Relentless paroxysms shook her from the inside, and she closed her eyes to surrender to the waves of ecstasy steadily dragging her under. Her cunt squeezed around him, her belly clenching and her thighs twinging with the force of a climax the likes of which she’d never known.
“Oh God,” Robert murmured against her breast. “I can’t … I’m going to …”
She went limp on top of him, weak from the torrent of her own release, yet faintly registered his words, his jerky movements beneath her … the desperation hinting at his own finish.
Cassandra managed to lift herself off him just in time, taking him in hand as his seed began to erupt from him in hot spurts. Throwing his head back, he jerked and groaned, his mettle splattering the back of her hand and his belly as she stroked him through till the end, working his shaft until she’d wrung him of every last drop.
He went limp, arms sagging in his bonds. Cassandra sat between his spread legs, leaning back onto her elbows as she closed her eyes and worked to catch her breath. Her limbs felt heavy, and keeping her eyes open proved a trial as a languid sort of calm washed over her.
She would soon have to rise and release Robert. But, he didn’t seem in a hurry to break the thrall that had fallen over them both— their breaths ringing out in unison with the crackle of the fire, their legs touching as they lay supine on either side of the narrow bed.
And so, Cassandra tilted her head back and smiled, reveling in the warmth of sweet, ecstatic triumph.
Chapter 3
SUFFOLK, 1820 FOUR MONTHS LATER …
Robert pulled the reins of his mount as he neared Briarwell Manor, his ancestral home. His time in London now several months behind him, he’d returned to the comfort of his familiar life in the country. A life in which he tended to the estate duties his father had fallen too ill to manage. A life in which he doted upon his mother, remaining steadfast as she counted the days until yet another man she loved took his last breath.
A life in which he did his best to pretend he had not been changed in the most elemental way by the night he’d spent in the upper room of a public house with Lady Cassandra Lane.
As he approached the stable at a brisk cant, he tried and failed to keep his mind from wandering back.
After the most satisfying sexual encounter of his life, Cassandra had untied his hands from the headboard to reveal the abrasions left from the rough twine. His wrists had stung, but he could hardly be angry at her when it had been his own squirming and thrashing that had caused the rope burn. She’d tossed him his cravat, which he’d used to clean up the spunk staining his belly. Then, he’d lain back and watched her, unashamed to admit that he was now more enthralled with her than ever. The things she’d done to him … he’d never been with a woman so bold and raw, so aware of her own wants and needs.
As she’d gone to stand naked before the hearth, he'd followed her with his gaze and wondered how anyone could ever think her plain. He had been guilty of seeing her as a drab wallflower in the past, but that was because, like everyone else, he had only taken the most cursory of glances. Now that he was able to see her in her most natural state—with the masses of that red-gold hair hanging down her back in frazzled curls—Robert saw her. The long limbs sinewy from physical activity, perhaps riding. The flare of her hips, the jut of her sumptuous breasts, the curve of her back leading to a slender waist. The outline of her profile as she stared off across the room as if deep in thought.
Once the silence seemed to stretch on for an unbearable length of time, Robert had shifted on the bed and waited for her to speak, to say or do something, anything. This had been such untouched territory for him. With a whore, a man knew how to conduct himself. When he finished, he paid her and departed without a glance back, returning to his own life while she went off to prepare for her next tumble. With a woman he’d cared about or had any sort of affection toward, he might have lingered, pulling her into his arms and basking in the lingering effects of what they’d just done.
But, he’d never been with a woman like her before—one who tied his hands and requested he not touch her, who withdrew into herself when all was said and done.
Once it became clear that she did not intend to speak, he sat up and cleared his throat, unable to bear the silence any longer.
“I hope …”
He trailed off when she turned her head to look at him, the lighting of the room making her eyes appear more gray than blue. Disarmed for a moment, he paused, cleared his throat once more and tried again.
“I hope you got whatever it was you needed from me.”
He held her stare, challenging her to deny his assertion. He wanted to believe she’d simply used him to sate an acute physical need, but something told him there was more to it. This had been about something more than simple fornication, and there was a reason she’d chosen him above the other men downstairs.
Inclining her head, she returned his gaze in a way that made him feel utterly exposed, even more so than having his nude body on display.
“Yes,” she replied, staring back into the fire. “I did. And quite a bit more than I expected. So … thank you.”
Her, thank him? He’d hardly done anything … at least, not compared to his typical fervor when taking a woman to bed.
Still, he could only reply, “It was my pleasure … quite literally.”
She laughed, but the sound wasn’t hearty or light. It was more a snort than anything, short and breathed out as she began picking up various articles of her clothing. As she bent to pull on her stockings, he wondered if he ought to offer her assistance. Did her edict against touching still apply now that they were finished?
He decided to err on the side of caution and dress himself, allowing her to do the same on her own.
Once he had finished, forgoing the cravat and stuffing it into the breast pocket of his coat, he’d turned to find her facing him. She’d donned all her layers again, including her gloves and cloak. She hadn’t bothered to put her hair back into its coiffure, and a thick lock of it hung over one shoulder.
“Well, I must be off,” she said, beginning to edge toward the door.
Something in him had lurched, forcing him forward, his hand reaching out before he could think better of it. She had tensed when his fingers closed around her arm, eyes narrowing as she stared at him with a heavy measure of accusation. He hadn’t understood what possessed him to touch her that way; he’d only known he needed to tell her why he’d said yes.
“I’ve been in love with the same woman for most of my life,” he blurted before he could lose his nerve. “In recent years, I’d come to see that I was losing her. She’d begun to slip through my fingers, and … well, perhaps she was never mine to begin with. I thought if I tried harder, if I fought for her, if I made up for the time we lost, I could win her back. But, today I watched her choose someone else—a man who is everything I’m not.”
The annoyance in her expression had melted away, and understanding lit in her eyes. There was no pity there, thank God, but her gaze had told him she understood.
“Lady Daphne,” she said—not a question, but a confirmation.
“Yes,” he replied, a knot that rising in his throat at the mention of her name. “She and Hartmoor … well, it hardly matters anymore. I only mention it so you’ll understand … I came here tonight to forget her, to try to feel something else.”
She’d seemed to try to smile, the side of her mouth twitching the slightest bit. Yet, her expression had remained as solemn as ever.
“And did you ... feel something else?”
He’d smiled at her then, a little laugh bubbling up in his chest. “I did not think of her once the entire time.”
Now, the corner of her mouth did turn up a tick. “I am glad for you.”
With a nod, he released her arm and backed away, content now to let her leave. He would linger for a bit to give her time before he exited himself. Now thoroughly exhausted, he had been more than ready to return to his suite of rooms
in Town and turn in for the night.
To his surprise, she'd paused in the doorway, turning back to face him. He caught sight of the servant turned guard, Peter, lingering in the corridor. The man stepped out of view once he peered into the room and seemed to decide everything was as it should be.
“You asked why,” she’d said, one hand resting upon the doorknob. “And the answer is quite simple, Mr. Stanley. You see, there has been no one since … well, since Lord Fairchild.”
He’d winced at the reminder of the man who had hanged just that morning for violating more than half a dozen of the ton’s young debutantes, Cassandra among them.
“I wanted to choose who it would be, how and where it would happen,” she continued. “As for why I selected you … I hold quite a bit of disdain toward men of your sort. Titled, wealthy, pampered. And if you think to take offense to that, don’t. It is simply a fact that men of the ton are a species all their own, and you are one of them. But, I can honestly say that you do not seem quite so much like the rest of them. In short, I chose you because I did not believe you had it in you to hurt me.”
No, he’d thought. But you have the capacity to hurt me.
Aloud, he’d said, “I am glad I could be of some help to you.”
Those flimsy words had not been adequate enough. Yet, how could he explain that he wanted what she’d given him again, and then again and again? How could he tell her that he’d do it as many times as she needed to wash the rancid taste of Bertram Fairchild out of her mouth?
“Good-bye, Mr. Stanley,” she said, taking the matter out of his hands.
In those words, she’d made herself more than clear. She had told him this would be a one-time affair, and she meant to hold true to her word. They would part ways now and never speak of this again.
“Good-bye, Lady Cassandra.”
He had not seen or spoken to her since that good-bye, having spent only another sennight in London before he’d given up his rooms and returned home. He never liked being away overlong, as he never knew when his father might take a turn for the worse.
“I’ll take good care of ’im for ye, Mr. Stanley,” said the stable groom who accepted the reigns of Robert’s gelding once he’d dismounted.
“Thank you,” he replied, turning to tramp along the pathway back to the manor.
The chill of an early spring morning had given way to a pleasant warmth, the sun high overhead in a cloudless sky. He’d been going out of his mind trapped inside the house this past week, near constant rain making outdoor activity impossible. Upon arising this morning to find the ground almost dry and the clouds abated, he’d set out for a morning ride. He had hoped it would offer a reprieve from the constant state of agitation that had plagued him since parting ways with Cassandra at the White Cock.
He had thought the craving for more of the tortuous pleasure Cassandra had opened his eyes to would abate over time. After all, he’d been quite the same after wetting his cock inside a woman for the first time. He’d been insatiable, wanting more and more, whenever and wherever he could find it. That sort of persistent arousal had gone away with age and experience, and he’d moved forward with his life able to go longer than five pitiful minutes without thinking about fucking.
But, this proved a different problem altogether. It wasn’t simply that he could not stop thinking about fucking … it was that he couldn’t stop thinking about fucking while being tied down, slapped, and dominated. Cassandra's fingerprints had faded by the next morning, but he could swear he felt that strike every time he thought back to that night—the vibrant blossom of the sting over his jaw, the surge of blood rushing through his veins as his heartbeat sped to a gallop, the way it had made his cock harden to painful limits.
Ruined. He was absolutely ruined.
He’d tried to capture that elusive feeling in other ways. But the whores in Lavenham—even the pretty red-haired one he’d always favored—could offer him nothing that appealed to this newly discovered part of himself. One had tied his hands for him, another had even bitten him a few times. Neither had affected him half as much as Cassandra, and he’d left both encounters more frustrated than ever.
In the past month he’d given up altogether, even as the memories plagued both his waking hours and his dreams. As a result, he now walked about with a constant feeling of mounting pressure from someplace deep within. Yet, no matter what he did, he could never find relief from it.
The irony of it, was that he’d been so grateful for that night, for the way it had helped to offer him an escape from the reality of his heartbreak, his enduring loneliness. Now, he hardly ever thought of Daphne at all, which ought to have been a blessing. News of her unexpected elopement had spread far and wide, whisperings of what had led to her union with Hartmoor making the rounds in London drawing rooms and country manor parlors alike. But, aside from the periodic twinge in his chest at the thought of his lost love, Robert found himself growing increasingly indifferent toward what he’d first thought of as a crushing loss.
Now, a different woman dominated his thoughts, and try as he might, he could not free his mind from the snare of her trap.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Stanley.”
He blinked, finding that he’d entered the house and come face to face with the housekeeper. Concern knit her brow as she studied him —a look he was growing used to. He was different now, and it seemed everyone around him could sense it. The usual sunny smiles and amiable nature that had once been a trademark of sorts for him were now distinctly absent.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Godfrey. Have you seen Mother?”
Before he made his way into the study to answer the correspondence he’d let pile up on his desk, he ought to look in on her. Things had been a bit strained between them since he’d gone off to London to go after Daphne.
“Yours is a fool’s errand,” she had warned him. “That woman is damaged goods and is not fit to become your future baroness. In truth, she never has been.”
“You don’t know her,” he had argued. “She’s a good woman … the woman I love. You’ll see. When I return, it will be to announce our betrothal.”
Of course, once he returned empty-handed and heartbroken she’d been all-too happy to declare that she'd been right the entire time, though she did wrap it in the guise of sympathy.
“My poor, sweet boy,” she had crooned, reaching out to cup his face with a gnarled hand. “I told you she was never good enough for you. She couldn’t possibly be if she cannot see what a wonderful husband you will make.”
He’d brushed off her hand and walked away, refusing to give in to her constant need to coddle and fawn over him. Most times, he tried to be understanding of her feelings. He was her only remaining child, after all, and had become the recipient for all the love, concern, and meddling one mother contained inside her for four sons. But, he hadn’t had the patience to endure it, and found even now that his forbearance began to run shorter and shorter.
“I believe she is visiting with your father,” the housekeeper replied.
“Very good, thank you.”
Breezing past her, he took the stairs two at a time, his body still thrumming with the excess energy that seemed to take up every crevice and corner of his being. The ride hadn’t been enough. He needed some other way to occupy himself, but for the life of him could not figure out what to do. Perhaps riding out again would help. It had been some weeks since he’d visited with tenants, and he supposed he ought to ensure that the repair of several cottage roofs was going as it should. His father had always been an attentive landowner, an easy task considering that theirs was a small holding. While the baron had not yet died, the task of ensuring the people depending upon the estate for their welfare were taken care of now fell to him.
The door to his father’s chamber hung ajar, so he pushed it open, peering inside to find the baron abed reading, his mother seated in an armchair nearby with an embroidery hoop in her lap.
He’d seen them this way so often over the ye
ars, it proved difficult to imagine entering any room in this home to find his mother there without his father. They were quite a pair, his mother petite with a rounded figure, his father’s slender frame having gone rail thin due to illness. His dark hair, and her wheat blond had both gone completely white, with his father’s bald pate showing through the thinning wisps on top. The baron's dark eyes still twinkled with cheer, despite his weakened and ravaged body, though his mother went about with a perpetual scowl marring her face, twin lines permanently etched between her eyebrows due to her furrowing them.
The two had lived through the trials of youth, marriage, birth, and death together, settling into age and growing into one another like two trees with their roots entangled underground. It seemed the only thing they would not do together was die. While his father’s health had been declining for years now, his mother remained as healthy as ever.
The floorboards creaked as he entered, the sound capturing their attention. His father glanced up from his book, eying Robert over the rim of his spectacles, his cheeks wobbling as he offered a smile. Even so small a task seemed to require a great deal of strength, and he could not maintain the expression for long.
“Well, good afternoon,” his father said as Robert approached the bed. “I see you’ve been out enjoying the fine weather.”
His mother glanced up and took in his attire and the state of his mussed hair with a disdainful sniff. “Still far too damp for my liking, and the air still holds a bit of a chill. You ought not go traipsing about under such conditions, Robert. You could fall prey to fever or pneumonia or some other such thing.”
“Leave the boy alone, Rosie,” his father admonished. “He is young and healthy. He ought to be enjoying his life, not cooped up in this old house with us. Did you have a good ride, son?”
The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel Page 7