On These Silken Sheets

by Sabrina Darby

  Olivia nodded mutely.

  Maggie sighed. What was done was done. She couldn’t fix the past, but she could ensure that she never made such a mistake again. Nothing, not even one amazing night of passion, was worth her family’s discomfort.

  Her traitorous pussy clenched in remembrance and Maggie closed her eyes for a moment to erase the wave of dizzying need.

  “Ask Betty to bring some tea, will you, dear?”

  When Emma ran off to find the maid, Maggie sat down, a bit indelicately, on the sofa.

  Dear Lord, she was bone tired. Delightfully so.

  “Aunt Grace asked, as her husband’s mother is going back to Bath, if I’d like to stay with her for a fortnight. Next week, that is,” Olivia said, sitting down opposite.

  “What did you say?” Maggie asked with a sigh. Her sister-in-law, Grace Malwerk, was convinced she knew how to take care of Thomas’s eldest daughter better than Maggie did. The woman thought her higher pedigree and marriage to the great-nephew of an earl put her leaps and bounds above Maggie.

  Perhaps it did. She sighed again. Admittedly, at fifty, Grace could be more of an authority figure for Olivia. It had been very odd at fifteen to become mother to an eleven-year-old. Especially one who had been taught to look down upon a country girl.

  “I said I’d have to ask you, naturally. She sent a note for you today. It’s in the entry.”

  That, at least, was a relief. No need to worry about Grace showing up and ringing a peal over her head for staying out all night. Maggie studied her stepdaughter. She was a pretty girl, blond hair like her father, a rounded, well-proportioned form. She danced gracefully, sang beautifully, had all the other usual household accomplishments and a lovely dowry to top it all off. She should have her pick of any number of men.

  “What would you like to do?”

  “I think it would be fun. She has so many other connections, you know. Not that Lady Blount isn’t a fine woman, but she hasn’t actually invited me to anything.”

  “Darling, you were invited to the play.” However, Maggie was very grateful Livvie had chosen to attend a soiree with her aunt instead. She would never have had such a night otherwise.

  “I want to go to the theater!” Emma came running back into the room. She threw herself on the sofa beside Maggie and laid her head on her lap.

  As Maggie ran a hand over her daughter’s braided hair, she was doubly grateful. After all, last night was likely the only decadent night she would have.

  Chapter Nine

  All the way home, a thought nagged at Oakley that he had forgotten something. Still woolly-headed from the night of passion, he checked his pockets for all his belongings: pocket watch, purse, cards, handkerchief. Nothing was missing.

  When he arrived at his townhouse, his always-stoic butler, Davis, gaped at him, dumbfounded by Oakley’s rumpled appearance.

  “Have a bath drawn,” Oakley ordered, even as he climbed the stairs.

  Only once he was within his own bedroom did he remember.

  “The speech!”

  “Did it go well, sir?” Justin Thorpe, his valet, inquired as he helped Oakley to undress.

  “No,” Oakley said with disgust, biting out the words. “It did not go well as I did not give it.”

  Thorpe’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “Don’t look at me like that!” Naked, Oakley strode across the room and through the door to the bathing room, where the tub had been filled with steaming water. As the chill air raised gooseflesh on his body, he realized that only two days ago, he would have pulled on his robe to make even such a short journey. “I’m a fool,” he declared, stepping into the tub.

  “No one would ever call you a fool, my lord.”

  “Hah!” Oakley sank down into the bath, enjoying the lightly scented water that washed away her scent. His sea goddess, Amphitrite.

  Hah! Oakley echoed again, silently. She was hardly a sea goddess, simply a very skilled whore who had woven an impressive spell around him.

  His cock stiffened as he thought of all those impressive skills, her pointed, unerring tongue, her engulfing heat…Unconsciously, he arched back in the tub.

  A small cough from the corner reminded him of Thorpe’s presence, and Oakley dragged his thoughts away from the witch.

  “Have you ever heard of Harridan House, Thorpe?” Oakley asked, reaching for the bar of soap.

  “Harridan House, my lord?”

  “It’s a club, a private club I believe, practically a brothel.” His voice was laced with derision, but Oakley knew the ridicule was aimed solely at himself, at his own lack of discretion and responsibility. Against his better judgment he had engaged in activities that had compromised his position in society.

  “I see, my lord.” Thorpe sounded intrigued. “Is it only for Quality, sir?”

  “I’m not certain,” Oakley mused. “There are gentry there as well. I recognized an MP from the lower house. But there is some level of exclusivity, I believe.”

  “Did you enjoy your visit, my lord?”

  Oakley turned to his valet and caught the smirk before the other man wiped the amused expression away.

  Actually, I did, Oakley thought. I enjoyed it so much that I forgot myself and my duties completely.

  “More hot water, Thorpe,” he said instead, standing in the deep porcelain tub. As the water ran down his body, he imagined it took with it all the residue of his encounter, leaving him clean and free to return to his normal life.

  But no amount of water could erase the thought of her small, lovely breasts in his hands, the pink nipples hard under his thumbs.

  Chapter Ten

  Tell me all,” Diana insisted. Maggie shied away from her friend’s lascivious curiosity, out of place here in her modest sitting room, in the bright light of day. “I’ve already had a report from my maid, Lucy.”

  The encounter had faded in Maggie’s mind to some erotic dream that she couldn’t shake. Hard to believe it had actually happened.

  “She said the two of you wanted a bath, and a late supper, and then breakfast. You didn’t leave the club till well after noon.”

  Maggie flushed.

  “Yes, and I forgot completely to send Emma and Olivia a note that I’d be away,” she complained. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  Diana laughed. “Abstinence my dear, that’s what came over you. Three years of abstinence and you were starving for some cock.”

  “Di!” Maggie gaped at the vulgar word. It was one thing entirely to use those words in the bedchamber, but here in the sitting room?

  “I do own a sex club, Maggie-doll,” Diana chided, “I won’t pretend to any false modesty, at least not around you. In any event, Lucy said you screamed with the best of them.”

  This time Maggie turned beet red. The thought of Diana’s maid eavesdropping on her activities was mortifying.

  “Is her account true?”

  A quick flash of her own cries, of the man’s mouth on her clitoris, his tongue licking delicate circles around her sensitive flesh sent an exquisitely sharp pang of longing right through her core. He was a fast learner, her Poseidon.

  “Yes,” Maggie managed, fighting against the memory. “The man was…very accommodating.”

  Diana laughed again. “You have a rather droll habit of understatement, my dear cousin.”

  “Yes, well…” Maggie trailed off, playing with her dress, “I was completely irresponsible. If you had seen the look on Emma’s face.”

  “You are entirely too hard on yourself,” Diana interrupted quickly. “You are a young woman who has been locked up for three years in Exeter. One night is hardly a reason to flagellate yourself. Unless, of course, you do it for pleasure.”

  “Di!” Maggie gaped, wondering if such a thing could be pleasurable.

  “Next time you’ll send a note,” Diana continued, not fazed by Maggie’s shocked outcry.

  “Next time.”

  “There will be a next time, darling,” Diana insisted. “Pe
rhaps not with the handsome Poseidon but with the man you choose to make your lover…or your next husband.”

  “Di,” Maggie asked hesitantly, “do you truly sleep with all those different men? When you are Madame Rouge?”

  Diana shook her head, with a small, almost embarrassed smile.

  “When I am Madame Rouge, I prefer to maintain my distance. Once in a while, very rarely, I take a man to my bed at Harridan House. But mostly, I enjoy what I learn about all these society fops when they are at their most animalistic. It does help me to choose my lovers. It’s how I chose Lord Shelby.”

  Maggie nodded. Diana had pointed out her current lover at the theater.

  “Madame Rouge, you see, is my way of keeping an eye on the proceedings. Ensuring the quality of the establishment.” Diana laughed again, and then leaned closer to her. “Sometimes, when I am away, or indisposed, I have Lucy dress up in one of my costumes and pretend to be me. Her bust is much the same as mine. In a turban, mask and dim light, that is all it takes to confuse these poor men.”

  Maggie nodded again, hoping that was true. It meant there was less chance of anyone recognizing either of them through their flimsy disguises.

  Chapter Eleven

  Later that night, at a soiree in the respectable home of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Cartwright, Esq., Maggie sat on the sidelines with the other wives and widows. Ostensibly, she was listening to their chatter while keeping an eye on Olivia, who danced an impromptu country set with one of the young men. However, Maggie’s thoughts were far away. As still as her body was, her blood was boiling, overheated from images that would not leave her mind.

  His chest had been beautiful, broad and muscular, covered with a fine smattering of hair that had rubbed against her breasts erotically. The same fine hair covered his arms, tapering down to his hands—those well-defined, strong hands that had lifted her effortlessly, touched her everywhere and entered her.

  Her pussy grew hot and full as she thought of those fingers, slipping in and out like she had asked, his tongue joining.

  Maggie caught herself just as she started to lean back in her chair, her eyes closing. Dear Lord, at the rate she was going she’d have an orgasm right there in Mrs. Cartwright’s drawing room without even lifting a finger.

  She pressed her legs together tightly. As if that could ease the warm fullness between her legs!

  She sighed heavily. It was too bad that she couldn’t afford to see that man again. The one night had only whetted her appetite for more.

  For more of him. He had been perfect for her, perfect for experimentation, for the first foray. Some time in the future, after she settled Olivia with some respectable young man, she’d find herself a lover and be far more discreet and careful than to ever let little Emma suspect.

  As they drove home, Olivia was chatty with excitement.

  “Do you think Mr. Smith will call on me?”

  “It would only be polite after dancing with you twice to give some sort of indication of his admiration.”

  “His admiration,” Olivia sighed. Maggie smiled, for once in charity with her stepdaughter. It wasn’t often the younger girl asked her opinion in any sort of serious way. She usually just gave polite lip service to the idea that Maggie was in any way her mother.

  “And just when I’ve decided to stop with Aunt Grace for a while.” Olivia sighed again.

  “You aren’t going for another week,” Maggie reminded her. “If he doesn’t call before then, he isn’t a man you’ll wish to worry about.”

  “True.” Olivia studied her. “Margaret, are you ever going to remarry? Are you looking for a husband while we’re here as well?”

  Maggie stared at her in shock. Did the girl know, somehow suspect? She shook her head. Impossible. Livvie’s mind was simply on men and marriage. It was natural for her to wonder.

  “I might someday,” Maggie admitted. “But I wasn’t thinking this year. This season is yours, dear.”

  Olivia seemed pleased by that.

  “I agree,” she said. “It just wouldn’t seem right if my mother were trying to marry before me.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I want you to kiss every inch of me, my neck, my breasts, my hands, my thighs, my cunt.”

  It was all very well and good to castigate himself for missing his speech, to vow never to step foot in that club again or lose himself like that. It would have been an easy task, if he didn’t have Amphitrite’s insidiously erotic words running through his head and the impossible image of her naked body spread across the scarlet sheets.

  At least the voluminous ceremonial robe conveniently hid his rather rampant erection. He’d received enough ridicule from his peers for missing his speech the other day. Ridicule from some and censure from others. Due to his carelessness, the motion at hand would be postponed unless the House unanimously decided to allow it to be put forth.

  Not likely. Not in this political climate, with Sweden as Britain’s only ally and all this hullabaloo in the Iberian Peninsula.

  The unyielding red bench had never felt so hard and the debate had never sounded so cacophonous to Oakley’s ears.

  He found himself fidgeting, tapping his fingers, looking up to where the light shone through the high windows, the angle of the sun indicating it was almost time for lunch. A sidelong look at his pocket watch revealed it was three quarters of an hour until noon.

  He knew exactly what he wanted for lunch. Or rather, whom. Rather than accompany his mentor, Lord Marsdon, to a meal at their usual tavern, he wanted to play hooky and hie across town to that very odd Harridan House. He wanted to find his sea goddess. He wanted to thrust his cock into her ocean.

  Bah! That was a horrible piece of metaphor. Oakley grimaced. His cock into her ocean? Certainly, he could find a more romantic way to describe these very carnal desires. He was hardly the long-dead, debauched Lord Rochester, peddling smut through verse.

  Why should his thoughts of this woman be romantic? he chided himself. She was a whore and it was all about fucking.

  Apparently he had been, and still was, in great need of fucking. That word had never entered his mind so frequently or so satisfactorily before.

  All around him, the Lords stood up. A final vote before breaking. But on what? What had he missed? He had been sitting here daydreaming about poetry and fucking, for what must be the thousandth time this hour, and he had completely missed something obviously important.

  He shook the thoughts from his head. He didn’t need distractions. Being jilted gave him the excuse to visit that infamous club for one night. It did not give him license to completely throw away his duty.

  He stood up. Two chambers for the Scottish courts of session, that was what they voted on now.

  Two, the numbers of times he had brought her to climax that following morning.

  He passed through the door, indicating he was content with the bill as it was.

  She had tasted so sweet. And her kisses had been sharp, the desire nearly piercing his gut with the intensity.

  “To lick me at the center of my being until I explode, and then I want you to fill me up and take me there again.” He had taken her there. Further than he had ever imagined, his own stamina increased tenfold. Riding her, he had felt like a stallion.

  And he had also felt like a young lad, first learning the mysteries of a woman.

  He would get her out of his mind. There was too much to do; the country was at war.

  The short hand on his watch read twelve more minutes till noon.

  Chapter Thirteen

  This was ridiculous, Oakley thought as he stroked himself to orgasm. It had been five days since he’d fucked the whore—he deliberately used the word to remind himself—and he could concentrate on nothing but her silken body, her passionate cries, the feel of her under his tongue and around his cock.

  He stared at the underside of the bed’s canopy, his eyes following the thin, designed lines of the fabric.

  He gave in to thoughts of her as the sensation
s rose.

  What he should do, he mused in the momentary satiation, was find the woman and have her again, get her out of his blood.

  It was a sensible-enough idea. If he had her a few more times, the novelty would wear off and his mind would be free to concentrate on his duties.

  A few hours later, for the first time in his life, Oakley deliberately sought out Sir Robert George. He found the man eating lunch at their club.

  “Come, Lord Oakley, have a seat. You know Lord Percy and Mr. Molineaux?” Younger than Sir Robert, Lord Percy had just inherited the family title but had yet to take his seat in the Lords.

  “Afternoon, gentlemen.” Oakley pretended to nonchalance. “Actually, Sir Robert, I’m in a bit of a hurry, must get back to Committee. I beg a moment of your time.”

  “Certainly.” The baronet raised his brows in curiosity, but excused himself and followed Oakley a few steps away. “How can I help you, Lord Oakley?”

  “If you don’t mind, I was hoping you’d invite me as your guest again to that club.”

  “Ha ha!”

  Oakley winced as the other man clapped him on the back. “It’s an insidious place, isn’t it? I must assume your night went well!”

  “Yes, rather.” Oakley nodded.

  “Mine was titillating if not satisfying,” Sir Robert confided. “I had the pleasure of Madame Rouge’s company while I had three different women, none of whom was her. She’s a teasing witch, she is.”

  Oakley nodded again. If he had to listen to the man’s exploits in order to see his little sea goddess again, he would.

  “I was thinking of a visit tonight, as it happens,” Sir Robert said.

  “Excellent.”

  “If you wish, I’ll sponsor you for a membership,” Sir Robert reminded him.

  As he made his way back to Parliament, Oakley didn’t think it would come to that. One more night with the woman was all he needed. He simply had a few oats in his system he needed to sow.