Then he dipped the shift into the tub and wrung it out over her. He did it time and again, wringing out streams of water, rivulets that coursed down her hair, her body, over and over until the soap was rinsed from her.
“And I dare say your shift is clean, too,” he quipped, draping it over the edge of the tub. He unfolded one of the towels and held it up. “A robe for my lady.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She made her voice flirtatious, teasing. Boldly, she stood up, daring him to chastise her, meeting his eyes and standing naked for an instant before he draped the towel around her.
“Minx,” he muttered. “And it’s high time you addressed me as your lord. As such, I expect you to aid in my bath.”
“Very well, my lord.” Simone wrapped the towel around her, tucking one end under beneath her arm. “Shall we begin?”
“Aye,” Temple nodded.
Without another word, he began to strip, quickly and purposefully until he stood naked before her. She tried to avert her eyes, but her gaze was drawn to the burnished body. Simone gave up pretending modesty and instead stared at him, the broad shoulders and flat belly and the manhood that stood, pulsating with life, from the apex of his legs. He stepped into the tub.
“Sit down,” she said, her voice hoarse with shyness and need.
He obliged and she giggled at the sight of him wedged into the tub. It had scarce been big enough for her—for him, it was ridiculous, and he sat with his knees jammed against his chest.
“You laugh at me, your lord and master?” His voice was light and she knew he teased her.
“Why, who better than your own wife?” His jesting mood relaxed her somewhat and she responded in kind, keeping her desire at bay.
He guffawed. “No one, I suppose.”
“I would ask you to wet your hair but I fear it is a hopeless task. You’re simply too big.”
“I am sure if you put your mind to it, you could find a solution.” He waggled his knees a bit side to side. “There is room.”
“Hmmmm, let me see.” She tugged on the leather lace binding his hair. She ran her fingers through the silky mass. “Lean forward, between your knees.” And she gave him a little push.
He obliged, letting his head hang down. She plucked the shift and wet it, beginning the same routine. Over and over, dipping and wringing, watching the water’s glistening tracks over his skin and his head until every inch of him was wet.
She started with his hair, rubbing the sliver soap directly onto it, working it with her hands before rinsing it. Dip, wring, dip, wring. Once his hair was clean, she used the shift as a sponge, rubbing soap into it before starting to wash his skin. The scent of lemon verbena mixed with the scent of him and she breathed deeply, all the while admiring the muscles rippling his back when he shifted position, the strong arms draped over the edge.
“Are you not going to wash the front of me?” His voice interrupted her. “I believe my back is most likely the cleanest it’s ever been.”
“Why yes, of course.” Quaking, she manoeuvred around to kneel at the side of the tub, squeezing between it and the wall. Grabbing the shift and loading it up with soap again, she began to rub, smoothly, rhythmically, his arms, his legs, the sculpted, slightly furred chest. Everywhere but his groin.
“Simone.” He whispered, grabbing the hand holding the shift and pulling it down between his legs. “Here. Wash here.” He wrapped her hand around his penis, pulling it up and down the turgid shaft.
He was obviously very much at ease with her touching his private parts, totally oblivious to her discomfort and the waves of heat flowing across her face, down her neck and into her chest. Tilting his head, he let it lean back against the lip of the tub.
“Don’t stop,” he moaned, his lids heavy and almost closed. “I love your hand around me.”
Astonished, she realized that he was literally hers, and the waves of embarrassment turned into waves of power.
He belonged to her and her alone, here and now in this little room, here and now in the palm of her hand. Simone squeezed harder, faster, relishing the hold she had over him. They were wrong, a man was not lord and master over his wife, nay, it was the other way around. A woman held sway over her husband if she but knew it.
And having gained that knowledge, the last vestiges of embarrassment faded away and Simone surrendered to the pleasure she knew would come, to the tingling in her groin and the thrills of excitement in her stomach.
She leaned forward to brush one breast against his chest, rubbing it up the furred skin, past his neck and up to his cheek. Like a suckling babe, he turned his head to take a rosy nipple into his mouth, nibbling it gently between his teeth. Pleasure pierced her, shocking bolts that resonated in the woman’s place between her legs.
“Take me,” she whispered. “Take me, Temple.” An utterly shocking demand, she thought, but crazed with desire as she was, it was one she had to utter. Only he could give her the surcease her body craved. She leaned even harder into him, matching the strokes of her hand to the nibbles on her breast.
“Stop,” Temple choked out the command, reluctantly letting loose the luscious morsel in his mouth to speak. No, he thought, he didn’t want her to stop. But if she didn’t, he would lose self-control and he meant to have her as a man had his wife on their wedding night.
He stood up suddenly, pulling her to her feet. “Dry me now,” he whispered, grabbing the other towel where it lay on the bed.
She did as he bid, wiping every inch of skin dry, rubbing the towel through his hair. Everywhere she touched, every bit of his skin blazed, blazed with desire.
She knew the effect she had on him, the minx, for a half smile played around her lips and her eyes smouldered with triumph.
“Do you have a comb?” Her innocuous question must have struck her as silly for she began to giggle, a girlish tinkle that brought a smile to his lips.
“Later,” he growled. “I want you now.” He ripped her towel from her before picking her up and stepping out of the tub. He laid her on the bed and began to kiss her, every delectable inch of her, from her pert toes to her luscious legs to her satin neck and back down to nibble on her breasts.
“Ohhhh.” Her whispered moan died away just as he claimed her mouth with his own, lying down over her soft body, wrapping his arms around her silken shoulders to hold her closer.
All self-control aside, he plunged into her, taking her with him, every stroke claiming her to be his wife, and only his alone. Exultation sang through his veins with the rhythmic thrusts. Below him, he could feel her tense and then her pleading voice filled his ears.
“Temple? Temple? Don’t stop, Temple, I want more.” He obeyed her whispered pleas until he felt the rush of liquid that signified she had reached her climax. With a snarl, he thrust once, twice, three times and then he reached his own climax, jerking his head back and letting loose a primal roar as his life seed spurted into her.
The ferocity of his orgasm stunned him. He relished the aftermath, relaxing into her for several moments, saying nothing yet loving how her chin nestled into his shoulder, how her arms wrapped around his neck. He rolled onto his side and, with head propped on one elbow, began to trace the profile of her face with one finger, grazing her lips a few times before continuing down to her determined little chin. Doubtless the satisfied expression on her face was reflected on his.
She turned toward him, giving him a tremulous smile. Love for him shone from her eyes and surprise at the sight smote him.
Bloody hell and come what may, it seemed he would quite enjoy married life after all.
And what better way to sample his wife’s charms than a long ocean voyage?
Chapter Sixteen
London - 1813
Simone was astonished to see that London hadn’t changed at all in the two years they had been away. Still the same hustle and bustle on the streets, the same cacophony of hawkers and drovers, the same smells of coal smoke and rotting garbage. Only now she rode through the city in a c
arriage, not pressing through the crowded streets on her own two legs. Excited, she recognized Bishopsgate Street and she plucked at Temple’s sleeve to get his attention.
“I know where we are. This is home to me, we’re home.”
“Perhaps the east end of London was home to you at one time, but not anymore.” He leaned forward and rapped against the carriage to get the coachman’s attention. “Go by way of Fleet Street and the Strand through Charing Cross. I want to see the gas lights of Pall Mall before we head into Mayfair.”
“Aye, m’lord.” At the driver’s acknowledgement, Temple relaxed back against the squabs.
“Why there?” Simone was curious.
“They had just been finished before we left for New Caledonia. It’s nigh on evening, I wish to see them again.”
“Oh.” She had heard of the gas lights but hadn’t actually seen them—they were out of her usual territory. The delay would be welcome, however—the closer they came to his townhouse, nay, the Leavenby townhouse, the bigger the butterflies in her stomach fluttered.
However, once in Pall Mall, they didn’t stop. The coach merely slowed to a walk before resuming a brisk pace into Mayfair.
“Grosvener Square,” shouted the coachman.
“Turn right at the corner,” Temple instructed. “We want the second house.”
“As you wish, m’lord.” With a flourish, the coachman pulled up the carriage as directed. “This be the house ye want?”
“Yes,” said Temple. He leaned over to glance out the window. He hesitated a few seconds as if uncertain about leaving the shelter of the carriage then decisively unlatched the door. The carriage creaked and sagged as he climbed out. He stood for a moment, gazing at the townhouse in front of which they were parked. A muscle twitched in his jaw but for the rest, his face carried no expression.
Simone didn’t find the look on his face reassuring in the slightest and the butterflies in her stomach increased their cadence. Nonetheless, they were here and unless she wanted to spend the rest of her life sitting in the back seat of the carriage, she must exit. She prepared to climb out, pausing only to grab the handle by the door before placing one foot on the step.
She lifted her head.
And stopped dead in the doorway of the carriage.
“This is your home?” she gasped.
The London townhouse resembled so many others yet it stood a little higher, a little bigger, a little more intimidating. It loomed over the other homes lining the street like so many soldiers on parade.
“House,” Temple corrected, one hand outstretched to help her down. “My mother’s house. That doesn’t make it a home.”
“You don’t care for your mother at all, do you?” She looked at him curiously.
“She is my mother only in that she gave birth to me.” His voice was flat.
“How can you not like your own mother? You’re lucky, I never had one,” she said wistfully.
“Let’s just say I disappointed her sorely and leave it at that, shall we?” He grabbed her hand and gave it a little tug. “Come on.”
“If you like.” She recognized his imperious tone and realized it would serve her better to accede to his wishes. She stepped down and turned her attention back to the house. “It is beautiful, though.”
“I suppose.” He shrugged, obviously unimpressed and gave her a little nudge in the small of her back toward the stairs leading up to the doors. “Up you go.”
She nodded. Tentatively, she approached the house, trying not to be cowed by the grand entranceway.
And grand it was—marble steps and ornate wrought iron railings curving up to massive double doors carved with the same crest she recognized from Temple’s signet ring. The house itself stood three stories, stately red brick with tall mullioned windows and a steep pitched slate roof edged with gutters and guarded by gargoyles.
Her apprehension must have showed, for Temple moved up, holding out a reassuring elbow. Gratefully she clutched it and together they climbed to the top of the landing.
No sooner had Temple raised his hand for the polished brass door knocker than the doors swung open inward. A tall, white haired man with a high shiny forehead and a permanent frown stood in the doorway, framed by the golden glow of lamplight.
“My lady is not expecting visitors,” he grumped. “May I help you?”
“Stand aside, Tedham,” Temple said. “It’s the prodigal son come home at the Countess’ command.”
The man flinched as if he had been struck. He took a step forward, peering closely at Temple through myopic eyes then took several steps back. He pulled the doors open even wider then gestured stiffly with one black clad arm.
“Please come in, my lord,” he groused. “My lady has been expecting you for quite some months now.” He bowed, a grudging bow more insult than respect.
“Tedham, it must gall you to bow to me.” Temple poked him in the midriff. “How refreshing you still can.”
With a sniff, Tedham turned away then turned back. “I shall tell my lady you are here.”
“Yes, do that, will you please, Tedham? Also, if you don’t mind, a dram of father’s finest whisky at your earliest convenience. That is, if there’s any left.”
“Of course, my lord,” the butler said through lips that barely moved. “In the sitting room?”
“In the sitting room. I assume that’s where I’ll find my mother?”
The butler nodded, once, twice. He deigned to glance at Simone in her blue seersucker dress, well-worn and frayed along the cuffs and hem. He raised his eyebrows imperceptibly.
She shrivelled inside at his obvious distaste.
“I know the way, Tedham. The whisky, if you please.”
With a last disapproving glance at Simone, Tedham shuffled away.
“Pay him no mind,” Temple said, patting her hand. “He has grandiose ideas about his station but I shall set him to rights soon enough.”
“He is rather a sour man,” she commented, hoping against hope she wouldn’t have to see too much of him. With his black suit and pale visage, he reminded her of a walking cadaver.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Temple groaned. “Wait here for me, Simone, I forgot to instruct the coachman on the bags.”
“Of course I’ll wait,” she declared. “I don’t know the way to the sitting room.”
Temple threw her a grin and disappeared down the entrance way stairs, bounding down energetically as if he had not just spent the past few hours in a cramped carriage.
She turned around to inspect the entrance hall, pivoting slowly on the parquet floor to take it all in. A massive chandelier hung overhead and although dark now, it hung with a hundred crystals she knew would shimmer and shine when lit with candles. Several life-size portraits lined the walls, family, she could only assume, and beneath these, an assortment of upholstered benches and stools.
However, the most imposing item was the staircase sweeping up to the second floor, a marvel of carved oak and wine coloured carpet. She remembered Mrs Featherstone’s rug on the Annabelle and moved a little closer to admire the pattern. Yes, it did resemble the Persian carpet—
“Who let you in?” A cold voice lanced the air.
Simone whirled about. “Uh, oh, ah—” she stammered, intimidated by the grey-haired matron dressed in stark black silk who advanced on her, leaning heavily on an ivory walking stick.
“Out, out immediately,” the woman ordered. “The servant’s door is in the back.” She raised her voice to a screech. “Tedham? Tedham?” She shook her head, disgust evident in every line of the rumpled face. “Where is that man when I need him?”
She looked down her nose at Simone. “Get out of my house.” She lifted her cane and tapped Simone on one foot with it.
Alarmed and uncertain, Simone looked around. Surely this woman was not Temple’s mother? Just before she made a dash for the door, she heard Temple’s footsteps coming up the stairs and she swivelled her head to look for him, grateful for his timely arrival.
“Why hello, Mother,” he said calmly, “I see you have met my wife. Mother, this is Simone. Simone, I give you my mother, Lady Frederica, Dowager Countess of Leavenby.”
Stunned, Simone stared then remembered her manners and dropped a curtsy. “It is a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
Frederica ignored her. “Your wife? This piece of baggage is your wife?” Her voice rose to a shriek. “What cruel joke is this, Temple.”
“No joke at all, Mother. This is my wife. Shall we move to the sitting room? I’m afraid we’re causing quite a scene.” Temple pointed to two housemaids watching the proceedings from the second floor balcony. At his notice, they bobbed curtsies and fled.
As soon as they were out of sight, Simone could hear their peals of laughter, laughter which eventually echoed into silence. She shrivelled a little more inside.
“Very well,” sniffed the countess. She stalked ahead, not stopping until she had reached the sanctuary of the sitting room with its gold brocade settee. Plopping down in the very middle of it, she reached out with two veined and gnarled hands to pull the bolsters closer to drape her arms over them.
“Close the door,” she commanded as Temple, dragging a very reluctant Simone, entered the room.
If Simone had had anything to say, she would have fled the house long ago. As a matter of fact, she would have fled at the first glimpse of Tedham. However, she took comfort in Temple’s hand clasped tightly over hers in the crook of his elbow. He, apparently expecting her to bolt, was not letting go of her.
“Certainly, mother.” He pulled the door shut with a “snick” that to Simone sounded like jail cell doors. Her knees shook and she was beginning to understand Temple’s dislike of his mother. What a horrible, horrible woman. Sitting on the settee as she was, she rather resembled a malevolent queen perched on her throne.
Temple pried Simone’s fingers out of the crook of his elbow and gave her a conspiratorial wink as if to say, “Don’t let the old harridan intimidate you.” He strolled over to stand in front of the settee.
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