by Summer Devon
Her grip on his throbbing cock was light, tentative.
“Tighter?” she asked.
He nodded again.
She fell to the task with enthusiasm, and the soft, small hand on his cock—Rosalie’s hand on him—would have been enough to bring him off. When her other hand reached over and stroked his balls, that was more than enough.
“You’re drawing all tight down there,” she said, “and growing, and—Oh my.”
Her touch didn’t falter; her hand moved up and down on his cock, her rapt, interested face watching.
His eyes closed only for a moment as his head went back and what felt like gallons of semen shot from his body.
“That is impressive,” she said as if speaking of a good hand in cards. But her eyes glittered as she moved to him again, and they kissed. Now soft, warm kisses. Affectionate kisses with a tinge of lust rather than lustful kisses with the flavor of affection. Both were good. Both were what he’d always wanted.
“Thank you,” he said at last.
“Thank you,” she said, and the glow in her eyes as she examined his face made him want her all over again. Not passive. No. He’d be on top or perhaps even behind her, and he’d go deep into her over and over.
She glanced down. “It shrank, but now it’s growing again.”
“Not surprising.” But reality hit him at last.
This was already too dangerous. The middle of the day in the middle of her library. The door was locked, but it wasn’t safe. Hell, it wouldn’t be safe if they were alone in the middle of Broadway.
He kissed her forehead, rose from the settee, and picked up the rather bedraggled chemise. “I don’t suppose you want to wear that again.”
“Yes, I do. Some of the dampness might be you. I’d love to feel that on my skin. Perhaps I’ll even be able to smell it. Quite a distinctive scent. Pleasant.”
His skin prickled alarmingly. She sounded besotted. God knew he felt besotted. He stopped reaching for his clothes so he could watch her lovely naked body and then admire the way she writhed into the corset. She reached for her petticoats and shook them out. When she caught sight of him watching her intently, she again smiled. A new shy-but-knowing smile. One of his favorites already.
Hell.
As a method of getting rid of the itch, the horrible hankering they had for each other, this was a disaster. As a form of pure, happy pleasures, it worked better than anything else he’d encountered.
He’d said he didn’t want to be careless and then promptly thrown care out the window so he could hold her instead.
He forced himself to face unwelcome facts. She had given up her virginity, and he’d taken it so easily. Though he suspected she might not completely believe virginity was a woman’s most precious possession, there had to be some consequences to such an action.
She might be from a part of a higher echelon of society, and unlike most damsels, she seemed determined to remain independent. But such an exchange with any decent woman carried a debt.
Marriage.
He could barely support the obligations he already carried—his family back home—and now, no job, no prospects. After his infatuation with Lily, he’d never again considered looking for a wife, certainly not one so far above his social sphere. He’d never marry to advance his prospects, and that would be what they’d say. All of them. Hell, they’d said it often enough about his alliance with Lily, the squire’s daughter. He didn’t particularly care about society’s censure, but hadn’t Miss Ambermere had more than enough of that sort of gossip in her life?
Marriage with a young lady like Miss Ambermere. He found it hard to steady his breath at the thought. And then another thought struck him: she might have absolutely no desire to be his wife.
Wonder, panic, amazement—instantaneous and useless responses. When all he wanted to do was be with her in the quiet library, watching her. Living in the moment. The rest would come soon enough.
He was used to dressing himself and was soon done. She struggled with tiny buttons, and the corset wasn’t drawn tightly enough for the stylish moss green gown to fit her properly.
“Do you want help?”
Rosalie gave a slightly embarrassed laugh. “Yes, please.”
Reed stood behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders.
He was quiet as he followed her instructions. Efficient and deft as Rosalie had known he would be, but something had changed, and she didn’t like it. She found herself chattering to cover her sudden case of nerves.
He squeezed her shoulder, and she fell silent.
His lips were near her ear as he whispered, “I am honored that you gave up your virtue to me.”
She turned in his arms and pulled him close for a kiss. But he only brushed his mouth lightly over hers. Then he leaned back, a troubled expression on his face. Oh no.
“What we did was…”
She waited, praying he’d say something like “beautiful” or “wonderful” or “life changing,” but expecting it would be dreary.
“I…I am not sure.” His smile looked like a grimace. “Perhaps we—I should not have gone so far.” He touched her arm, the edge of the thumb drawn along in a careless gesture.
The bottom of her stomach fell out when she understood. She pulled away, determined to wrestle with the last of the small buttons on her wrist without his help. Recriminations, and worse—regrets. He must have been annoyed that he’d allowed himself to be swept into the passion that to him meant nothing more than animal lust. She was angry with them both. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have given myself to a man who didn’t want the gift.” She didn’t want his guilt or hers.
“No, no, that’s not what I meant,” he said, and now he was in front of her, gently cradling her face between his palms. The light in his eyes was strong, direct, and all she could hope for. She heaved a relieved sigh.
“I am grateful, Miss Ambermere. Rosalie. But perhaps I was greedy to allow you to give it. I was caught up in the moment and not conscious enough of the significance.”
Once again, he might have struck her in the belly. Thanks for your body, but today doesn’t mean a thing.
She lightly grasped his fingers and pulled his hands away from her face.
When she shook her head, the once neatly arranged curls bobbed, and she busied herself with pushing and tucking her hair back into place without a mirror. Better that than screaming or punching the man. “You are being diplomatic,” she said at last. “But I’m the only one responsible for my actions. You can’t take blame, especially when I suspect all you truly want to do is assign it.”
“If that’s what you believe, then I know I’ve mangled the meaning of what I wanted to say. What I meant was…” He frowned, but she understood that was his look of concentration, not anger. “I will never forget this afternoon. You. It was wonderful. But…it was done without thought. I will face any consequences that arise, of course.”
She pulled in a breath that seemed to hurt her heart and burn her lungs. He was almost worse than Miss Renshaw after the episode in the garden. No whining and wailing, but a soldier facing the firing squad stood before her—not a lover.
Her hands were busy with final touches to her hair; a push of a hairpin and she calmed herself. “Then there won’t be any consequences. Are we agreed on that?”
Good. Her voice was far steadier than she’d have guessed. And when she held out her hand, it barely trembled.
He wasn’t hot-eyed and smiling at her, because of course, he wasn’t in love with her. He wanted her, but she of all people should be sophisticated enough to understand that desire and love were entirely different animals. God knew her mother had tried to teach her that much. At least Gideon didn’t hold her in contempt. That hardly mattered, because she felt enough for them both.
He took her hand but didn’t give it a shake. He covered it with his other hand, a sandwich of warmth over her own cold, almost numb flesh.
“If I have injured you,” he said quietly, “please
understand, that’s the last thing I want to do.”
She didn’t bother to deny it, but she wasn’t sure what hurt inside her. Pride? No. She felt rather faint because she suddenly understood it went deeper than that. Love, uncovered and then kicked—hard.
Pride was involved after all, because she wouldn’t let him see how much it hurt that his own passion had not extended beyond their coupling. “Nothing fatal,” she said as lightly as she could manage.
Why had she done it? The moment of fever had passed. She’d put a man inside herself and had taken away the last shred of her own innocence. She’d done it because she thought she’d die of desire if she didn’t. Gideon. Because she wanted to remember how it felt to have his penis deep inside her, invading her.
She’d wanted the memory of him, so she must have known, even as she’d borne down on him, it would not be something she’d have a chance to do again. She’d known marriage to her wasn’t in his plans—he’d talked about his travels west, the sort of journey undertaken by an adventurous young explorer, not a newly married man—and she’d still impaled her body on his.
He opened his mouth as if he would speak, but a small tap at the door brought them back to reality. The doorknob rattled.
“You in there, darling? This appears to be locked.”
“Yes, Mother.”
The grim expression on Gideon’s face sharpened Rosalie’s pain. No man looked more appalled to be caught in a compromising position.
“Don’t worry. She won’t demand that you make an honest woman of me,” Rosalie whispered and crossed the room to unlock the door before he could answer.
Her mother sailed in, and her skirts actually swayed as she halted suddenly to give Rosalie a swift examination. “Heavens, you do look like you’ve been, hmm, I don’t know. Crawling around the library? And with the door locked? Just you and Mr. Reed?” Her mother’s grin was the last straw. “Umgarten and Fellows are out there working on your decorations, and you decided to consult on something in here? Interesting. I don’t see any evidence of decoration in this room. We’re very busy today, aren’t we? Your hair, darling. It’s always so neat too.”
“Yes, Mother, I’m aware that my hair is a disaster, and I will go ask Murphy to dress it again.” She forced herself to smile at Gideon.
She held out her hand, and this time he did shake it. The large hand did its trick on her, promising warmth and protection and pleasure. The grim look on his face had deepened. He was as thunderous as she’d ever seen him.
She had been better trained to hide emotion and was all sweetness as she spoke. “Thank you for a most pleasant visit. I will see you at the dinner party, I expect? Good-bye.”
Back straight and prickling from the two sharp pairs of eyes directed at her, she swept from the room without a backward glance.
Chapter Eight
He’d hurt her. And he wasn’t sure how to make it better. Did she honestly hope for a proposal? He was not the sort of man a girl like her married. She’d spoken of the dangers of misalliance, and despite his education, he was nothing like her. No money, no connections. Even Clermont would be a better fit socially. They came from the same set.
God, no. If she tried to marry Clermont, he’d set fire to the church.
But Gideon Reed and one of the wealthiest young women in New York? The daughter of a lord?
“You look as sour as a lemon, Mr. Reed. Did you and my daughter quarrel? I’ll bet that’s not all you were doing.”
He’d forgotten the sharp, direct tongue on this woman. “I assure you we didn’t quarrel. I think she is feeling pressure for other reasons.”
“The grand party we’re planning for one. My visit, for another. No, don’t try to deny it, sir.”
He hadn’t tried to say a thing.
“I know my daughter’s carefully kept household gets shaken by my visits. The place could use a little shaking, and so could my daughter. She looks most becoming with her hair all disarranged and her cheeks pink, don’t you think?”
“She is always attractive.” Damn, he wished he’d used another word. Charming. But Lady Williamsford was prattling on.
“I have always suspected my daughter is a prig. Can women be prigs?”
“She is not,” he said with heat.
“She is, and I think it’s good for her to get shaken a bit. Like you did for her.”
His annoyance at this careless woman retreated for an instant. After all, she had just suggested he was good for her daughter. But then Lady Williamsford continued. “And if she refuses to get all…disarranged again, well, I don’t mind a little rumpling.” She giggled. “And I thought you were frowning before. I do believe you’d strike me dead with your eyes if you could.”
“No, my lady,” he said. Not dead, but perhaps rendered unconscious.
“Oh pooh. You’re as much a prig as she is. More of one. You travel with Mr. Clermont, and Walt tells me you never allow yourself any fun.”
“Do you understand his notion of fun, Lady Williamsford?”
“Sure. I’ll bet he’s too sprightly.” She pulled off her gloves and yawned behind a hand. Even her yawn was graceful, and he could see why the late Lord Williamsford had been smitten with her. But had the man spent five minutes alone with her before asking for her hand in marriage?
“Care for some coffee?” she asked.
He shook his head, then remembered his manners again. “No, thank you.”
She pulled a bell rope, and Beels popped up almost at once—as if he’d been listening at the door. She ordered coffee, and Beels vanished as quickly as he’d appeared. “Rosalie does know how to hire the best people,” she said as the library door silently closed. “They’re loyal to her too. I’ve been trying to steal Beels for an age. She’s grand at running a household, has splendid good taste, fine at a lot of things. Did you know she plays piano?”
Her arch smile and voice told him she was playing with him.
Reed clenched his teeth to stop himself from begging her to get to the point.
“No? How about her painting skill? Very superior, real talent she inherited from her father’s side of the family. He couldn’t stand art because he wasn’t allowed to indulge himself with it. My late husband couldn’t stand quite a few things. But he let her study art, and she’s quite good. I’ve seen you admire her work.”
She paused to play with a bracelet, then let her hands drop to her sides. “But despite all the accomplishments and frank manners, I don’t think Rosalie’s as strong as she thinks she is. And she’s something of an innocent, despite my best efforts.”
He tried not to allow the guilt show in his face. His best efforts had taken care of her innocence.
She settled herself on the sofa again and waved him to a chair nearby. At least she didn’t pat the sofa next to herself. “I’m not much of a mother, Mr. Reed, but now that you’ve done your shaking and stirring of my girl, I’ve one more thing to say. You stay away from her, or I’ll spread rumors about you and me.”
He considered storming out but waited instead. It had been a hard lesson, but early on, one of the first things he’d learned as a detective was to keep his mouth shut and wait.
Lady Williamsford sniffed. “You needn’t glower at me. You know I’d do it.”
He managed to keep his gaze steady. “I’m not sure what harm you think I’ll do her. I respect and esteem your daughter.”
“Oh, pooh on respect and esteem. That’s just it. Walt’s right; you are a cold fish. Listen. I know my girl enough to understand she’s got some sort of interest in you. Trouble is, she’s too much like her daddy, can’t shift easily once she has her eye on someone.”
For a long moment, he fought the craving to curse the lady, but then her meaning sank in. He blinked. “I’m not sure I understand you, but might I hazard a guess?”
She grinned and nodded.
“You’re saying that unless my intentions are honorable, I should stay away from your daughter?”
Her grin fa
ded, and her lovely eyes widened. “By golly, I think you’re right.” She tilted her elegant head to the side, as if trying to hear the echo of her own words. “That’s about what I said. Me, of all people. Imagine that.” A frown creased her brow. “But see, she’s got loads of pride. Not as much as her father, thank God, but even worse, I think she is like one of those things. The birds. You know?”
He shook his head.
“The pea-brained ones that pine away when their mates die. Mate for life.”
“Perhaps you’re thinking of swans?”
“Maybe those are the ones.” Lady Williamsford wedged off her tight kid gloves and tossed them on the sofa next to her. “I do what I can to shake her up so she’ll perhaps release those antiquated, useless notions of hers. Instill some sophistication and force her to have some fun. Discreet fun, mind you. If there’s one thing I learned over in Merry England, you can get away with anything if you’re discreet and married.”
Her eyes narrowed at some memory, and he wondered what bit of the past she’d recalled. “Anyway. I don’t think I’ll succeed with my darling Rosalie. Haven’t yet after all these years. But I know this much. Your hanging around won’t help. I think she’s got a notion to marry, and Wentworth will do for her. The whole thing is less complicated for her, and he’s even complacent. A man like him won’t mind a sprightly young wife. She needs to grow less serious about the whole thing, understand?”
Sprightly, he began to suspect, meant as sexually active as a rabbit.
“At the moment, I wish I could disappear, my lady,” he lied. Someone had to keep Rosalie safe from Clermont and from this woman. “But I’m currently employed by Miss Ambermere.”
“Is that what you call it?” Her knowing Mona Lisa smile made him again fall prey to the shocking urge to strike a lady. But truthfully he was far more absorbed by the thought that she considered him an emotional danger to her daughter. Miss Ambermere, lovely and intelligent and fair-minded. Perhaps she even wanted him for more than a tryst, and even her self-absorbed mother could see it.
“Mr. Reed, are you sure you don’t want coffee? You look a little dazed.”