as her desire built and built.

  Lawrence was stunned. Almost against his will he placed his hands on her buttocks and stroked and massaged their blooming fullness. He pulled her hips even more closely to his and the short, fast, abrupt movements now became long, slow and purposeful.

  In fact, he almost cursed himself for his impatience, for his orbs had gathered tightly in preparation for his pinnacle. The last thing he wanted was for it to finish.

  Lawrence recalled a trick his friend had told him about in India, and grasping himself below the base, he pulled down on his primed jewels. He instantly felt relief, but a few more strokes had him churning even more fiercely.

  He tried a second time, tugging even harder. Again the sensation dissipated, but only for a moment. For now he was not only stroking his entire length into her, but she was circling with her hips somehow as he withdrew slightly. Her muscles clasping against his bulging tip were fit to drive him insane.

  He tried to hold her bottom still, but decided the other rhythm she had forced was even more exciting. The fit of their bodies was so perfect it was as if they had been designed especially for each other.

  He pressed forward ever more delightedly, deepening the contact, and still she surrounded him in the incomparable embrace of her most secret place. The yoni, the sacred space, the Indians called it.

  For Lawrence, this was most certainly a glimpse of heaven. He had gone from an unbeliever regarding the gift of love to most a most enthusiastic convert. Nothing could compare with what he shared with Juliet, however angry he might be with her brother and his friends.

  He pulled himself down one more time, but his need to complete himself within her only seemed to become more urgent. As was the need to kiss her.

  He slid his hand up to tenderly cup her breast, while his other stroked her bottom lightly with the tips of his fingers and nails, making her shiver and contract.

  He was about to turn her over when her own internal rippling set off a chain reaction so explosive he gasped. She bit the coverlet under her to stop her cries. His own echoed hollowly in the room.

  Damnation, she couldn't possibly have been unmoved by that, could she? But then it had been his own fault for ordering her not to make a sound.

  "God, Juliet, tell me--" he groaned.

  But the moment had passed and she did not dare say a word, even had she understood what he meant. What was there to tell? In any case, to have opened her mouth at that stage would have been to scream like a siren. The torrid heat had set her bubbling into an oblivion so acute that she feared for her sanity. Surely this had to be some sort of madness, this aching need inside of her, which roiled through her even as he filled her to the brim with the most incredible bliss.

  He collapsed on top of Juliet for a moment, then rolled off and cursed, wondering why he didn't feel any more in control of his new wife or his raging passions than he had before.

  He stormed into the corner and splashed in the basin for a moment. She was still prone. He was sorely tempted to go back to her and kiss her senseless, get her to pant his name as she had done last night. To feel her touch him. To see her violet eyes look at him as if he were the only man in the world she had ever bedded, ever wanted to bed.

  Frustration roughened his voice. "You can get up. That's all for now. You're not getting any more."

  Juliet rose slowly as if in a trance and looked at him. He felt his fury and desire rampage through him once more. Her remarkable eyes were dark with passion, their expression unreadable. She was gorgeous, breathtakingly so, and not the least bit cowed. But nor could he tell what she was thinking.

  "Get dressed. We're leaving."

  She remained silent, but did as he instructed. He was about to offer her the basin, when an odd sense of perverseness crept through him. "Just your cloak. Gather everything else into a bundle. If I have nothing better to do with my time I might have a tiddle or two."

  At her look of mild puzzlement he said, "We're going to Somerset."

  Her heart sank. Three or four days in a coach naked with a man who hated her. Things couldn't really get much worse. But she told herself to be patient. He was still angry, but bound to come around sooner or later when he saw they meant him no harm and everything had been a bizarre quirk of fate. A mistake.

  Or not, for she had agreed to wed him to save him from Matilda and himself, and was determined to make the best of her marriage. Sooner or later he would get to know her, see her worth as a person, and then...

  Juliet gathered the last of her things and waited for Lawrence, distancing herself from the stress of the past twenty-four hours by thinking practically all the while of her next volume in her series. She had not intended to work on the much-awaited next book of her history of England for the month she was supposed to have spent with her brother in London, but it might be the only thing which kept her sane.<
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  Lawrence might be her husband now, but no man owned her. If he never came round to caring for her, she couldn't be much worse off than she had been before. So long as he didn't beat her, her modest circumstances as a inconvenient wife wouldn't trouble her in the least.

  She had never imagined she would marry a man for his fortune. Her own expectations had been modest enough before her brother had tried to help she and her sister out of their relative obscurity.

  As her aunt had pointed out, being raised humbly in the country was no bad thing if it kept fortune hunters at bay. Her prospects were better than they had been now that her father was dead and her aunt and Matthew free to use their discretion, but still not that tempting for most men of the Ton.

  However, Lawrence had insisted he wanted nothing from her family. Well, at least he could not reproach her for not being wealthy enough, whatever else he might hate her for. The huge chip on his shoulder about being a self-made man was a puzzle, but as a second son he must have felt his lack of resources keenly. If his elder brother had been less bright or deserving, it would have been all the more reason for him to feel angry or resentful.

  "Coming?" he asked curtly.

  "I wasn't aware I was being given a choice."

  "No, you're right, you're not."

  The fact that they hadn't eaten all day seemed to have escaped his notice. She bit her lip and told herself that she might as well practice endurance. It was the only way to get through her marriage. So many women had to put up with far worse than she. She just had to pray he came to his senses soon.

  It was certainly brisk enough in his carriage with only her cloak, and no rugs or footwarmer. He evidently believed in a spartan existence. She put her bundle upon her lap under her cloak, but it wasn't long before he sidled over to her on the seat to tug down her hair, and from her hair his hand travelled to her breasts.

  His attentions weren't harsh. In fact they were quite delightful, but impersonal, as if he were sampling a slave before buying. She disappeared mentally into her own world of books, reciting some of her favourite poems inwardly as he plucked the bundle from her lap and demanded she open her legs.

  "What? No protest, no glib retort?"

  She shook her head. Then she realised there were other reasons for his touch. His pristine white handkerchief rasped over her tender flesh, cleaning his essence from her, but also investigating. Not a trace of blood appeared.

  He scowled and stuffed it back into his pocket, and with a last caress of her breast returned to his side of the seat.

  "So Randall Avenel is the Earl of Hazelmere now?"

  She nodded.

  "Who would have ever imagined the fifth son as earl. But Michael is alive. Why isn't he earl?"

  She remained silent.

  "Is it because you don't know, or fear my wrath that you remain silent?"

  She still waited for him to grant her permission to speak.

  He sighed. "Oh, very well, if you must make me say it, please tell me. Speak."

  "Randall inherited last year at the death of his fourth brother and his father. It was assumed Michael had been killed at Toulouse in 1814. Once they were reunited, Randall wanted to give up the earldom, but Michael insisted it should remain Randall's. That he had no interest in living such an arduous public life after his injuries, and now that he is such a devoted family man. Randall has made quite an impact in the House."

  "I don't follow politics. But I'm sure he has quite an effect on people. He hurts every one he meets. Such a pleasant facade, to disguise the wolf underneath. Wasn't there a scandal about his father and the fall of a prestigious new investment bank?"

  She nodded. "But it was proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that his cousin who was the next heir to the estate after Randall was responsible. And also for murdering Randall's fiancee. I can understand you envying Randall the title, but he's suffered a great deal."

  Lawrence said angrily, "So why didn't you marry this paragon?"

  "I've never met him. And he's already married anyway."

  He frowned. "Never met?"

  "As for Michael, he too has suffered. He was badly wounded, crippled at Toulouse. His wife helped him to walk again. Now the two brothers live together with their mother and are building an extension to their house so that both families can live there. Michael is a devoted family man, with three boys and a girl. Randall and Isolde have eleven children, with another on the way.

  "Eleven!" Lawrence exclaimed in shock, doing some quick mental arithmetic. "Surely not--"

  "They've only been married a short time. They have three natural and eight adopted, though they don't differentiate in the least."

  "What does Michael do now? Landowner?"

  "Michael and Bryony are compiling a multi-lingual dictionary of five European languages all in one."

  He stared in surprise. "Hm, that's a huge undertaking."

  "It is, but it will be a great work of scholarship when it's finished."

  He looked at her inscrutably once more, and an uneasy prickle at the back of her neck caused her to lapse back into silence.

  "So they all live in London?" he asked after a time.

  "No, not really. They have townhouses for the Season, some of them, but otherwise they all live in Somerset."

  "Somerset? The hell you say!"

  She cringed away from his shout of outrage.

  He muttered to himself, "Well, Somerset is a big enough county. Whereabouts?" he asked her.

  "All around Brimley."

  "Damn and blast it to hell! The memory of their betrayal has haunted me for years, and now you tell me they're going to be living practically on my doorstep?"

  "Did you not think to enquire about the neighbours before you bought your new home?" she asked quietly.

  He scowled. "My factor and my bride-to-be made the decision."

  Matilda. Well, that made sense. She had not quite given up on Matthew and the Rakehells then to add to her series of conquests.

  Juliet sighed. "Forgive me, but I understood you had come home because your elder brother had died and you had inherited. Where did he live?"

  His face closed up. "Taking that property would have been out of the question," he said brusquely. "Nash and Matilda said they found a spacious and elegant property near Millcote village, easy travelling distance from Bristol for my work, and not far off the main road back to London."

  "You've bought Blake's old house by the sound of things."

  He scowled even more fiercely. "The Devil I did! I was told the name was Jerome."

  She nodded. "Yes, Blake Sanderson is their heir now, so he uses the name sometimes out of courtesy to them. He and his wife Arabella built a lovely new house and rest home on the Jerome estate. You would know Martin Jerome, their cousin, I believe."

  He nodded, and looked slightly less displeased. "Yes, I do. He's a good man."

  "He too has suffered. He was nearly killed by the highwaymen who murdered his first wife. He's married to Blake's assistant Eswara now."

  His brows shot up. "Eswara? That's an Indian name," he said with interest.

  "Yes, she's half Indian, half English, the widow of a soldier when they met. She has one grown son, Ashoka, also studying to be a doctor with Blake."

  "Regular army or East India Company?"

  "Regular, I believe, but I only know what my brother has told me."

  "Well, you're going to know soon enough if they're to be our neighbours. Damn."

  She said softly, "I know you feel you have cause to be angry with Matthew, but surely the rest of your old school friends can't be that bad."

  "I don't know. You tell me."

  "Pardon? I'm sorry, but-"

  "You've no doubt swived all of them at one point or another!"

  Her eyes spit fire.

  "Or even all at the same time!" he accused nastily.

  Her back went ramrod stiff. "You're disgusting!" she hissed, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

  He wa
s immediately back in the seat beside her, his hands driving her breasts to surging eager peaks with only one purposeful touch. "You didn't say I was disgusting last night or this morning when I was tupping you! And even if I am, which of us is worse? Me for doing this to you, or you for enjoying it?"

  "I was referring to your nasty, suspicious mind. There's nothing wrong with two decently married people doing this," she said with as much dignity as she could muster considering her body was completely betraying her once more.

  "Aye, decently married. I'm just supposed to believe that Jonathan Deveril of all people is a vicar? With his background and penchant for the ladies?" he sneered.