Lords of Desire

by Virginia Henley, Sally MacKenzie, Victoria Dahl

  Tilting her hips, she urged him on, urged him into a rhythm, one she quickly matched, thrust for thrust. She felt wild, wicked, wanton. Wonderful.

  “Your cunny’s so tight, so wet,” he murmured, his lips hot against her neck.

  Heaven help her, she’d never heard such coarse words spoken aloud. She knew she should be shocked—outraged, even. And yet…and yet she’d never heard anything so erotic, so sinfully arousing.

  “Look at me, John,” she demanded, suddenly desperate to see his face, to look into those piercing eyes, so full of longing, while he said such wicked things to her.

  His gaze rose to meet hers, their lips just inches apart, their heavy breaths mingling as their bodies moved as one. His eyes were heavy-lidded, the pupils nearly fully dilated. “You’re so very lovely, Christobel. Christ,” he swore, the corded muscles in his neck standing out.

  She ran her fingers through his hair, damp now from perspiration. Sighing with pleasure, she trailed a finger down his temple, across his whiskers, over the curve of his lips. Into his mouth her finger dipped, and soon he was sucking it, sucking her finger with a firm pressure that made her gasp, her entire body beginning to buck against his as the speed of his thrusts increased. Nothing had prepared her for this—this overload of pleasure, this complete and total surrender of her senses.

  At once, everything began to quiver inside her, to tingle as she hovered over some unknown precipice, just waiting to tumble over into…something. “Good God, John, harder. Oh!” She bit her lip till she tasted blood.

  And then everything seemed to explode, pinpoints of light nearly blinding her as she closed her eyes in ecstasy, her insides pulsing against his shaft, which was still buried deep inside her.

  He called out her name, his voice breaking on the last syllable as he roughly withdrew himself and pressed his still-erect organ against her. A hot, sticky wetness pumped out onto her thigh, warming her bare skin as she attempted to catch her breath.

  “Oh, John,” she murmured, wanting to cry as a vast emptiness tore through her. Oh, how she wanted him back inside her, wanted him to hold her in his arms until she stopped trembling.

  Grasping her chin with his thumb and forefinger, he raised her face, forcing her gaze to meet his. “Christobel, I”—he swallowed hard, and all she could think was that if he apologized, she would scream.

  And then she heard a peal of laughter, coming from outside. “Shall we try in here?” a voice called out.

  Edith.

  “Dear God, no!” she whispered, shoving down her skirts and attempting to tug up her drawers, all at once.

  Any moment now, Edith would discover them. And when she did…

  No. It was simply unthinkable.

  CHAPTER 7

  The next moments were a blur of frenzied activity as both John and Christobel set about righting their clothing. Any moment now, Edith would be at the door—the locked door. However would they explain it?

  Not a minute later, the door rattled loudly. “It’s locked,” she heard Edith say. “Can you look through the window there?”

  Christobel shrank back against the wall, John beside her, his breath coming as fast as hers. Please, God, don’t let us be discovered. Not like this.

  Not two years past, her sister Miriam had been caught in a compromising position with a young army officer. Miriam had married him straightaway, though the gossip had taken months to die down. At the time, Christobel’s mother had begged her to never put her in such an embarrassing situation as Miriam had, and Christobel had been indignant. She would never do anything of the sort, she’d sworn. And now here she was, breaking her promise in the worst way possible. Why, this would be the scandal of the year!

  “There’s no one inside,” Jasper called out. “Come on, let’s keep searching.”

  Had Jasper seen them? She couldn’t be sure. Her eyes began to fill with tears, but she willed them to remain at bay.

  John reached for her hand. “I’m so sorry, Christobel,” he said, his voice soft and gentle.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “Don’t apologize. Just don’t…don’t say anything.”

  “They’re gone now. Follow me out, and we’ll make our way back around the pond. We can claim we were hiding in the grove and grew tired of the game.”

  “But the grove’s out of bounds,” she said, her throat constricting uncomfortably. Blast it, if only her heart would slow down. It felt like it was about to burst.

  “Better out of bounds than admitting we were here.”

  “Of course,” she said with a nod. “You’re right. I…I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “Follow me.” He reached for her hand. “And don’t say a word.”

  “I’m sorry, Sir Edmund,” Christobel said brightly. “You were saying?” She set her wineglass down on the table, horrified to see that her hand shook as she did so.

  “I was just saying that you haven’t touched a bite of your supper. Are you feeling unwell?”

  Ever since both Miss Allens had come down with a touch of la grippe, everyone worried over the slightest digestive twinge, though Beatrice and Grace seemed entirely recovered. In fact, Beatrice sat on the opposite side of Sir Edmund now, as vivacious as ever.

  Christobel had done everything possible to direct the man’s attention toward Beatrice rather than herself throughout the interminable meal, with very little success. It would seem that Sir Edmund would not be deterred on his mission to flatter her as excessively as possible, the ninny.

  Could he not take a hint?

  “I’m feeling perfectly well, thank you.” She pushed away her plate of champagne-and-primrose jelly, forcing her lips to curve into a smile. “I vow, I must have overindulged in tea cakes this afternoon. I suppose they ruined my appetite.”

  “But not your figure,” he answered cheerfully. “It remains as lovely as ever.”

  She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she retrieved her wineglass and took a sip of the scarlet-colored liquid. It took an amazing amount of restraint to keep from tossing back the entire contents of the glass at once. I’d like to be tipsy, she thought. So tipsy that I cannot think or feel or remember.

  John sat mere inches away, on her left. He’d spent most of the meal engaged in quiet conversation with Miss Bartlett, who sat to his left, looking lovely in a gauzy, soft mauve gown.

  Christobel’s mouth went suddenly dry. She took yet another sip of sweet wine, wishing beyond hope that it would soothe her nerves.

  “May I pour you some more?” Sir Edmund asked, reaching for the cut-glass decanter that sat before them.

  She examined her glass, surprised to find it almost empty. She’d need more, if she were to get through this night—thankfully the last night of Edith’s party.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said, pushing the glass toward him.

  “You must come and visit us at Longberry, Miss Smyth,” he said as he poured. “You and Mrs. Smyth both. My sister Josephine acts as my hostess, and she’d delight in your company.”

  “Longberry?” Her tongue felt strangely thick in her mouth.

  “Indeed. My estate in Kent, near Tunbridge Wells. It’s particularly lovely in the springtime—rolling green pastures carpeted with bluebells, the magnolias coming into flower, wisteria climbing the back of the house. If Kent is the Garden of England, then Longberry is its crown jewel. You simply must see it.”

  “It does sound charming,” she murmured.

  “I believe you’d feel right at home there, Miss Smyth,” he said, a bit too pointedly.

  Christobel took another sip of wine. He was waiting for a response, no doubt, but she could think of nothing to say that would not offer encouragement.

  Mercifully, Beatrice asked him a question about his gardens, temporarily diverting his attention. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she placed her hands in her lap, twisting her napkin between her fingers. Every fiber of her being was painfully aware of John’s presence there beside her. For perhaps, oh
, the tenth time in the past hour, the sleeve of his coat brushed her bare arm, sending shivers down her spine.

  If anyone knew…if anyone found out what they’d done, she’d be ruined. Ruined. However could she have been so foolish? No one knows, she assured herself. Just as they’d planned, they’d left the old mill and made their way around the pond, and then back to the house. They’d been scolded for abandoning the game, but if anyone had noticed anything was amiss, they gave no indication of it, not even Edith.

  And now she was forced to sit, hurting in places she’d never before hurt, and make polite conversation with Sir Edmund while her stomach pitched queerly and her whole body ached for the other man beside her, who was seemingly oblivious to her presence—a fact that bothered her far more than she liked to admit.

  Beneath the table she clutched her skirts, wishing desperately to stop her hands from trembling so.

  And then she felt it—a finger, not her own, grazing her thigh. John’s hand, searching for hers. She swallowed hard, ordering her features to remain impassive as he stroked her wrist with featherlight touches. His skin was hot, his own fingers trembling as he laced them with hers.

  Her body responded intuitively, dampening her drawers with need. She trained her gaze on the plate changer before her, refusing to turn toward him though she was exquisitely aware of him watching her with a sidelong, furtive glance.

  Oh, how she wanted him! She knew it was wrong—dangerous, even. And yet she could not help herself. The events of the day had changed her irrevocably and nothing in her life would ever be the same again.

  At the far end of the table, Edith caught her eye. “Heavens, Christobel, you’re dreadfully flushed!” she called out, her voice rising in alarm.

  “Am I?” she managed, her hand still joined with John’s beneath the table.

  “Indeed, Miss Smyth,” Sir Edmund offered.

  John cleared his throat. “Perhaps she’s only sunburnt. She was out in the grove without a parasol this afternoon for nearly an hour.”

  “And I suppose she refused to stay beneath the shade of a tree,” Edith said with a laugh. “That sounds just like Christobel.”

  John released her hand and trailed his fingers across her thigh. Somehow, despite the layers of clothing and undergarments, his thumb managed to find the sensitive nub of flesh between her legs, and Christobel could not help but gasp as he stroked her, right there at the supper table.

  “I say, Miss Smyth,” Sir Edmund said sotto voce, “I shall be very sorry to take my leave tomorrow.”

  “I…oh! I shall be sorry, too,” she said hurriedly. Anything to shut him up.

  Dear God, this had to stop. John had gone mad, behaving like this at her sister’s supper table! Worse still, she was allowing it, enjoying it. Of course, after what they’d done in the abandoned mill—

  “If you’ll excuse me,” she said abruptly, rising on wobbly legs. She nearly knocked over her wineglass with her elbow, but caught it just in time, clasping her fingers tightly around the stem. “I…I think perhaps I am unwell. If you’ll excuse me.”

  “Poor Miss Smyth,” she heard Sir Edmund say as she rushed out of the room. “I do hope it isn’t la grippe.”

  A quarter hour later, Christobel lay tucked into bed, staring up at the ceiling. Her stomach pitched and railed, but not from la grippe. I’m a coward, she realized as confusion and indecision rattled her brain.

  It was the second time in so many days that she’d falsely claimed a malady and run off with her tail between her legs. An unusual occurrence, as Christobel had never before lacked the fortitude to face her troubles head-on, no matter what form they took.

  But this…this was beyond the pale. She’d allowed a man—John Leyden, at that—to touch her in ways no other man had ever touched her. She’d given up her virtue without the slightest hesitation, without even considering the consequences of her actions. No man had ever tempted her as John had—in fact, no other man had ever come close.

  In just a matter of days, she’d gone from almost complete indifference toward him to…to this. Just what this was, she wasn’t entirely sure. Admiration? Lust? Love? All three, perhaps?

  The sound of laughter drifted up from the drawing room below. Any moment now, the musicians would begin tuning their instruments, readying for the concert Edith had planned for the evening’s entertainment.

  Her heart racing, Christobel turned over on her side to face the window where a faint sliver of moonlight shone through the gap between the heavy drapes and the window sash. A frisson of fear shot through her belly as she clutched at the linens.

  Whatever is going through John’s mind right now? She could only wonder what his feelings were toward her, what his intentions were. As was his fashion, he’d said very little. I must speak with him, she resolved. Alone. First thing in the morning, she would seek him out. She would speak frankly, openly, honestly.

  Of course, exactly what she’d say, she had no idea. She could only hope that, by the morn, everything would at last be crystal clear.

  Until then, well…what was the harm in reliving every touch, every wicked sensation? Burying her face in the pillow, she muffled a groan. Surely it wasn’t at all proper for her to have enjoyed it as much as she had.

  Still, she couldn’t help but reach down, under her silk nightgown, to the place that John had so expertly stroked at the supper table. Where he learned such skills, she did not wish to know—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate them.

  A moment later, a knock sounded upon the door. Startled, she sat up, clutching the bedclothes around her. “Simpson?” she called out, her heart thumping noisily.

  The door opened, a dark figure slipping inside. “Shh,” someone whispered, then turned the key in the lock.

  Downstairs, the musicians began to play. “John?” she whispered. “Dear God, please say it’s you.”

  “We must be quiet,” he said, moving toward her in the darkness.

  Christobel could barely make out his face. “Are you mad? Surely we’ll get caught.”

  “No, we won’t.” He sat down beside her, cupping her face in his hands. “Everyone is downstairs, enjoying the concert. I’ll be gone before the last note is played.”

  Christobel shook her head wildly, trying to clear away the cobwebs. “I’m imagining this. I must be drunk—too much wine.”

  “Do you want me to go?” he asked. “Just say the word and—”

  “No!” she breathed, laying a palm against his cheek, now rough with stubble. “Don’t go. Stay.”

  She felt him nod, and she sighed in relief. “I was just…just thinking about you,” she whispered, inhaling his now-familiar masculine scent.

  The music below grew louder, more lively, though she could not name the piece.

  “Don’t speak,” he said, his mouth drawing closer to hers, his breath warm on her cheek. “Just let me show you”—his lips brushed tantalizingly against hers—“what I was just thinking about,” he finished before his mouth crushed hers.

  They kissed deeply, hungrily. Her senses reeled, the room seeming to tip on its axis as she gave herself up to every sensation, every touch, every smell, every taste. An electric current raced over her skin as he pressed her back against the pillows, his body held rigid above hers.

  “Your hair is so soft, so beautiful,” he said, curling one lock around his finger. “I’ve never before seen it down.”

  Laughing softly, Christobel took a tendril and drew it across his cheek—tempting, teasing.

  With a groan, he reached for the hem of her nightgown, tugging it out from beneath her hips. In one quick motion, he slipped it over her head, leaving her entirely bare. Despite the heat running through her veins, she shivered.

  “All these years you’ve tortured me,” he growled. “Now you must let me torture you.”

  His mouth was on her skin now, warming it, trailing hot kisses from the curve of her shoulder down to her breasts, her belly. Desire pooled in the pit of her stomach, m
aking her breath come faster as he made lazy circles with his tongue just below her navel.

  She writhed beneath him, nearly crazed with lust. “John,” she whimpered, arching up off the mattress, instinctively knowing where his mouth was going next before it happened, before she felt his tongue there.

  His breath hot and ragged against her, he parted her with his tongue, did things she could not name to her tender flesh, things that made her entire body quiver.

  As if on cue, the music swelled to a crescendo in the drawing room below as he brought her closer and closer to release. Her hips began to buck as she gave herself up to the wondrous sensations.

  This was torture, yes. Delicious, wonderful torture. For a split second she teetered there on the edge of ecstasy. And then, just as the last plaintive notes sounded from below, she tumbled headlong into the abyss, turning her face to the pillow to muffle her cries of pleasure.

  Applause rang out as Christobel struggled to catch her breath. She felt John move away, a rush of cold air replacing his body’s warmth. “Don’t go,” she murmured, reaching for his hand.

  “I must,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Though it’s near enough killing me.”

  Their fingers met, then slipped apart as he moved away, toward the door.

  Still panting, she fell back against the pillows, her damp hair fanning out around her. “John?” she whispered dazedly, wondering if perhaps this had been a lovely dream.

  “Tomorrow, Christobel,” he said, then slipped out.

  Not five minutes later, she fell into a deep, restful sleep, a smile still playing upon her lips.

  CHAPTER 8

  Christobel didn’t get to speak with John first thing in the morning, after all.

  Tomorrow, Christobel, he’d said. Yet tomorrow was here, and he was gone. Had she dreamed it? She’d overslept, thanks to the wine she’d drunk at dinner, and John had apparently left in his motorcar just after dawn with no word of where he’d gone off to, or when he would return.