Lady's Temptations: A Winter's Regency Menage

by Reed, Kristabel

She’d analyze the problem and weigh the paths. Of course there must be numerous women of vast fortunes willing to throw themselves at Oliver’s feet for the chance to become a countess. Sarina shook her head at her thoughts.

  If there had been, would Georgiana have agreed to marry him? She didn’t know and doubted it possible to find this so-called heiress in time to offer her as a sacrificial lamb in place of herself.

  Suddenly ravenous, she rang for Lydia and grudgingly started her day. The thought of facing Maryanne and Henrietta on an empty stomach made her ill. Her cousins meant well, Sarina had to believe that. But with Georgiana’s death, their constant henpecking over the inheritance and Oliver was bound to drive her mad.

  Lydia rushed into the room, concerned, but immediately agreed to have a tray sent up. She returned shortly thereafter with hot water, fresh tea, and the promise of breakfast. Sarina nodded, but couldn’t bring herself to say much. Words clogged her throat, and all she wanted to think about was Liam and Prescott.

  “Are my cousins still here?” Sarina asked as Lydia brushed her hair.

  “No, ma’am,” Lydia said in a neutral voice. “They’ve gone out for the day.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Sarina dressed for the day and tried not to dread the evening. She had all afternoon to think about her situation; there was no need to rush a confrontation between her, Maryanne, and Henrietta.

  That would come soon enough.

  Once outside in the gardens, Sarina found a bench in the weak February sunlight and tried to read. But the words refused to capture her attention and she soon gave up, allowing her thoughts to go where they wanted. Oh, but she was weary of thinking about this already.

  And it had only been a day. But one day that had her stomach in knots and her mind racing as she looked for ways to salvage her future.

  She stared at the winter garden, unseeing of the few hardy greens beneath the ice and snow.

  “Ma’am,” a footman said with a bow. “You’ve a visitor.”

  Hope leaped through her veins and she dearly wished it to be Prescott or Liam. Or both. Schooling her features into a proper lady’s smile, she nodded to the footman and followed him inside. With each step, her heart beat faster in anticipation. She no longer felt the cold on her cheeks on her fingers as she untied her cloak and peeled off her gloves.

  “Please bring tea to the parlor,” she instructed the butler as she walked down the hallway.

  She forced each step to remain measured and sure, not the run she longed for—the rush in seeing her lovers. Midstride, she stopped. How was she going to inform them of this latest development? They hadn’t taken it well when they’d learned about Lord Strathmore, but this?

  She cleared her throat and took a moment to smooth her hair and calm her racing heart.

  Only Prescott stood there. She blinked and looked around the sunlit room for Liam, but saw no sign of her other lover.

  Nonetheless, she waited for the maid to bring the tea before closing the doors. Sarina needed to have a private conversation with Prescott and wanted no one to overhear what they discussed.

  “Very bold of you,” Prescott said with a wicked grin. “Something I would do, close the door with servants in the house. I presume,” he continued, crossing the room as a predator would his prey, that same wicked look in his eyes, “your cousins are out? Else,” he added in a seductive tone that rushed warm and thrilling through her, “they’d be eavesdropping at the door, listening for every word.”

  Breathing heavily, Sarina managed a smile, one that faded as he drew her closer. She licked her lips, watched as Prescott’s gaze drifted to her mouth, and threw caution to the wind, leaning into him, one hand on his cheek. Her fingers traced his jaw, felt the roughness of his skin beneath her touch. And suddenly his mouth was on hers, bold and daring in the front parlor

  His tongue slid boldly across hers, his hands curled over her shoulders, and he held her close against him. Sarina slid her tongue across his, tasted him, traced that tempting lower lip. Lost herself in him.

  She deepened the kiss, savored his taste, in the feel of his tongue sliding against hers. Her eyes slipped closed and Sarina opened her mouth beneath his. Her fingers traced his cheeks, up to his hair, and she pressed hard against him, ran her hands over those muscled arms she admired, and pulled him closer and felt wanton.

  Prescott’s hands moved over her back, firm and insistent, one hand on her hip pressing her closer to his hardness, the other at the base of her neck, fingers just tangling in her hair. Sarina shuddered in his arms, desperate for more.

  She pulled back abruptly and looked up at him. Prescott’s eyes were dark and hungry as they watched her. Words stuck in her throat, but she couldn’t yet tell him what had happened. Instead, she watched him, her blood beating in her veins and her body aching for his. Flushed and heated and wanting.

  “Sarina,” he whispered and smiled, tried to pull her back.

  When she didn’t return his smile and stepped from his embrace, Prescott frowned. His hand reached out and curled around her arm, concern replacing seduction. “What’s happened, Sarina?” he asked, worried and anxious.

  Swallowing hard, she said, “Something awful has occurred.”

  Prescott said nothing and she took a deep breath before continuing. “My aunt Georgiana was at the Frost Fair masquerade in Kingsnorth. We didn’t know she’d planned to go. In fact,” she continued, her voice rising, “she specifically said she had plans here in London. Very early yesterday morning, before we returned, my cousins were informed she had indeed been in Kingsnorth.”

  She stopped, swallowed a lump of emotion, and finished in a whisper, “She was killed in the fire.”

  “I’m very sorry, Sarina,” Prescott said quietly.

  She could see his understanding and concern, his sorrow at Georgiana’s death. Sarina nodded but knew he truly didn’t understand. She still didn’t.

  “There’s more.” She stopped, looked up at him, and then plunged on. “Aunt Georgiana was set to marry—”

  Prescott’s hand fell from her arm and she stopped. He frowned at her now, the hungry look in his gaze replaced by a hardness, and she knew he understood what her next words were to be.

  “Hawksmoor.” Prescott snarled the name. “I know the story. Are you your aunt’s heir?”

  Mutely, Sarina nodded.

  “Has it happened already?” Prescott demanded harshly. “Have your cousins sold you to Hawksmoor?”

  “It makes sense, Prescott,” she whispered. “The estate needs the fortune. And I—”

  Prescott stepped close again and kissed her. “No.” He sounded so confident, she almost believed him. “We’ll find a way to save Hawksmoor without you marrying him.”

  “There’s very little choice,” she admitted softly. She wanted to touch him, but knew she hadn’t the right, not anymore. “It’s an obligation I must meet.”

  “They’re pressuring you into this,” he snapped. “There’s always a way out. We simply need to find it. Do not—” He took hold of both her arms, his eyes boring into hers. “Do not make the decision. It’s not a temporary one, and you’re not making the decision only for yourself but for Liam and me as well.”

  Sarina shook her head, unable to agree or even find the words to disagree. Even her wit failed her. All she managed was, “Prescott,” before his mouth was on hers, and she found herself kissing him in the front parlor.

  The door remained closed to the servants, but the curtains were open to the street. Sarina didn’t care.

  She kissed him back, allowed him to pull her against him, felt the muscles of his back bunch beneath her fingertips. And suddenly she was as desperate to touch him, really touch him, as she was to kiss him. Oliver, Georgiana, and all the problems that had arisen from the fire two nights past vanished when Prescott lowered her to the floor.

  “You can’t make a sound,” he breathed against her neck.

  He kissed along the tops of her bodice, his fingers dipping beneath t
he material of her black mourning gown. Sarina gasped in a silent breath when he pinched her sensitive nipples, tugged them until she wanted to cry out from such pleasure. But his words, and the faint but very real knowledge that she was alone in the parlor with him, kept her quiet.

  Desperate to touch him, Sarina pushed his jacket off his shoulders, fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat, slipped her fingers beneath his shirt. His skin was warm to her touch and when she raked her nails down his chest, Prescott groaned her name. The sound sent bolts of need straight through her.

  With her dress bunched to her hips, utterly wanton and uncaring, Sarina arched into his touch. His fingers teased her core and despite her earlier soreness, when he slipped a finger into her, all she felt was pleasure. Hot, desperate pleasure. And she wanted more. She lost herself to him, in his touch, and had no interest in finding her propriety again.

  “Yes,” she breathed, her heart racing, breath short as her body arched into Prescott’s touch. “Prescott, please.”

  “You will not marry Oliver,” Prescott said and Sarina heard it as a vow, a promise. “Not after the other night.”

  She wanted to agree. With him poised over her, her knees tight against his hips and her body aching for his, Sarina badly wanted to agree. But the words, the agreement, refused to be spoken. Instead, she combed her fingers through his hair and brought his mouth to hers. She kissed him hard as desperate need wound through her; she wanted to taste every inch of him, devour him.

  The fingers of one hand danced up her inner thigh and she shuddered again, wet and aroused and wanting to feel the bliss of her lover moving inside her. Beneath her she felt the carpet against her legs, her back, but didn’t care. All that mattered was Prescott’s touch on her skin, teasing her pleasure higher as her body reached for that peak.

  He watched her, the same desire coiling through her so clear on his face. She felt his need, his love for her, not for anyone else, only her.

  When Prescott entered her, she bit hard on his shoulder to muffle her cries. He filled her, her pleasure twisting higher and higher with every thrust.

  Sarina reached to the side, for Liam, but the shock of empty air reminded her that he wasn’t there. Wrapping herself around Prescott, her nails digging into the strong muscles of his back and her legs locked around his lean hips, she promised she’d feel both lovers again no matter what happened in her future.

  He moved fast and hard, each stroke within her deeper. She arched her hips up, meeting his every stroke. Sarina locked her legs around his waist and scraped her nails down his back, frantic to touch his skin. Bunching his shirt up, she dug her nails into his back and heard his hiss of pleasure. Power, pure feminine power, raced through her and she found his mouth again, kissing his jaw, his lips, urging him faster.

  She didn’t want anyone beside Prescott, except Liam, and it hurt to think of the possibility that there would be someone else. Try as she did, the thought wouldn’t leave her and she tightened her thighs around Prescott’s hips, brought him closer.

  All too quickly her pleasure crested and she exploded into a thousand lights and sounds. Sarina felt him move, his thrusts less rhythmic, harder, until he buried his face against her neck and groaned her name.

  Sated, spent, and all too willing to stay right there forever, Sarina slowly came back to herself, felt the weight of Prescott against her and wrapped her arms tighter around him. She wanted another moment, just one more.

  But reality set in. She’d just had sex on the floor of her front parlor. The next time she had tea in this room, she’d find it difficult to keep the memories at bay, but other than that, she had no regrets. None. Sarina didn’t know where her practical self had fled; it was probably consumed in the heat between her and Prescott, but at the moment she didn’t miss that side of her.

  Eventually she felt Prescott move and with a look of unutterable tenderness in his brown gaze, he helped her to stand, his fingers teasing her overly sensitive breasts as he righted her gown. Sarina watched him straighten his own clothing while she tried to fix her hair.

  “Here,” he said with a quick glance at the windows. But no one saw them, Sarina was certain of that. They’d been off to the side, on the floor in front of the sofa. “Let me do that.”

  With a deftness she hadn’t known he’d possessed, Prescott fixed her hair, replacing her pins in a semblance of style. She smiled softly up at him and leaned against him. Content.

  His fingers brushed along the side of her throat, tender and light. “I didn’t leave a mark.” He swallowed, his voice hard—and possessive, she thought. “I wanted to. I want everyone to know you’re mine. Mine and Liam’s. But I didn’t mark you.”

  Sarina shivered at the promise in his words, his touch, his voice. Yet. He hadn’t marked her yet. She wondered what he planned, what sort of mark he wanted to leave, and found the thought left her breathless and aroused in anticipation.

  “This isn’t over,” Prescott promised with a hard kiss to her tender lips. “There’s always a way. We’ll figure this out, don’t worry. Don’t do anything—don’t let yourself be pressured by your cousins. Give Liam and me time to work this out. We’ll find a way. We are not going to lose you.”

  Sarina nodded. She believed him.

  Chapter Nine

  Prescott stalked down the street. Halfway back to the West India Docks, he’d sent his carriage away and walked. He needed the long walk to clear his head and control his racing thoughts. He didn’t care how the wind whipped around him or how a hint of more snow and ice clung to the air.

  When he’d gone to Sarina’s this afternoon, he’d intended to inform her of his official courtship. He certainly hadn’t intended to make love to her on the floor of the front parlor moments after her revelation of these new circumstances with Hawksmoor.

  By the time he reached the Isle of Dogs, where he and Liam had set up their offices, Prescott moved between anger at her cousins for pressuring Sarina to marry Hawksmoor and the need to turn around and remind her that she’d willingly given her body to both he and Liam. More than her body, she’d willingly given them her love.

  Prescott took another deep breath of the cold winter’s air and ignored the scent of old ships and unwashed sailors. He supposed he should be pleased their business hadn’t suffered overmuch thanks to the extremely cold winter; in fact, they’d received more confirmations than expected for spring shipments.

  None of that mattered to him at the moment. The building was busy, and he stood aside as a group of well-dressed gentlemen exited.

  Nodding to them, Prescott turned from the building and looked over the docks. Despite the February ice and the frozen state of the Thames, ships were dry-docked to prepare them for the busy spring while others were being made ready for when the ice broke, which hopefully was in only a couple days.

  His control slipped and he lashed out at a pile of empty crates stacked along the building. He kicked them hard, just once. Prescott watched them crash to the ground with an unsatisfying thump. Sucking in a deep breath of cold air, he harnessed his temper as best he could.

  Breathing deeply to control himself, he let the normalcy of the scene play around him as he tried to organize his thoughts. Control his emotion. Before he saw Liam, he needed to know what to say. Even after all their careful consideration of friendships and business partnerships and planning for a future with Sarina, it still didn’t look like smooth sailing.

  Prescott grimaced at the bad pun and focused on the matter at hand.

  That first talk about Sarina and the very real fact they both loved her hadn’t been easy. Long before Kingsnorth and the fire that moved their relationship forward, they’d discussed it, however, and came to the only conclusion two friends who loved the same woman could.

  Neither wanted lose her to the other, and subsequently ruin both their friendship and business partnership. Their choice had been clear: share her. Granted, the idea of sharing her hadn’t been an obvious first choice, or even second, but it
was ultimately for the best.

  Prescott liked and respected Liam, loved him even though not with passion—with shared mutual experiences and understanding. They truly were the closest of friends. Now, standing alongside the building, hidden from the blast of frigid wind that constantly moved along the docks, Prescott wondered how they hadn’t seen this option before.

  Oh, he’d heard of ménage a trois before, in the army while in Portugal and especially in France, but never in proper society. The barest hint of it would scandalize the ton, the business, and likely the entirety of the country.

  Prescott didn’t care.

  He didn’t care what anyone else thought. Didn’t care who knew about his and Liam’s love for Sarina. He didn’t care if they had to leave London and begin again elsewhere—India or China or the Americas. All that mattered was Sarina.

  After the other night and Sarina’s passionate surrender, there was no doubt as to Sarina’s feelings, either. She loved them both, had shown them as clearly as she’d told them previously. To make her choose only one had been selfish on both his and Liam’s part.

  Pushing open the door, Prescott nodded absently to the secretaries and climbed the stairs to their second-floor offices. The many wood stoves only partially kept the bitter cold out of the busy building, and Prescott rubbed his leather-clad fingers together. The walk had done little to clear his head and even less to keep him warm, despite the brisk pace.

  Damn, but he hated it’d come to this, Sarina put into this untenable position between he and Liam and Hawksmoor. That she was being pressured by her cousins based on family obligations.

  Family obligations she shouldn’t be forced to honor.

  Instead, she should be planning her wedding to him. They should be planning their lives, the three of them. Rolling his shoulders, he tried to relieve the tension there but it was useless.

  Hell, it was only the fact that the Sinclair name was held in higher esteem in social circles than the Trevelyan’s that decided who was to marry Sarina. In the end it hadn’t mattered who married her in the eyes of society, only that she married one of them.