by Nina Mason
“With her mouth,” he said simply.
She pursed her lips. “You let her gamahuche you?”
“I lacked the wherewithal to stop her.” Glancing at Maggie over his shoulder, he added, “And believed myself to be single at the time.”
In her mind’s eye, Maggie saw him in a comfortable bed with a pretty girl sucking his cock whilst the wife he’d forgotten was on her knees being forced to do likewise to his sadistic brother. The noxious gases of anger and jealousy spread through her system. As tears welled in her eyes, she tightened her hold on the baby, whose sucking had lost its vigor.
“Tell me why you did not have sex with her.”
Turning back to the fireplace, he said, his voice strained by emotion, “Because, even though I did not know we were married, I knew I was in love with you; knew that, more than anything in the world, I wanted you for my bride; and I knew to the depths of my soul no substitute could ever satisfy my heart. And that is the God’s honest truth.”
His explanation, coupled with her reasoning, mitigated her anger. He believed himself unattached and, despite finding the girl appealing, still resisted the temptation. Those were not the actions of the libertine she’d married, but they were characteristic of the husband he was to her now. The good and loyal man who’d sooner put out his own eyes than cause her unnecessary pain.
And so, she forgave him.
She looked down at her son. Their son. The amalgamation of their two separate beings. The product of their love. She’d believed it impossible to cherish any creature more until she lifted her gaze to find her husband studying her with the eyes that owned her soul for so long. Heart ballooning with affection, she said, “And you think she will engraft wee Jamie for us?”
He must have seen in her eyes the storm had passed because he came to sit down beside her. “I think there is a chance. A good chance. First, however, we must ask Dr. Wakeman where she can be found, and pray she does not bear me any ill will.”
Maggie did not understand. “Whyever would she?”
“Because I rebuffed her advances.” He stroked the baby-soft black curls he’d given his son. “And some women take unkindly to rejection.”
* * * *
After the nursemaid left with the baby, Robert took Maggie by the hand and led her into the bedchamber.
“What are you doing?” she asked, but did not resist.
“I thought we might pick up where we left off.” He reached to his nape to unfasten his cravat and then, beset by doubt, stopped to look at her. “Unless you are no longer in the mood.”
“No, I want to.”
“Good, then take off every stitch and lie down on the bed.”
He’d missed his flagellation chamber and the sting of the whip on his back and rump. Conventional sex was fine. More than fine when it was with Maggie, but still lacked something. He did not want simply to make love to her, to have orgasm as the only goal; he needed to lose himself in the experience; to be transported; to be cleansed of his sins and guilt.
She was his angel of light, and he yet had demons to exorcise.
Standing by the bed, he unbuttoned his waistcoat, drinking in her intoxicating face and figure as she, too, undressed. He yearned to kiss that mouth until her lips swelled with bruises; to suckle her nipples until she moaned from the pain of unbearable pleasure; to tease and torment her until she begged him to occupy her fast and hard.
She lifted her gaze, meeting his lust-drunk stare. The blood in his head rushed to harden his cock, leaving him dizzy. Or was it the thrill of anticipation? Either way, he felt deliriously euphoric. He brushed past her as he walked to the bedside table, where he kept the few toys he’d brought with him from Dunwoody.
Opening the drawer, he reached inside, keeping his eyes on her. His fingers knew the feel of the objects he sought. His carved ivory godemiché. A skein of silk rope. The Venetian mask with no eyeholes. He set the items atop the table before turning toward his wife. Down to her shift, stays, and stockings, she looked appetizing enough to devour in a single gulp. Or, better yet, to savor with torturous languor until she begged him to end her suffering.
Stepping toward her, he said, “Here, let me help you.”
As he unlaced her corset, she lifted her gaze to his. The heat in her eyes together with the shallowness of her breathing told him her arousal was equal to his own. Letting the stays fall, he cupped her breasts through the thin linen of her shift. Pleased to find her nipples erect, he brushed them with his thumbs before untying the drawstring at her neckline. As the soft undergarment slipped down her body, he kissed her neck and ran his hands over her shoulders, delighting in the velvety smoothness of her skin.
She was nude except for her stockings whilst he still wore all save his coat and cravat, giving him the advantage. As she reached for the crotch of his breeches, he grasped her hand to stop her. Bringing her fingers to his lips, he kissed the tip of each in turn before saying, in a voice that was soft but commanding, “Lay on the bed, Rosebud, so I can tease you into a frenzy.”
His cock pulsed as he issued the order and again as she carried it out. Her heated blue gaze locked on his as she spread herself out before him in the manner of a sumptuous feast. Picking up the skein of silk cord, he unfastened the center tie and kicked off his shoes before perching himself upon the edge of the mattress.
“Hold out your wrists.”
As she followed his instructions, he got up on his knees and straddled her thighs. Taking hold of her wrists, he bound them together, raised her arms over her head, and secured the rope to the headboard. She watched his every move intently whilst biting her lip in a way that made him ache to feel the humid warmth of her mouth enveloping his throbbing tarse.
Picking up the godemiché, he teased her with the rounded ivory tip: nipples, navel, abdomen, and the soft nest of golden curls covering her mons pubis.
“Spread your legs,” he commanded, rough-voiced.
When she did as he bade, he used the dildol to caress her vulva and clitoris.
“What about the mask?” Her voice was hoarse and her eyes glassy.
Her question provoked a qualm. The deep-down, self-doubting part of him questioned why she’d requested the blindfold. She’d never asked to wear the mask before. Not in nearly six years of marriage. So, why now? Was the reason the one he feared? Did she indeed find him too repulsive to have sex with in broad daylight?
“All in good time,” he said with an unintended edge to his voice.
Pushing the dildol into her, he left it there as he climbed atop her on all fours. Gazing into her face, he searched her eyes for any signs of distaste. To his great relief, he found naught except the smoke of desire. Lowering himself, he kissed her mouth as he moved the dildol in and out of her vagina. She bit down on his lower lip and tugged, almost making him forget his insecurities.
But, sadly, only almost.
Pushing up on his arms, he held her gaze. He wanted to say something, to ask for reassurances to salve his ego. He’d studied himself in the looking glass whilst shaving, saw the disfiguring pock holes in the hollows of his cheeks. He’d never been vain about his looks. He did not think so, leastwise, having always regarded physical beauty as a gift selectively bestowed for reasons God alone knew.
And now the Lord had taken back what he’d given and marked him the way he’d marked Cain. Like the firstborn of Adam and Eve, he had spilled the blood of his own brother upon the earth, and now must wear the curse of that crime for all to see.
A hard shake of the head dispelled the thought. His erection was flagging, which would not do. Picking up the mask, he placed it over his wife’s eyes, and, being careful not to catch her hair, fastened the ribbons into a bow at the back of her head.
Sitting back on his haunches, he imagined the heaven of her tight, inner heat encasing his cock as he pounded her in ramrod fashion.
As acutely as he longed to do just that, his needs would have to wait. First, he wanted to tease her to the brink of reas
on. Gripping the base of the dildol, he pushed and pulled, watching with growing excitement as the smooth ivory shaft slid in and out of her sweet pink orifice. When he tired of this, he withdrew the ivory phallus and, moving over her once more, pressed the tip to her parted lips.
“Suck it, Rosebud. As if it were mine.”
Ever obedient, she sucked the godemiché with a vigor that made him burn to take its place. Tossing the toy aside, he walked up her body on his knees and straddled her chest. With trembling fingers, he unfastened his breeches, withdrew his erection, and guided the weeping tip toward her mouth.
“Stick out your tongue a wee bit.”
As the pink point emerged from betwixt her lips, he rubbed the crown of his cock against it. Sweet fire surged through him, conflagrating his whole being.
“Holy Christ, that feels good,” he rasped.
“I enjoy giving you pleasure,” she said before closing her lips around the dome of his glans. As she sucked on the head, she drove her tongue into the eye, delivering a thunderbolt of pleasure that stole his breath.
“Rosebud,” he whispered, fighting the urge to shoot his load. “I want this to last.”
He climbed off the bed, stripped naked, and positioned himself over her on his hands and knees. Lowering his face to hers, he kissed her nose, then her lips, then her chin. He moved down her body, leaving a trail of moisture in the wake of his oral caresses. When he reached her pubic mound, he pressed his lips against the fleecy golden triangle before sampling her womanly flavor. She bucked beneath his mouth as he flicked the hard end of his tongue against her swollen clitoris.
He kept at it until she began to tremble all over, whereupon he rose to his knees, slipped his hands underneath her buttocks, and flipped her over. The lovely white mounds of her arse called to his hand. He spanked her: once, twice, thrice. The she gasped in surprise, she made no objection. Bending low, he ran his tongue over the hot, pink handprint now emblazoned on her creamy flesh. As he dragged his tongue up and down the full length of her crack, the urge to claim her sweet sphincter burned in every pore.
She’d once buggered him with a tie-on dildol, but had never allowed him to reciprocate. Not that he’d pressed her to do so. He was more than satisfied with the points of access she vouchsafed him…or had been until this moment.
“Maggie, my love. Please let me bugger you.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather you penetrated me in the usual way.”
To his ears, a statement of preference was not a refusal. “Will you allow me—if only to sample the experience?”
“Will you stop if I enjoy it not?”
Progress at last, God be praised. Or was it blasphemy to thank the Lord for obtaining permission to commit sodomy? Smirking wryly, he eyed the object of his lust with sinful intent. If what he contemplated was an offense to the Almighty, he’d gladly do penance afterward by saying a Rosary.
“You have my solemn vow.”
She got up on her knees. With her hands bound to the headboard, she could do little more. He sucked on his cheeks until his mouth filled with saliva and then, bending over her, he spit on her anus. Taking his cock in hand, he rubbed his glans in the glob until it glistened. Then, he eased himself into the forbidden fruit of her bunghole.
She gasped and clenched against his entry. Then, in a voice as tight as her succulent sphincter, she said, “I care for it not. Please desist at once.”
Though let down, he withdrew at once and peppered her buttocks and lower back with penitent kisses. “Thank you for making the effort.”
“Have I disappointed you?”
“No, Maggie,” he lied. “I am merely grateful you were willing to try.”
Gripping his cock, he positioned the head at the entrance to her cunny before moving his hands to her hips. With one ardent thrust, he buried himself fully inside her. Though she gasped at the abrupt intrusion, she made no attempt to expel him. Raising one hand, he spanked her with his palm cupped. Such a blow was painless, but made an exhilarating sound. She rotated her hips and pushed back—a glorious maneuver she repeated each time he drove into her anew.
He spanked her again in the same painless way before reaching around to her vulva. As he fingered her sweet spot, her breathing and gyrations grew more feverish, telling him she was close to coming off. He was close, too, although not quite ready for the final curtain.
Withdrawing his cock, he reached over her to untie the ropes securing her wrists to the headboard. Then, he flipped her onto her back and tore off the mask.
She blinked against the sudden light. “What are you doing?”
Coming over her, he leveled his face with hers. His long hair hung down in the manner of a dark curtain, obscuring the worst of his scars. “I want you looking at me when I bring you to climax.”
Her brow furrowed as she searched his face. “Do you? Why?”
Tears tightened his throat. “Because I need to know you still find me desirable.”
Her expression sobered. “Do you harbor the fear I no longer do?”
“Aye,” he said, forcing the word through his thickening throat. “I fear it greatly.”
She took his face betwixt her hands and held his gaze. “I love you with every part of me, including my sight. A few pock marks make no difference—nor will wrinkles and gray hair. You will always be the man I married, the man I love, and the only man I want. In my eyes, you are still the handsomest, most charming, most desirable man in the world—and naught will ever change that.”
A tear fell from his eye onto her cheek. Kissing the salty droplet away, he said, “I cannot tell you how happy it makes me to hear you say so. This, however, I can tell you, my dearest angel: I feel exactly the same way about you.”
Chapter Six
A few days later, during a follow-up visit from Dr. Wakeman, Robert secured the address of the apothecary shop run by his former nurse, now a widow. Gemma’s elderly husband, the physician explained, had expired suddenly of typhoid fever the previous year.
“Rumors circulated at the time that he’d died not from the fever, but from poison, whether intentional or through bad medicine,” her father explained. “Since no evidence could be found to support the charge, she was admitted in due course into the Company of Apothecaries as a widow, and allowed to carry on her late husband’s practice.” Following a brief pause during which the doctor pensively stroked his beard, he added. “I disapprove of her radical methods, you understand. Though, admittedly, you will find few of my profession in accord with those in hers.”
Robert had decided at once to call upon Mrs. Crosse, as Gemma Wakeman was now known, without Maggie. Though he’d confessed what had passed betwixt himself and his former nurse, he’d not vouchsafed how fond they’d become of one another. Whatever feelings he’d had for the lady had long since abated, of course, but he could not be certain she had grown equally impartial toward him. And until he knew the truth, it seemed wiser to go alone.
Maggie, to his great vexation, did not agree and, after arguing the subject at length, he’d only settled the matter half an hour ago by firmly putting his foot down.
“I shall go on my own, and there is an end to it!”
He’d selected for the visit a new suit of gray velvet trimmed in silver lace whose long justacorps and waistcoat nearly obscured the coordinating knee breeches. To embellish the ensemble, he’d added a lace cravat and red bow, a silver sash belt, cream-colored stockings with clocking and ribbon garters, and shoes with the square toes and high red heels that were so à la mode at present. He also carried, for ornament as well as protection, the gilt-handled sword his father-in-law had gifted him last year on his birthday.
At court, he’d taken to wearing curly wool periwigs of varying hues, as was fashionable for men of his rank. Today, however, he donned his natural hair under a hat with an upturned brim and large white plume.
The effect was the one he’d hoped to achieve. He looked the part of a gentleman of fashion and rank,
but not a bit foppish.
“You look awfully smart for a man making a disinterested social call,” Maggie had remarked with obvious resentment when he’d made the mistake of soliciting her opinion of his appearance.
He’d walked, despite his lingering frailty and uncomfortable footwear, for the weather was fine and the distance betwixt Whitehall and Soho relatively short. Having just turned the corner onto Poland Street, where the shop was located, he scanned the huddled row of businesses before him. All were newly constructed of brick and stone in accordance with the building codes enacted after the devastating fire of 1666.
Halfway down the block, a hanging sign depicting a mortar and pestle told him he’d reached his destination. A peek through the mullioned front window revealed a small, cluttered interior. Abutting cabinets outfitted with shelves over drawers lined the three rear walls. Row upon row of ceramic canisters, jars, and bottles—all bearing tidy labels—stood upon the shelves in tidy groups of like containers. A copper still occupied the far right-hand corner. A wooden butter churn stood in the left. From the ceiling beams hung dried and drying bundles of flowers and herbs.
In the center of all this organized chaos, the figure of Gemma Crosse leaned over a sturdy-looking trestle table. Pestle in hand, she was grinding some concoction or other in a white-marble mortar.
Robert’s pulse quickened as he studied her person. Tall and voluptuous with wavy masses of loose brunette hair, she looked almost wild—and was even more comely than she’d been at eighteen.
And she’d been in no way hard on the eyes back then.
Taking a breath to steel his courage, he depressed the handle and opened the door. A bell rang to announce his entry, giving him a start. Looking up from her task, she offered him a shopkeeper’s welcoming smile.
“Good day to you, sir,” she said, returning her focus to her work. “If you can wait just a moment, I’ll gladly see to your requirements.”
“By all means,” he said. “Take all the time you need.”
His voice must have triggered her recognition, for the pestle in her hand stopped grinding just before she lifted her gaze to his. “As I live and breathe.” She wiped her hands on the apron she wore over her simple brown frock. “I had begun to despair of ever seeing you again.” The shadow of doubt crossed her face before she added, “So, tell me, My Lord, did you seek me out apurpose…or have our paths intersected this day by pure happenstance?”