by Eliza Lloyd
All the cards were in her hand, so to speak. He was distracted by her feet, or he wouldn’t have mentioned the fact. A man like Maxwell wouldn’t mention her breasts. He was too proud to acknowledge he could be duped by a mere girl who admitted to cheating. And there was that invisible axe hanging over his head. Did he beat his employer’s mistress at cards? Or face the possibility she would go running to Jack over the small slight?
“Mr. Davenport is not a lord, but he appreciates an honest win, even if it is against a lady.”
He said lady with a bit of a question.
It must be hell to operate under a gentleman’s rules.
Maxwell had played into her hands. Tomorrow she’d see if she could fleece a few more of the household servants. And keep her mind occupied so they didn’t cart her off to Bedlam from the sheer boredom of life as a kept woman.
Aside from a few hours in Jack’s company, the hours stretched on like the endless wide ocean. Tomorrow, when she went to Fitzroy Square, she was going to locate her trousers. Maybe she could find a way to get out and explore without the escort. Jack would understand if she needed a little freedom.
Chapter Six
Jack’s panic had everything to do with his bizarre relationship with the tempting Imogene. She personified freedom, irresponsibility and simplicity. She was everything he would lose upon his marriage to the beautiful and praiseworthy Miss Catherine Jennison.
Imogene was also unbridled, untutored passion and she burned in his arms as he loved her and fucked himself into a much-needed oblivion.
He’d asked for nothing. The moment he strode into the house she’d taken on a sultry look that demanded the very thing he craved. She’d hurried up the stairs beside him. At her door, she tore at his cravat and yanked his jacket down his arms. He’d backed her against the door and plunged his tongue into her waiting mouth. Her mouth, open and hot, answered every hard caress.
His cock strained against his trousers. Dainty but strong palms slid under his shirt and then clawed into his breeches. Her nails dug into his arse. He bit at her neck.
Jack struggled to slip the buttons of his trousers. Once free, he felt the leggings slip downward. “Lift your skirt,” he murmured against her skin. Silken swaths of pink brushed against his thighs. Her arms wrapped around his neck, clinging and possessive.
He gripped her upper thighs and lifted. She wrapped her legs about him like she was a living vine. She wore no undergarments, a further testament to her natural predisposition toward seduction.
Heat engulfed him as he plunged in deep and hard. Her body received him, squeezing, as she bore down with both her cunny and the steely muscles of her legs. Wild and determined, she rocked against him as much as he pumped into her.
Fire tore through him as his climax came too fast. Withering with disappointment, in mind and body, Jack relaxed. He was not doing much to satisfy his mistress.
Imogene bit his lip and slapped hard at his backside. Hard.
“No,” she said. “No. I want more.” Rubbing, she lifted herself, using the strength of her thighs. He surged a second time as the wet slide of her sheath brought new life to his used cock.
He unwrapped her legs, and once her feet hit the floor, he turned her, her chest to the door. With one strong hand, he held her wrists over her head. Pinned to the wall, Imogene gasped, not in shock, but in submission and want. One hand searched under her skirts, he bent his knees and came up hard inside her, lifting her to her toes with his first thrust.
“How much more can you take?”
“I can take you...any day,” she rasped between surges.
After spending hard and quick the first time, this time would make Imogene a believer. With his free hand, he slid his fingers over her supple hip and searched between her legs, finding the swollen nub. With infinite care, and not a little bit of revenge, he stroked until a climax built and Imogene melted.
He was sufficiently pleased with her response to make sure she came again with the same tender mercy and pitiless force. “More?” he whispered.
“No. No, I can’t.”
Jack pounded into her again, knowing he couldn’t make it much longer. He slid with ease, her cunny lubricated and swollen, still gripping him from the pulses of her last release.
“Jack,” she moaned. “Jack.” Her throaty scream of pleasure gave way to his final burst of energy and a swarm of hot seed spilling into her.
They panted in unison. Imogene’s eyes remained closed, allowing Jack to view her swollen, red lips and her perfect, kissable mouth, invitingly open as she gulped in air.
When Jack pulled away from her, the silken skirts fell to the floor in a rush. He backed up a few steps and sat in the side chair, reaching for his boots, which he tugged off. Imogene leaned against the door, still seemingly unable or unwilling to move.
“I think if it was like that every time, I wouldn’t want one farthing in payment.”
Jack chuckled. Leave it to Imogene to make him laugh.
He stood again, yanking his breeches around his waist. He slid his arms under her breasts and pulled her into his body. “It helps that you are so easy to please. Now, I need a bath, and I find the prospect of you joining me makes me most anxious.”
Once in the tub, Imogene sprawled naked in his arms. They weren’t getting much bathing done, but he did enjoy the slippery, warm feel of her body. She was most generous in using her lips to touch him when she wasn’t asking questions.
Her breasts were squeezed against his chest and his hand rested on one of her arse cheeks. Contentment like this was rare and very welcome after his bout of terror this afternoon.
“What did you do at Twenty Acres?” she asked.
He’d taken an interest in her shell-shaped ear and ran his finger around the soft cartilage. “Investing in a shipment of goods bound for America.”
“Like what?”
“French wines to New York and Boston.”
“French wines? So you deal with old D’Abner? He’s the best Frenchie on the docks. At least at Twenty Acres. Knows everybody. Knows wine too. I heard tell he could smell the difference between a Burgundy and a Bordeaux at ten paces.”
“You know all about wines, do you?”
She soaped her hands and then traced a pattern over his nipple.
“No, just what I heard at the docks. Everybody talks. If you want premium tea, you talk with Ping Lao, the Chinaman, or Collingsworth, the Englishman from Leeds. He has an office right there at Twenty Acres. Wool, you go to the MacNeirny brothers.”
“Yes, I’ve heard of the MacNeirnys. And what do your sources say about Charles Polley?”
“Polley? Not sure I know that name. Maybe Danny does. What does he look like?”
“Tall as I am. Thinning hair with a missing little finger.”
“Red hair? Black mole on his left ear?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“I knows him,” she said with disgust and then rolled in his arms, her bottom settling in a most arousing way across his groin. Water sloshed over the edge of the tub. She sighed and then propped one leg on the rim. Jack’s mind wondered to the easy access she provided, but he wanted to hear about Polley.
“Well? What do you know? If I’m going to do business with him, I should have some sort of character reference.”
“How’d you hear about him?”
Jack leaned his head back, trying to recall when and where exactly he’d gotten Polley’s name. “I can’t recall at the moment.”
“Well, he’s a thief and a liar. Ain’t no doubt about that. He has a new name about every two years. What I heard is that the shipments go out but only half of it arrives. Always some catastrophe or other. Last time he was around, his name was Charles Pool and before that Charles Polk. He finds some gullible city nob and fleeces ’em while he’s looking ’em right in the eye. My advice? Stay away from him.”
Jack mulled over her words. He wasn’t a bad judge of character, but this would have been the first time he�
�d worked with Polley. Where had he heard the name?
“Tell me the Frenchman’s name again.”
“D’Abner. He’s not over at Twenty Acres all the time. He has an office at Deptford too. I hope you didn’t give Polley any money. It’s as good as gone if you did.”
“No. Not until next week.”
“Take my advice and stay away from him, no matter who told you about him. Rotten cheater, that’s what he is.”
“I’ll talk to D’Abner.”
“Any time you need advice about Twenty Acres, you come to me. And if I don’t know, my brother does.”
Jack stared at the back of her head before he leaned and kissed the wet strands of her wild hair.
Imogene defined paradox. She couldn’t review accounting books, but she knew when a man might be thief. She had no sense of fashion but was adorned by nature’s finest gifts.
Defining Imogene would be a mistake. She defied descriptions he would apply to the proper women in his world. The singular constant of the yearlong pursuit and the one thing that brought them together was sex. He shook his head. And for all her noticeable lack, he was still having a noteworthy discussion about one of his investments with her. She probably didn’t realize how important the information was or how much money he’d been prepared to invest of his own funds, not to mention what he was about to borrow.
Money he could not afford to lose before the ship even set sail.
* * * * *
Panic was replaced by the merry doings of a ton function. When Jack saw his fiancée gowned in a silver confection and her blonde hair piled in a style she’d said was all the rage, he thought this afternoon’s reaction was overblown. She’d greeted him warmly, her small hand curled around his arm as they walked the perimeter of the room.
It would be no hardship being married to a woman with her beauty and nearly royal blood integrated into the Davenport line. Granted, nineteen people would have to die without birthing heirs before her father would be king, but Jack didn’t mind entertaining the idea that his sons could be little princes. It still surprised him that Catherine was willing to settle for a future earl, but she was the fourth daughter and none of the other Jennison daughters had married above a viscount. An earl would do, considering the limited availability of eligible nobility of his rank or above.
He was too much of a gentleman to think very long about her lack of fortune. Her dowry was modest and a nominal concern, considering her heredity.
For a short time, he played cards with Shiffington and several others, danced a set and the dinner waltz with Miss Jennison and flirted with the middle-aged hostess, his best friend’s mother. He enjoyed the cards, but whenever he sat down with Shiffington, he lost more money than he cared to, so he never stayed long.
As he waltzed with Catherine, he wondered if she’d mind very much if he strolled with her to the garden and kissed her. Since the betrothal, he’d been a pattern card of propriety with her. He would certainly like to kiss his future wife before their first night together, but she’d not even hinted that she’d be amenable to flirtation let alone such a scandalous request as a garden kiss hidden only by the shroud of darkness and a few bushes.
The waltz ended and, rather than ask, Jack led her to the side door.
“But, Mr. Davenport, the table is set and we will keep people waiting.”
“Do you not find it a bit hot inside? A stroll would be lovely beforehand.”
She gazed at him with trusting, innocent eyes, but let him lead the way. A twinge of guilt whipped at his conscience. He couldn’t imagine doing to Catherine what he had done with Imogene a few hours earlier. Imogene had that solid, unbreakable feel as he’d pounded into her; with Catherine, he thought her delicacy and femininity would require a certain tenderness Jack wasn’t sure he possessed.
Lanterns lit the pathway. Jack had been down this course before and it wasn’t a secluded or a dangerous sort of garden walkabout.
“Should we not have an escort?”
“Catherine, you will be my wife in a few months. I think we can stroll without causing anyone anxiety.”
“But Mother says a reputation once lost—”
“Is often rebuilt the moment the vows are proclaimed. But to assure you, I have no desire to compromise your character, only kiss you.”
He liked that she didn’t proclaim how improper such a kiss would be. Only her eyes showed any fear and they were rounded with hesitation. Catherine was so very virginal in her white gown and pearls. Nevertheless, he’d come outside to get his first kiss with his betrothed and that was what he would do. With his gloved finger, he tipped her chin upward and lowered his mouth to hers, carefully placing his anxious lips next to her quivering ones.
Very proper, very quick.
Very dull.
“There,” he said as he pulled away. Her eyes were closed and she wore a frozen expression on her face.
“Oh Jack. We should not do that again.”
And all would be well. She’d be the perfect noble wife who provided him two sons, at least, danced with him at every ball, shuffled the children off to school at Harrow by the time they were eight and then...
And then they would see each other at holidays and during the Season, living the rest of their lives as two entities joined by the flesh and blood of their children, rather than joined by some deeper, lasting commitment that would endure through hardship and joy, through lonely nights and overlong days.
Through one too many poems by Keats or Byron, Jack thought in disgust.
Catherine left shortly after dinner and since Jack had nothing better to do without her, he headed home too. Thoughts of Imogene warming his sheets brought a smile to his face.
“Riding in the morning, Jack?” Shiffington asked as they tripped down the steps on the way to Jack’s carriage.
“As long as it’s not too early.” Sex with Imogene was higher on his priority list than a jaunt on Rotten Row. Away from his home he could think about several matters at once, all with single-minded clarity. Around Imogene, he could think of nothing but the pleasure of headlong, hot-blooded shagging.
* * * * *
Shiffington had arrived mid-morning and taken Jack off to ride at Rotten Row, leaving Imogene on her own. Peeking out the window, she gazed after the two, but remembered the night last year when Shiffington, drunk and out of control, had demanded her services. Avoiding him seemed best, even with his friendship to Jack.
Imogene was left to her own devices again. Jack had roused her earlier, mumbling something about the convenience of having her beside him in bed when he woke. She’d lain on her stomach while Jack slipped into her from behind, her legs spread, his body sprawled over hers. Imogene had enjoyed the protective covering of his body. He was warm and hard and she had felt every inch of his body along hers. She’d smiled, even though he’d finished quickly and with a long, throaty groan sounding in her ear that made her shiver all the way to her toes.
He’d kissed her cheek and promised more later, leaving her to doze in bed.
After Jack left, the house sounds took on an empty hollowness that left her melancholy and irritable. Later, she stared out the window of Jack’s bedroom for nearly an hour, wanting to be outside without the constrictors of an escort or a dress or a lover.
The birds in the beech tree were free, just like she’d been. She tried to be thankful that she was more than protected from the dangers of the street and she had more food spread in front of her at the breakfast side table than she’d seen in the last month. The two things she’d worried about most of her life seemed resolved, yet she still had the gnawing unease of dishonesty.
Imogene straightened her shoulders, trying to imagine what she would have done had her brothers been with her.
So instead of doing nothing, she planned her day, remembering she had some cheating to facilitate. Thinking of Maxwell’s lively eyebrows and the farthings in her pot brought a new determination. She was interrupted while shaving the edges off the deck
of cards Maxwell had carelessly left in the library table.
A knock sounded at her door, and then an army of footmen carried boxes and trunks into her room. Maxwell and the lady’s maid Jack had assigned to her followed the troop of men and boxes. Imogene stood back, watching as Maxwell ordered the footmen about. Boxes were stacked on the bed and near the large armoire.
Her initial reaction was to demand what the hell they were doing. Her next guilty reaction was to hide the cards and knife under her pillow. She jumped from the bed and swiped at her skirts. She bit at her finger, knowing she was still a stranger in the house and making demands in her blunt fashion might embarrass Jack.
“What’s going on, Maxwell?”
“Some of your new clothes, Miss Farrell.”
“Clothes? I told the modiste I wanted just one dress. That’s what I told Jack.”
The maid lifted the lid on a round box and several purple and black feathers popped out.
“Is there a dead peacock in there?” She looked around the maid as she plucked the fancy topper from the velvet-lined box.
“No, miss, it’s a hat—and a more fashionable one I’ve never seen. Do you want to try it on?”
Imogene giggled while pressing her fingers to her lip. “A hat? Who would wear such a ridiculous-looking contraption? A hat? Jack paid money for that?”
“All of the finest ladies wear them, miss,” Libby said. She put the hat on Imo’s head. “You’ll look smashing walking along the Serpentine. Why, no one would ever know the truth.”
“Libby, do you not have dresses and whatnot to put away?” Maxwell said.
She blushed and then lifted the hat from Imo’s head. “Yes.” She curtsied to Imogene. “I’m sorry, miss. I’ll get right to it.”
Imogene stared for a few minutes as Libby pulled a new dress from each box, all in the colors she’d said she liked. Yellow. Pink. The prettiest lilac—she thought that was the color—of shiny satin. With one hand, she caressed the long skirt and wished she had a long swath of it to wrap around her naked body.