A Wicked Pursuit

by Isabella Bradford

  Harry sat on the cushioned settee with Gus curled beside him. Because of the evening’s warmth, he had left off his coat and his neckcloth, and carelessly rolled back the sleeves of his shirt over his forearms. Gus, too, had pared down her dress on account of the heat, wearing her light linen gown without hoops or a kerchief around the neck, and no cap to hide her hair. Her head rested against his chest, his arm around her waist.

  For him, it was absolute torture.

  She was soft and warm against him, her body fitting neatly against his. He’d only to glance down a fraction for the most splendid view of her breasts, raised up enticingly by her stays. Lovely breasts, he thought with despair, high and plump, the skin luminous and dusted lightly with freckles, and practically begging for his caress. A tiny trickle of sweat had gathered between them, there at the edge of her shift, and as he watched it slide slowly downward, over one curve and into the shadows.

  Choking back a groan, he forced himself to look away, but only as far as her skirts. Without hoops, the soft linen was crumpled and limp, draping and accentuating the shape of her hips and legs beneath it. She’d kicked off her shoes and curled her feet on the settee, not bothering to cover them with her skirts. In pink lisle stockings, her feet were delicate, her ankles neat, and he couldn’t help but imagine the rest, her garters and the white thighs above them, and finally the heaven that lay between them.

  He struggled to rein in his thoughts, trying to focus on the music instead of Gus. He wasn’t exactly a hard-bitten rake, but he wasn’t a saint, either, and since he’d left school and come to town he’d kept a succession of mistresses, the way most gentlemen did. When he’d thought he was going to propose to Julia, he had ended things with the last one, sending her off happy with a generous settlement and a few pieces of jewelry.

  But that had been over three months ago. Broken leg or not, three months was a painfully long time for him to be without a woman. The fact that the nearest one was also the one he desired more than all the others combined only made his suffering more acute. All Gus would have to do was look down at the front of his breeches.

  He was sweating with the effort of not embarrassing himself, and still it wasn’t enough. He had to think of something other than Gus, and from the dustiest corner of his brain he abruptly seized onto the Latin declensions he’d memorized—mostly—in school.

  First declension singular: aqua, aquae, aquae, aquam, aqua.

  That was so dry and dull that it was actually working. He took a deep breath and marched his thoughts briskly to the plurals.

  First declension plural: aquae, aquarum, aquis, aquas, aquis.

  Second declension singular: servus, servi, servo—

  Unaware of his Latin fortifications, Gus burrowed more closely against his chest with a contented small sigh. Her breasts were pressing against his side, the womanly scent of her body mingling with the fragrance of the honeysuckle, and all of it was enough to make him weep. Then as she settled, her hand brushed innocently across his thigh, her fingers only inches away from his doom.

  He swore, jerking against the back of the settee. Startled, she sat upright, and the musicians stopped abruptly, too.

  “Oh, Harry, I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?” she said, distress all over her face. “I shouldn’t have crowded you on the settee like that, I know, and now I’ve bumped your leg, and—”

  “No, no, it’s fine,” he said quickly, recovering. “None of it’s your fault, sweet. I’m, ah, I’m tired, that is all. Signore Vilotti, I thank you, but that will be all for this evening.”

  The musicians gathered their instruments to leave, and as Harry stood, Gus bent down to retrieve her shoes from beneath the settee, presenting Harry with one final, wickedly tempting sight of her upturned bottom.

  “I hope you sleep well, Harry,” she said with concern, resting her hand lightly on his arm as the musicians left. “I pray I didn’t make you walk too far today. I wouldn’t want to—”

  “Don’t worry,” he said softly, and kissed her, partly to reassure her, but mostly because he very much wanted to. He’d become remarkably skilled at kissing her while he balanced against his crutch. He kissed her hungrily, wanting her to know how much he desired her and how much he cared for her. He hadn’t told her yet that he loved her—that had to wait until he could ask her to marry him—but he hoped that, after kisses like this one, it wouldn’t come as a great surprise. He took his time, too, relishing the response of her velvety warm mouth.

  “Goodness, Harry,” she murmured as at last they separated. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and her lips were wet and swollen, and when she smiled she looked almost dazed with pleasure. “That was rather—rather extraordinary.”

  “You inspire me, sweet,” he said, the simple truth.

  He brushed his thumb over her lower lip and she drew it into her mouth with a playful little nip that nearly finished him, then and there.

  “You do that and more for me, Harry,” she said, her voice husky with longing. He recognized that longing even if she didn’t, and if he didn’t send her on her way now, it would be too late for them both.

  He yawned dramatically, striving to stick to his story of exhaustion. “Good night, Gus.”

  She smiled with obvious regret, and kissed him quickly once again. “Good night, Harry.”

  He hated watching her leave, her shoes in her hand as she blew him a last kiss from the doorway. Every night it was harder to part from her, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he—or she—would be able to keep his noble, confounding promise to respect her virtue.

  He swore softly from frustration as Tewkes helped him undress for bed. Before he doused the candle for the night, he opened the drawer in the table beside the bed and pulled out the curved box with his mother’s ring. He tipped it this way and that, making the diamonds dance in the candle’s light, and he imagined the ring on Gus’s finger as the memory of their kiss still lingered.

  Soon, he thought. Soon. Because Gus believed in him, he would dance under the stars at Vauxhall Gardens, exactly as he’d vowed. And when he did, he’d make sure she danced with him, as his wife, his countess, his love.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Without question this was the most perfect and most perfectly blissful summer of Gus’s life, and her only regret was knowing that it could not last. Later, when she thought back over those magical weeks with Harry at the abbey, she could see exactly when everything had changed, and the end had begun.

  It was the day the chamber horse was delivered.

  For the first time in a fortnight, the weather had kept her and Harry inside the house. After thunderstorms at dawn, the air had remained heavy and still, with dark clouds low in the sky and thunder continuing to rumble ominously close. Instead of walking in the garden as they usually did in the morning, they’d retreated to the back drawing room. Gus was sitting at her desk reviewing household accounts, while Harry read in an armchair near the window, his dogs sprawled sleeping at his feet. The dogs were the first to hear the wagon in the drive, rising drowsily to go to the window to investigate. Gus followed, equally curious.

  “What are you expecting today, Harry?” she asked. By now she’d grown accustomed to Harry’s various orders arriving from London, whether books, wine, delicacies, clothes, or musicians, and because the wagon that was drawing up in the backyard wasn’t one of the usual Norwich purveyors, she guessed this must be another. “Whatever it is, it’s large and mysterious.”

  “Mysterious?” he asked, putting aside his book. “What makes it mysterious? Wizard’s markings and flying monkeys?”

  “Not mysterious like that, Harry,” she said. “But it is a sizable crate, much larger than your usual books and oranges. Ah, there’s Mr. Royce, ready to investigate. He’s suspicious, Harry. He’s scowling, and whatever it is, he’s not letting the men unload it. Perhaps it is your flying monkeys after all.”

  When Royce appeared in the drawing room, his explanation was equally exotic.

  “
The men say it’s a chamber horse, miss,” he said with undisguised skepticism. “They wish to bring it into the house.”

  “A chamber horse?” Gus repeated dubiously, again looking through the window down to the crate. “That sounds like something my father might have ordered, some new accoutrements for the stables. I should think it belongs there, rather than in the house.”

  “No, it does belong in the house, Royce,” Harry said, coming to stand beside her at the window. “It’s for me. The last time Peterson was here, he mentioned he would be sending a chamber horse for my use, but I’d forgotten entirely. I suppose this must be it.”

  “But what exactly is it, Harry?” Gus asked, bemused. She imagined an oversized hobbyhorse, with Harry sitting astride. “Some manner of nursery plaything?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “It’s a kind of chair for exercise, that’s supposed to mimic the motion of riding a horse. I’ve heard of them, but never seen one myself.”

  “Truly?” Gus asked, her eyes widening. “Have the men bring it inside, Royce. I suppose it should be taken to his lordship’s room, for his convenience.”

  With considerable effort, the crate was wrestled up the stairs and the chamber horse installed in one corner of Harry’s increasingly crowded bedchamber. To Gus’s disappointment, it didn’t resemble a real horse at all, but a curious contraption of mahogany and leather from a cabinetmaker’s shop.

  The top part of the horse looked like an oversized chair that could have belonged in any dining room, with an elegantly carved back and arms. The seat of the chair, however, was attached not to the back and arms, but to a tall leather box, pleated like bellows, that was raised up nearly three feet from the floor by a sturdy platform. The platform had a step that pulled out like a drawer.

  Gus studied the horse, unconvinced. “It’s a foolish-looking thing, Harry,” she said finally. “How is that supposed to be of use to you?”

  “Peterson says I’m not to think of it as a replacement for riding,” he said, also sounding unconvinced, “but as a way to strengthen my leg without the stress of a real horse beneath me.”

  He pressed his palm on the leather seat and pushed down. “You see, there are metal springs inside. I’m supposed to sit here, and push myself up and down. He says that once I can do that for a quarter of an hour at a time, putting more of my weight on my leg, then I’ll be ready to try standing.”

  “I suppose if Sir Randolph says it will be of benefit to you, then it must be,” Gus said, trying to visualize Harry performing such an exercise.

  Harry nodded and sighed glumly. “All I can think of is some stout old codger jostling up and down and convincing himself he’s taking exercise.”

  “You’re neither old nor stout,” she said firmly, “and there’s definitely nothing codger-like about you. If the chamber horse will make your leg stronger, then it’s worth trying.”

  “You are right and wise, as always.” He sighed again and resolutely took off his coat. Handing Gus his crutch, he hopped onto the horse’s step. “Off to the races.”

  Gingerly he lowered himself onto the horse’s leather seat. With a great woosh, the springs sank down, and Harry did, too. He pressed his feet on the step and his hands on the armrests, and immediately sprang up again with another woosh. He did it again, faster this time. He looked both startled and delighted, like a small boy who’d discovered some wicked new trick.

  Gus laughed, unable to help herself, and he laughed with her.

  “Is it that much fun?” she asked.

  “It is,” he declared. “You must try it.”

  She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. It was one thing to watch Harry ride the chamber horse, but quite another to picture herself bouncing up and down with her skirts flying around her legs.

  “Come along,” he said. “Here, sit with me. It’s quite big enough for both of us.”

  “I don’t know, Harry,” she demurred. “Sir Randolph didn’t advise me to use it.”

  “He’s not here to see you do it, either,” he said. “There are no witnesses of any sort. Come along, Gus. You’re braver than that. Don’t be a spoilsport.”

  She narrowed her eyes. He knew exactly how to bait her, and it worked, too.

  “Very well, then,” she said, bunching her skirts to one side. “And don’t you ever again call me a spoilsport, my lord.”

  She climbed up onto the little step, and then onto the horse, squeezing beside him on the wide leather seat. Harry, however, had other plans. He took her by the waist and pulled her directly onto his lap, swinging her legs sideways over one arm of the horse. Unbalanced, she gasped, and grabbed his shoulders to catch herself.

  “There,” he said, with a satisfied grin. “That’s much better. Are you ready?”

  He didn’t wait for her to answer but pulled down with his arms, then up with his legs. The springs did the rest, bouncing them both upward. Gus squealed with surprise, then laughed, and hung on to Harry to keep from flying off the horse. Over and over he bounced them up and down, both of them laughing uproariously with sheer giddy foolishness. The motion was rather like riding a horse, if the horse was badly trained, and the saddle was like Harry’s lap.

  Which, Gus was rapidly realizing, it wasn’t. Not at all. The up-and-down motions of the horse’s springs were making her bottom slide back and forth over the hard muscles of his thighs in a way that was becoming increasingly exciting. It was the same as when he kissed her, a heat and a tightness coiling low in her belly and between her legs that was exceedingly pleasant, and that she’d no wish to stop, because Harry himself was the reason.

  She was, in short, feeling . . . amorous. Her heart was beating faster and her hair was falling down and her breath quickening, and the more she laughed and bounced and wriggled across the Harry’s lap, the more intense the feelings became. She suspected Harry was feeling the same, for his face was flushed and his eyes had the look that she’d come to recognize as that look, and when abruptly he stopped the horse, she reached up to kiss him just as he bent toward her.

  She loved when he kissed her like this, hard and demanding with his tongue deep in her mouth, and she dug her fingers into his shoulders, holding tight and taking in more of his raw energy. With her eyes closed, she gave herself over to the sensations kissing him always aroused, now coupled with the feelings that had come from being bounced against his leg.

  He tipped her back into the crook of his arm, and she went gladly, feeling the springs quivering lightly beneath them. She was so lost in kissing him that she didn’t notice he was pulling out the pins that closed the bodice of her gown, pushing the sides apart. Deftly he scooped her breasts above the edge of her stays and pushed down the neck of her shift to bare them entirely.

  He bent his head to suckle her nipples, one at a time, licking and nipping and teasing them to stiff, rosy points. She sighed restlessly, arching her back, and threaded her fingers through the black silk of his hair. It was all so very good, making her almost dizzy with longing for something that she couldn’t define, and when he shoved aside her skirts to run his hand along her leg, she only pointed her toe, eager for more.

  His hand moved higher, past the top of her stocking, past her garter, over the heated skin of her thigh and higher still, to the place where she ached most for him. At last he touched her there, stroking her lightly to coax her to open for him, and with shameless ease she parted her legs and moaned into his mouth. He caressed her with winning little circles full of shimmering sensations, sensations that made her feel ripe and wet and alive. When his teasing finger slipped inside her passage, she cried out and shuddered with the pleasure of it, arching her hips up for more.

  “You’re so hot, Gus,” he whispered raggedly, his own breath coming in great gulps. “You’re so damned hot and wet and ready, and the devil take me now, I want you even more.”

  He pulled his hand away and she whimpered in protest, already missing his touch. He seized her hand and pushed it down to the front of his breeches, fo
rcing her to feel the thick length of his cock. She had glimpsed men’s members before, when they’d pulled them out to piss against a wall or tree, and from Julia she had learned how those same cocks wanted nothing more than to serve women.

  But this was Harry, and Harry’s cock, and even as she was shocked by the size and hardness of it, she couldn’t help but be fascinated, too, her fingers closing around it through the linen of his pants. He groaned, bucking against her hand in much the same way she’d done for him.

  “That’s because of you, Gus,” he growled. His face was fixed in a contorted grimace, his eyes dark. “That’s what you do to me.”

  In some foggy corner of her head, she knew exactly what he wanted, and if she agreed, she would be ruined. Her maidenhead would be gone and her virtuous reputation with it. Worse, he could leave her with a bastard child. The whole world would know her shame, her weakness, and no other man would ever want her.

  But no other man was like Harry, and no other man ever could be. If he wanted her, then she wanted him, too, and the throbbing need between her legs made her forget everything else.

  “I want you, too, Harry,” she whispered fervently, and she felt his cock press harder as if rejoicing. “Every moment since I met you has been leading to this, and I want you too much to wait any longer.”

  “The bed,” he said, his urgency too great for more words. “Damnation, where’s my crutch?”

  “Lean on me instead,” she said, sliding from his lap. “It’s only a few feet.”

  He reached for her and pulled her back, his kiss so raw and demanding that she felt light-headed with desire. He slipped his arm around her shoulder and hopped forward, a lurching progress where he was half leaning against her, and half dragging her the short distance across the room. She wasn’t sure if one of them pulled the other onto the bed, or if they simply fell together, and it didn’t matter.