His tongue licked the tender skin at the crease of her inner thigh and she jerked, unprepared for the wave of sensitivity. “What are you doing?” Her husky whisper caused him to smile against her skin.
“I’m going to put my mouth on you and solve your problem, Angel.”
“I don’t think—”
A million emotions collided to tremble through her. The heat of his mouth, the cool ocean breeze, the fire-hot stroke of his tongue against her core tossed her helplessly into a rush of unadulterated sensation, a chasm of feeling so deep she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak. Her teeth sank into her lower lip to harness the scream that dared erupt. Each demanding, deliberate slide of his tongue dragged her under as if drowning in pleasure, while she writhed with impatience and longing. He held her hips firmly in place until she thought she couldn’t endure it any longer. And then, when she believed what she sought was truly out of reach, she shattered, a surge of intense bliss fired through to every nerve ending, leaving her body sated, overtaken by the swell of powerful pleasure. Never had anything felt so freeing, and she clung to the sensation already beginning to fade. She closed her eyes tighter to savor the moment.
Benedict couldn’t do it. No matter that he’d agreed to show her passion, and had, albeit a different form than intended, he couldn’t take her virtue, at least not completely—the responsibility of such an act was too similar to the misdeeds of his father. Yet he was a man after all and the temptress had provoked him to breaking point. He had no regrets. What he had was a wicked erection with no relief forthcoming.
He stood and reclaimed his clothes, sparing a glance for the lady’s angelic profile as he dressed. Her long lashes were quiet against her cheek, her lips parted on a fractured sigh. Had she fallen asleep, exhausted and sated from their love play? The way she’d reacted in the throes of passion—honest, naïve, and pure—made his soul ache in equal measure to his groin. Pity, some remnant of long-lost gallantry had found its way to the surface this evening. Still, it wasn’t wholly heroism that had kept his actions in check as much as the threat of another scandal at his feet. He’d never been one to dally with innocents and he certainly wasn’t going to start now, even though she claimed a country background and posed no aristocratic lineage. Whatever they had started, it could never end well.
He finished dressing, tied his hair, and knelt beside her on the blanket, bereaved to interrupt her satisfied sleep. This time tomorrow he’d be in London and the eight-hour coach ride had never seemed more appealing. He’d need to discern a plan to resolve his mother’s mess, but by nightfall he’d be in Elaine’s bed, his mistress a needed respite.
A prick of discomfort? Shame? He forced his eyes to Angel with the decision and he shook his head to rid the queer conclusion. He owed Angel nothing. Life would continue as usual and Elaine would welcome him with open arms.
Her eyes fluttered open, her brows lowered in question, as if she read his thoughts and objected.
“You’re leaving?” She sat up, quick to gather her night rail and wrapper from where they’d been abandoned.
“Not without you.” His voice sounded gravely, some unnamed emotion interfering.
“Thank you.” She slid the night rail over her head, her long hair tangling in the process, but she righted the garment and donned her wrapper with promptitude. “I’m ready.”
“You live in the cottage at the foot of South Downs?”
Her eyes grew wide with his statement. Apparently she hadn’t intended to reveal her residence and her reaction lightened the awkward moment.
She eyed him speculatively. “I can walk myself home.”
He accepted that with a throat clearing and retrieved the blankets, before offering her one of the lanterns. A strange incompetence danced between them, neither one of them accustomed to the situation. Kell usually fell into a sound sleep on a comfortable bed after a satisfying tumble, only to awake and repeat the exercise. Leaving unfulfilled with a raging erection in the middle of the night was an aberrant condition that didn’t lend itself to convivial conversation.
“I have no doubt.”
“Benedict, thank you.”
They walked along the sand and he wasn’t certain how to resolve her gratitude. Was it for the experience or for not executing the original plan? Yet it mattered little, and they continued in a solemn, breathless silence.
“You’re welcome,” he said at last, catching her eye as she glanced across the lantern light, her face softly illuminated, lips kiss-swollen and lids heavy with sated wonder. She certainly was a beauty. No one could disagree with that.
“Why am I sharing this carriage with you?” Kellaway sank back against the velvet cushions and eyed Bitters with a venomous stare. He hadn’t slept after delivering Angel to the cottage. Walking home hadn’t rid him of his sexual desire and despite pursuing relief in the privacy of his bedroom, he discovered the lingering recollection of his mermaid reaching climax, the taste of her sex and silky sweet skin, fired his desire for a repeat performance. The last thing he needed after a frustrating and sleepless evening was for Bitters to make a day-long journey pure hell.
“You said you didn’t trust yourself not to punish Nyx—the journey being far and your patience thin.”
By his tone and expression, Bitters took umbrage to the question. This trip would prove torture. Added to an underlying unrest and a bad temper, nothing good could evolve. “Then why are you in this carriage?”
“Where else would I be?” Again, the indignant tone. “We shall review your agenda while we travel. You have a series of overdue appointments to attend when we return to London.” Bitters folded his hands across his waist and waited for a response.
“Don’t clutter my schedule,” Kell replied adamantly. “I’m going straight to East Castle Street to conduct private business.”
Bitters tsked his immediate concern. “Do you think that wise?” Then he paused as if considering whether or not to continue. As usual he didn’t consider long enough. “You’re a viscount. She’s beneath you.”
“That’s why she’s my mistress. I like her beneath me.” Kell slanted a look out the small square window before he eyed the servant with barely controlled restraint. He liked the man most days. Today was not one of them. “Get out.”
“What?” Bitters’ eyes went wide before he shook his head in disbelief.
“Out.” Kell knocked on the roof of the carriage and the horses slowed. “Ride with the driver up top. It’s an excellent way to take in the countryside and it’s not raining. Consider that a boon.” He reached across and opened the coach door despite the fact Bitters sat with his mouth agape. “Out you go.”
At a loss for rebuttal, Bitters exited and climbed atop the driver’s seat, a backward glance clearly showing his incredulity. It offered Kell a reason to smile as he reclined in the plush interior and considered the task that lay ahead.
He’d need to draw Laurence into a high-stakes game of Hazard, unless his mother’s information proved false. Perhaps the artist blackmailer could be bought off with a substantial offer and the drama and suspense of a scene in a gaming hell could be avoided. If there was something Kell had in spades, it was coin. Unfortunately, money couldn’t buy peace of mind.
He propped a boot on the opposite bench and closed his eyes, summoning sleep or some semblance of rest. Why did it always feel as though the weight of worry on his shoulders had nothing to do with his life and everything to do with the poor choices of others? The condition was all he’d known since he’d been old enough to be played within their dramas. It proved a sorry way to live.
A shroud of calm overtook him as he dismissed all thought of his parents. The monotony of the carriage rocking eased his tension and invited a vision of long silky limbs and soft panting sounds to replace all burdening considerations. A daydream, depicted in salacious detail, formed in his mind’s eye as clearly as a wish from a genie’s lamp. One minute there was clouded confusion and the next, a vivid image of Angel, reposed on
the blanket, the moonlight bathing her skin in a golden aura as tempting and delicious as sweet cream.
He held no guilt for their intimacy. She’d asked. He’d agreed. They’d enjoyed. Though there was no denying the lady had no idea what she’d desired—her own ardor a self-discovery. And perhaps that was why the experience stayed with him so perversely. He’d bedded more women than he’d ever account for and scarcely remembered their exchange beyond the moment. Sex served as a release, nothing more.
Until last evening when Angel yielded in his arms, offering trust and generosity…a piece of her soul. Her trust didn’t sit well, no matter that she was beautiful and alluring, a woman he’d likely never see again. Still, she appreciated passion as deeply as he and the realization fired heat in his groin. Now that he had an idea she resided in the cottage near South Downs, he could seek her out when he returned to Brighton. He shook his head to release the thought. He wasn’t looking for entanglements. Since when didn’t he know his own mind? There would be no relief until he reached Elaine’s town house.
His mistress, dark-haired, bold, and insatiable, was the cure for this ill. She’d welcome him with open arms, fall into bed, and ride him into oblivion. He relaxed full knowing he’d contrived the most precise plan for the evening.
Chapter Eleven
Angelica awoke with a new awareness of her body and a new view of life. She’d lain in bed after returning from the beach, reliving her experience with Benedict, her emotions sprawled in every direction. Newborn confidence parried with bold embarrassment. She’d abandoned all propriety and allowed him to touch, taste, enjoy her body in the most carnal manner, yet she didn’t regret her decision. Any lingering qualms about her choices were quickly vanquished when she remembered the rush of power and freedom she’d experienced within his arms. His touch emboldened, rather than diminishing. And, too, she felt important, beautiful, and desired in that moment, like none other in her life. Benedict might be somewhat of a stranger, though the initial description didn’t ring true any longer, but their connection was one of need and trust, an automatic attraction that implored they communicate on a different level than conventional relationships.
Were she to obey her father’s wishes and commit to the convent—and then perhaps to marrying the vicar—she’d never fall in love, never again be with a man who instilled passion, , and this realization reassured the prize was worth the price. She smiled secretly, the memory key to future happiness.
She acknowledged their meeting was a one-time occurrence. She was not fool enough to attach emotion to their interlude, but some incomplete nuance lingered on the periphery of this resolution. Perhaps she should seek him out this morning to share with him how much she appreciated his companionship and inform him how he’d changed her life for the better, making her feel desired, beautiful, and most of all, free. The thought took hold with tenacity. After breakfast, she’d return to the beach in hopes of finding him there. It was the place they’d met most often and with luck, he might appear as if he wished to find her too.
With her goal defined, Angelica dressed for the day in a cobalt poplin gown, simple and serviceable like all the dresses she’d packed for Brighton. No need for tight corsets, petticoats, and evening gowns. Freedom from the trappings of fashion proved an enticing bonus whenever visiting Grandmother. No one put on airs and graces or judged an individual by the value of their family’s property or coach-and-four equipage. Grandmother was a refined, titled woman who lived in a seaside cottage away from the city. She led a happy life and embodied good health, content with her surroundings, away from the scandal and societal demands found in London. Something was to be learned from the simple lesson.
Gathering her hair with a white ribbon, Angelica scooted down the stairs and greeted her Grandmother with a kind smile. She accepted the cup of tea offered and settled at the table.
“How did you sleep, dear heart? I heard you very late last night. Were you all right?”
A guilty flush stole up Angelica’s neck. Good heavens, had her grandmother seen her enter the house during the wee hours of the morning? Grandmother wouldn’t question or pry, of that Angelica was sure, but she would never wish to cause her undue worry either. There was so much Grandmother didn’t know. So much Angelica wished to tell her, not about last night, but regarding Helen’s condition and Father’s extreme dictates, yet she kept all her secrets locked tight in her heart to protect the one person who’d showed her nothing but loving affection and indulgence. She wished to shelter Grandmother in a way no one protected her interests. Allowing Grandmother to believe Helen too socially engrossed to visit Brighton seemed a small deception when the truth would cause a barrage of questions to which there were no answers. Angelica didn’t know where Helen was or when she’d ever see her sister again, nor could she explain her father’s reaction to Helen’s disappearance. How could burdening Grandmother with these problems lead to good?
“I’m sorry if I woke you with my pacing.”
“No apology is necessary, Angel. I worry about you.” Grandmother seemed to want to say more, but then her face brightened. “We only have three more days together before your father returns to whisk you away. Who knows when he will allow you another visit?”
Angelica searched her grandmother’s face for any clue she knew Father’s plans. Even the slightest inclination could weaken her resolve and cause her to seek Grandmother’s advice, no matter that she’d sorted all the reasons not to do such a thing only minutes beforehand. But no, the question had no hidden meaning.
“I don’t know.” Despite her best effort the words sounded melancholic.
“Remember to count your blessings not your transgressions.” Grandmother leaned closer. “We should plan a day. The fair has come to Brighton. This evening, you and I, Nan too if she’d like to join us, should enjoy gypsy tradition and embrace a little mischief.”
“Somehow little and mischief never seem to go together.” Angelica couldn’t contain her bubble of laughter. “But I would enjoy the fair. I haven’t had sweetmeats in years.”
“That reminds me, I saved you a slice of plum cake, the perfect match for our tea.” Grandmother rose to fetch a plate. “Or would you rather Nan prepare you a more substantial meal. There’s fresh eggs and ham.”
“No, thank you. I’d like to take a morning walk to clear my head. You don’t mind if I do?”
“Of course not. Spend the day however makes you happy. Tonight we will make the most of the fair. I hope the gypsies are ready for us.” Grandmother winked and smiled.
Not long after, Angelica walked at the water’s edge, her hopes high she would discover Benedict, but with each passing step the likelihood of her plan diminished. Labeling herself foolish, she continued beyond the jetty to the rock wall where only hours before she’d bared herself to a man for the first time and in doing so became more complete.
She stood staring at the sand, unaware someone approached until a male voice startled her.
“May I help you, miss? Are you lost? Looking for something by chance?”
Angelica turned with a gasp. A stout man of advanced years stood to her left. He wore a plain white shirt, brown trousers, and a long green apron, which announced his station as a uniformed groundskeeper. He had kind eyes, and his mustache, extraordinary if ever she’d seen one, extended past the corners of his smile in a curl on each end. In his arms he held neither shovel nor trowel as one would expect, but instead a glaucous tabby cat, more orange than beige with such striking green eyes, she might have mistaken them for emeralds. The little man cleared his throat and the sound broke through her perspicacious assessment.
“Yes. I mean, no. I’m okay.” Had she expected Benedict to be sitting in the sand waiting? What a foolish thought she’d entertained.
“Have you lost something here? You were staring at the sand for some time. I noticed while I worked near the cottage.”
“Oh dear, I didn’t mean to disrupt your work. I’m very sorry.” She took a small s
tep backward and the tabby cat let out an objecting yowl.
“Manners, Reynard.” He stroked his palm across the feline’s back. “Have no worry, you haven’t disturbed my work. I was cleaning this area earlier and found a piece of jewelry. I thought perhaps, since you seemed so intent in your study of the beach, you were looking for it.”
“Jewelry?” Angelica had no way to explain her reduced vocabulary, aware she sounded foolish when she already appeared so. She continued with a more focused reply. “I should be leaving. I don’t want to disrupt your schedule any more than I have already.”
“The master of the house is in London. You haven’t caused a bit of trouble, besides Reynard likes you.”
As if on cue the cat jumped from his arms and with two leaps it landed at her feet to wrap around her legs affectionately. He brushed his length from nose to tail along her skirts.
“He’s usually standoffish with strangers and quite the ill-behaved fellow but not today. I believe he’s made you his friend.”
“I think you’re right.” She leaned down and offered the cat a gentle rub behind the ears. “I should allow you to continue your work.”
“Oh, there’s little for me to do aside from repair the broken lock on the cottage door. It might have been a thief who kicked in the panel, although I doubt it. What could anyone wish to steal inside?”
She shook her head in the negative. “I wouldn’t know.” Her voice fell away as she recalled Benedict’s powerful kick, his hand shooting through the doorframe to capture hers and haul her inside…and then their wicked kiss. Stolen, indeed.
The groundskeeper stepped closer, his arm extended as sunlight glinted off a silver piece of jewelry in his hand. As he came closer she could see it was a bracelet, the linked strand spiraled tight like a snail shell in his palm.
“Whoever lost this bracelet will surely miss it. A delicate and lovely piece, it is.” He raised his hand slightly. “See for yourself. You may as well keep it.”
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