by Eliza Lloyd
His body, so proper when clothed, was hard and muscled under her fingers. She traced along his arms and down his back—as far as she could reach and back up again. She soothed the rough skin along his neck and shoulder. Spearing her fingers through his hair, she was surprised by its softness, the dark curls wrapping around her fingers.
Again she wondered at his slowness. He stroked evenly, the sensation made her sleepy and relaxed and—and blessed. Like what he did was reserved for very good people or for people who cared very much for each other.
Longing for more than protective assurance, Imo deepened her kiss. She cupped his face and allowed her tongue to battle with his, then retreating and nipping at his lips.
With a quick roll, Jack went to his back. Imo glanced down at him. His nostrils flared. His hands gripped her hips and lifted her slightly, allowing her to slide back to her knees, straddling him fully. She gasped at the sharp hunger that shot through her loins.
Bracing her hands against his chest, she lifted her bottom and surged upward with her knees. She moaned as her body was impaled fully when she came back down. She closed her eyes and hung her head, trying to breathe, trying to stop the need to do it again.
His fingers pinched at her nipples, rolling and tugging them.
“Oh Jack.”
“Better?”
“I-I’m afraid to move.”
His hands sought her hips again and lifted her while he probed with his hips, thrusting several times underneath her.
“It’s good?” he asked.
All she could do was nod. His hands cupped her face, his thumb stroked along her lip. Between her legs, his fingers slid along her thigh and into the dark, wet place—high up—and stroked around the small bud. She braced her hands against his ribs and lifted again, knowing that what she looked for was near.
Imogene tried to remember the dizzying rush she’d felt at Vauxhall. That was what she wanted again. She wanted Jack with a fierce hunger. What he promised was tantalizingly close, what she needed found only in his arms.
She’d waited an entire lifetime to feel as if she belonged to someone. Maybe it was unfair to put the burden on Jack since belonging to him would only last eighty-three days, but her life was changing in front of her eyes.
And Jack was the reason for all of the pent-up excitement.
“I would happily leave you astride for the next week. Could you do that for me, Imogene?”
“I’ll do anything for you,” she said. Her eyes fluttered shut as her body tightened. She sank fully onto the hard length, arched against the consuming pleasure and moaned as the tight waves pooled inside her. For a moment, her world dimmed and her body soared before the strong contractions of pleasure pulled at Jack’s cock, licking her with fire and blinding her to everything except her lover.
He groaned, his own release loud and definite—a singular pleasure in itself—knowing she did this for him. That his pleasure was deep and thrilling enough to want more from her.
The rapture of emotion and sensation weren’t enough to make Imo believe for a minute she could keep Jack, but for the days that remained, she would do her damnedest to ensure he never forgot her.
* * * * *
A bird should not be kept in a cage, but that was exactly what Jack felt he had done with Imogene. Would she suffocate without her freedom? Would he come home one day and find that she had disappeared? She could do it with the help of her brothers or her own street savvy.
She stared at him from the door. Even a kiss and the promise of new bath soaps did not bring a smile to her face.
The carriage that would take him to his parents’ home and about town for the day waited outside his townhouse.
He didn’t dare look back at Imogene’s face. Such an expression of wistfulness he’d never seen.
One year ago he’d thought it novel to have a young girl dressed as a boy pull him into a dirty alley and suck his wick dry. That day, she’d been worth every coin she’d plucked from his open palm. Somewhere along the way, he’d become obsessed with her. Well, not her exactly—her sexuality. Her beauty. Her utterly innocent charm delivered with a sailor’s tongue. Her desire to please in any way, and her ability to deliver pleasure without the slightest effort.
Vauxhall had been the turning point. Up until then, she’d been a vague apparition after the encounter at the dock, but when he had to return about a week later, he’d taken the time to scan the crowd of diverse faces. On the off chance she was around, he’d planned to have a second encounter with her. His pocket had been full of coin. When she was not there, he’d berated himself the fool and promptly forgot about her.
He’d had a few drinks before going to Vauxhall, that could be the only explanation for his hunting-dog zeal in following her scent. Why had he followed her? There were dozens of strumpets he could have fucked that night. Instead, she’d cast her lure—whatever it was about her that appealed to him—and he’d followed along. He’d fully intended to shag her that night. His desire had been near ferocious as he backed her up against the tree. Maybe if he had, his obsession would have been short-lived and long past.
Now, he had a street orphan living in his home, running around barefoot and using up gallons of his hot water taking baths.
Jack completed his business at Twenty Acres and returned to the carriage. The slow trot of the horses gave him time to think as they made their way across town.
No sane person would believe she had a place in his world, yet he tucked her away in his home, snatched her virginity without a second thought and had gone to do her bidding yesterday at Newgate. Newgate! Wouldn’t his father appreciate that gesture? And his uncle? The Earl of Prescott? Uncle thought his brother, Jack’s father, unworthy of the earldom before. How much more his shiftless son? Now that Jack was second in line to inherit the title, his uncle would expect Jack to keep the shit from his boots. Rescuing condemned murderers and housing orphans would not be in the purview of charity as defined by the fastidious earl.
He supposed he ought to take his father aside after lunch and mention the fact to him. The only thing worse than the actual news would be for his father to be caught unaware. Uncle did have his sources.
Jack held back a snort as he pictured Uncle learning about the sojourn to Newgate and then he did choke as he imagined Imogene’s appearance before his uncle in nothing but bare feet and her boys’ clothes.
The next eighty-some days would be interesting since he and Imogene were as alike as salt and pepper.
Except for the sex, what did the two of them have in common? For that matter, what did he have in common with his last mistress either? He should just shake the tedious contemplations and remember this was a business arrangement. One that well suited him. She was a willing, paid partner who worked harder at making him happy in bed than had any other woman, mistress or not.
Granted, two days wasn’t enough time to make a comparison, but he thought her enthusiasm boded well for the next few months. The lascivious possibilities had him thinking about returning from his club early. Stamina had never been a problem for him, but he felt especially able knowing Imogene was in his home doing nothing but waiting for him.
The carriage stopped in front of his parents’ home. Already, the thought of the lengthy, inevitable discussions about the wedding, the bride and the Continental tour were enough to make him shout to the coachman to drive on.
His mother greeted him shortly after his arrival and ushered him into this father’s study, where Jacob Jonathan Davenport sat reading at his desk.
“Good day, Father,” he said without a glance as he headed to the liquor cabinet. The elder Davenport’s home always had a fine stock of liquor and Jack availed himself when possible. The necessary drink made dealing with his father and his uncle much, much easier.
His father had the looks of his father before him—the greying hair at the temple, the jaw inherited from some Viking ancestor and the darker skin of a Frenchman who had arrived with the Conqueror. Jack wo
uld someday be sitting at the same desk addressing his own son about such weighty matters as they had discussed: How much shit does one put on a freshly plowed field?
The paper rustled as his father finished reading. Jack settled in the chair opposite him.
“What’s this about you being at Newgate yesterday?”
“A favor for a friend.” Jack sipped at his drink, surprised that a storm wasn’t brewing. His father seemed only mildly interested.
“Your friend knows murderers?”
“I think even I would be surprised at who my friends know, but yes, a murderer. Seems there was a miscarriage of justice and said friend prevailed upon my assistance.”
“Don’t they always say that? I suppose he didn’t commit the crime.”
“In this case, yes, he did. However, there were extraordinary circumstances that hadn’t been revealed to the judge.”
“And the outcome?”
“As expected. I didn’t help. But the good news is there will not be a hanging.”
“Transported then?”
“Yes.”
“Just as well. Take your time with the drink. Your mother has a five-course meal planned and I’ll get to hear, once again, about the lilies and roses that will adorn St. George’s. Had you agreed to marry this spring, this affair would be over by now.”
“Yes, but then Mother would find a way to prod and poke until she had the first baby christened. And no doubt, inveigle her way into being present the night of conception.”
His father snorted. “Pray God the first is a boy.”
Jack raised his glass in salute. They had always been united in manly opposition to Mother’s feminine machinations that had only grown worse as the wedding date drew nearer.
“There is another thing, Father.”
“Yes, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your wedding gift.”
“No, not about that. I’m sure you and Mother will be generous. And I’m only warning you because Uncle has a way of finding out things that are none of his business.”
“Not a bastard, I hope.”
Jack felt a small stain of embarrassment heating his cheeks. Father had sent him off into the world with a final admonition when he was old enough to appreciate the advice—no bastards, no gambling debts. Both sound pieces of advice. Jack had carefully skirted both entanglements while still able to enjoy the diversity of pursuits available to a young man.
“No, just a woman. An unsuitable woman I’m entertaining at the moment.”
“One last fling?”
“One hopes.”
“Do what you can to keep it private. There is no need for Catherine’s family to be offended.”
Father raised his eyebrows in understanding and that was the end of the conversation. Again, manly sympathies trumping the inadvisability of such a pursuit. Without saying so, Father acknowledged what it was like to be young and unattached. For all of that, he and his father had gotten on for a number of years, ever since he’d purchased his own home with his own funds and managed to keep a steady supplement to the quarterly Uncle Edward provided. He might be a lord in waiting, but times were changing. He was happy his father did not stand opposed to every decision Jack made.
His observation made the decision to secure Imogene even more puzzling.
“The Colonel will be here for lunch. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“I think Marjorie will be with him.”
Lunch could have been scripted. Jack itched to finish and leave, but he endured the chafing while sitting upright at his mother’s elegant table.
The Colonel and his daughter were good company. Jack ignored Marjorie’s flirting.
Father had exaggerated—there were only four courses. Midway through his boiled chicken coated in Richmond sauce, Jack had a revelation so profound he nearly excused himself from the table.
Is that what he was doing? Giving in to the demands of position and blood? Allowing the tide of sentiment to influence his decisions? So easily had he been molded in the ways of the aristocracy that he had blindly accepted the decisions that had been made for him.
He did not want to be married at twenty-five. He, who’d found it easier to agree than to persuade, thought the impending nuptials were like fifty-pound cannon, ready to drag him under the sea of lifelong bondage. Somehow he made it through the currant dumplings before escaping, the truth still dodging his heels.
Discontent wasn’t something Jack had to deal with very often. Even cards at his club failed to relieve the intolerable sense of doom.
* * * * *
Imogene searched through Jack’s library desk. She’d explored every room in the house that didn’t have a servant cleaning or a footman guarding.
“May I help you, Miss Farrell?” Maxwell stood in the doorway, staring at her as if she were a criminal.
“Oh, Maxwell, yes. I’m looking for a deck of cards.” Imo had been nearly caught at more indiscreet adventures with her brothers than she cared to admit. Innocence was the trick and her facial expression reflected a practiced look. It helped that she really was looking for cards.
“Cards?” His tone was imperious and disbelieving. “You did not think to ask?”
“Everyone was awful busy.” She covered one bare foot with the other. “I didn’t want to be a bother.” All true, plus she had gone nearly daft from doing nothing but poking about the house. Three baths was enough to get all the dirt from her toes and fingers.
“It’s no bother. You’ve only to ask and someone in the house will assist you. It is Mr. Davenport’s wish.”
The trap of the expansive house closed in the moment Jack had left to attend his business dealings and family luncheon. The gaze of every servant followed her around the house questioning and a little condemning. The raised brows, the side-eyes, the pursed lips. Maxwell seemed the most important of the servants and she had to find a way to win him over.
“Would you like to play cards?” She mimicked Mrs. Holland, an affectation to which she’d easily adapted.
“Cards? Now?” Bushy black eyebrows winged high. She thought the color odd considering his hair had gone grey.
“I’ve nothing else to do. I know you’re busy.”
He contemplated her request. “I think I can find a few minutes.” He walked to a round side table near the fireplace and located the cards. ”I should warn you, I am very proficient.”
“So am I.” Imogene smiled for the first time outside of Jack’s presence. Of all the things in this house—her new dress, her status as Jack’s mistress—of all the things that felt as familiar as her own backside, a deck of playing cards was like a friend on a lonely road. “What will we be playing for?”
“A few farthings perhaps?”
“It’s a start. I don’t have any money, but I’m good for it,” she said. “I’ll be winning your money shortly anyway.”
“That is yet to be seen, Miss Farrell. Shall we?” he asked. She would wipe that self-satisfied smirk from his face after she took the first few tricks. And she’d make him happy he’d lost.
Imogene counted on the fact he was a gentleman of sorts, but a man mostly. Besides being good at many dice and card games, she was also a very clever cheat. Frank, she didn’t want to think about missing him, but even dear Frank couldn’t tell when she cheated. It would have been beneficial to have her own cards, but once they were done playing today, she’d keep the deck, mark the slicked paper secretly and trounce Maxwell’s pompous arse the next time he sat down with her.
Maxwell lifted the same round table where he’d found the cards and placed it between two of the overstuffed chairs. He waved his hand and Imo nearly skipped with glee to take her place. She lowered herself and then crossed one leg over the other, so Maxwell could see her neat, bare toes.
“Does the lady have a preference?”
“You name it.”
“All Fours? Vingt-et-un?”
“All Fours will get me warmed up.” She laced
her fingers and cracked her knuckles. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Maxwell bit back a smile, dropped the cards in his palm and shuffled. Oh, he was all smugness and pride tied up in a neat, white cravat. He placed the cards on the table and allowed her to cut.
She spoke as she did so, gazing into his eyes. “Jack is lucky to have you. I doubt all the servants look after his wellbeing with the same zeal that you do.” She palmed her first card, believing in luck and Lady Fortune, who seemed to have been smiling on her since meeting Jack.
Maxwell finished shuffling and passed the cards.
“A farthing a trick,” she said. Her seven cards would surely beat his six.
“Agreed.”
Trump was determined. She’d palmed the jack of hearts and had to hold back her own triumphant grin.
The old stick in the mud. He didn’t know he’d already lost, but he reached into his waistcoat and placed several small coins on the table.
They played silently. Imogene counted cards, keeping track of highs and lows and watching every pip as if it were a pound. By the tenth hand, he tugged at his plainly knotted cravat. “Shall well try some Vingt-et-un?”
Imo leaned forward. Her breasts appeared particularly large in the pink dress and very well-exposed. She scooped the cards together. “Beginner’s luck, Maxwell. I’m sure you’ll win a few hands at this game.”
Imo had a tidy little pile of farthings, surrendering only one coin in the woefully one-sided game.
Maxwell finally called a halt to the embarrassing rout when he’d decided he’d lollygagged long enough.
“Oh Maxwell. I forgot to tell you one thing. I do cheat,” she said as they stood. “So if you think I should give your money back, I will.” Another nail in his coffin of pride.
“Miss Farrell, if you cheated, I would know. And besides, displaying your bare feet to a man unmoved by such temptations can hardly be considered cheating.”
“You’re letting me win because of Lord Jack. That is very considerate of you,” Imo fawned, giving him a way out and another avenue for beating him. If he was too concerned what Jack thought about his beating her in cards, she would use that to her advantage as well. Life had never been about fairness.