Lord Lightning

by Jenny Brown

  “There’s no need to be frightened,” he assured her. “You will experience only pleasure at my hands. And if there should be some unexpected consequence of our connection, you may rest assured I will open my purse generously to deal with it.”

  He felt a burst of self-satisfaction. That was far more than his brother had done for any of the women he had impregnated. But he quickly suppressed that thought. It would not put him into the mood he needed to establish.

  Next he reached out and gently pulled the remaining pins from the girl’s hair. It broke free from the tight knot in which she had confined it and tumbled across the linen pillowcase. The river of thick curls, no longer carroty, glowed auburn in the dull light of the single candle.

  He stroked one curling lock on the pillow where it had fallen, delighting in the springy feel of it. It was so clean, so silken. Then he let his fingers walk up the long tress, following it upward to her nape, which he stroked with a slow, soothing motion, until he saw her relax and nestle deeper against the pillow. Her skin was warm and velvety. He let his fingers brush across the softness of her lips. Then he raised her hand to his own mouth and slowly, teasingly, kissed the tip of each finger. As he did, he noted with surprise the eagerness with which she reached out to feel the texture of his lips. Carefully he let his tongue come out to greet her fingertip. Then, imprisoning her finger with his lips, he sucked it into a kiss. The sensation that filled him as her delicate skin met his searching tongue was far more stimulating than something so innocent should have been.

  A wave of desire swept over him. By Gad, he wanted her! But even as he felt himself respond, her finger hesitated and withdrew, warning him to slow down. There were new delights to savor here.

  Yes, a voice murmured in his mind, the delights of despoiling innocence.

  He ignored it. She knew what she was in for when she agreed to come here with him. There was no need for conscience to interfere. Innocent or not, she was just another woman, fickle and greedy like the rest, babbling of love as they all did before they got their claws into a man. So what if she was a virgin? They all started out that way, but they got over it. Why should he care if she imagined their coupling might lead to love? He’d teach her something about love—about the hot piercing pleasure to be found in merging bodies, and when she learned it she’d become like the rest of the cold, hard women who sought him out and then abandoned him.

  Yet he was unnerved by the gentleness of her hand, which now stroked his stubbled cheek. Her probing fingertips brushed over his lips, stroked the indented place in the center, then brushed the side of his nose before moving upward to the smooth place on his cheek where no beard grew, touching, learning, and making it clear she had never before, ever, touched a man.

  He suppressed another qualm. Why make all this fuss about her innocence? There was nothing shy now about the way her caressing hand was making its exquisite way down his neck, to his shoulder and the opening of his collar, sending shivers of pleasure down his spine. Her fingers rested briefly on the tuft of pale blond hair that rose beneath his throat, and combed through it gently, before she reached down to the first fastened button of his shirt and stopped.

  His own hand shaking now, he reached up and gently undid that button and the next, allowing his shirt to fall away and leave his chest naked. Her hand dropped and she let him take control again, but her huge green eyes kept drinking him in. There was a haziness to them now. Their clarity had been replaced by something more dreamy. The brandy must be taking effect.

  Taking direction from the way she’d just touched him, he let his hand glide gently down her cheek and along her neck to her shoulders and arm. He felt the tiny hairs on her biceps rise in response to his feather-light touch.

  There were buttons on her bodice, too. When he undid them one by one, she made no protest. He slid one hand under the loose shift that was revealed and pushed the thin fabric of the shift aside. To his surprise, she wore no stays. He made the most of that discovery, cradling the rounded breast he found beneath. It barely filled his hand, but though it was so much smaller than Violet’s luxuriant orbs, it was firmer and delightfully resilient; her rosy nipple was surprisingly beautiful, too, domed and swollen.

  She gave a little sigh. He reached further inside her shift, brushing along her torso, his fingers dancing toward her soft mound of nether curls. As he felt them spring against his fingertips, he wondered if they were as fiery as her hair, but his attention was wrenched away from such speculation as he felt her hips rise to meet his exploring hand. Emboldened, he pulled her closer with his other arm and pressed the length of his body against hers, letting her feel for the first time what he had in store for her. But as his swollen manhood rubbed against her abdomen, she tensed and jerked away from him, and he saw what must be fear flash in her eyes. It was replaced a moment later by the most disturbing look of trust.

  He stilled, then drew back, aware again of what he was taking from her.

  But it was too late for regret. She’d gotten what she wanted and she’d pledged him this in exchange. This breast was his to caress as long as he wanted. Her thighs were his to kiss, to suck, to crush beneath him.

  More roughly than he had intended, he pushed her shift aside again and seized her rosy nipple in his mouth, flicking his tongue against the swollen flesh. A ripple swept through her body. He hoped it was passion. He feared it was shock.

  As he hesitated, she stirred beneath him and moaned.

  “Lord Hartwood—” she began, reminding him she didn’t know his Christian name. No matter. Whatever she had to say, he didn’t want to hear it. He touched his mouth to hers, silencing her with a kiss. Then he reached his hand back inside her shift and let his fingertips trace designs on her abdomen, gentling her. He heard her breathing quicken.

  Louder this time she said, “Lord Hartwood, I need—”

  His lips closed on hers again. He would give her what she needed. As if by accident he let his fingertips brush against her womanly nub, pleased when she writhed against him. He was surprised to find her already swollen and surprisingly wet. He longed to bury his face there and fill himself with her scent, but he held himself back, not wishing to scare her. Carefully he extended one finger into the opening of her secret passage. But the little gasp she gave as his searching fingers prodded more deeply was not a gasp of pleasure.

  He stopped. He lifted his head, his eyes locked into hers, and he saw the shock that registered there.

  Her eyes betrayed her. She had learned, at last, what manner of man he really was. Though she would go through with it and live up to her side of their bargain, he knew, as clearly as if her voice had whispered the words, she regretted making that bargain.

  She gave a tiny gasp and her mouth started working. It would all come out now, her loathing and her disgust. He could not bear to hear it. He must silence her the only way that was left to him. He must fill her with himself and forcibly make her his. He must corrupt her, give the beast within himself what it demanded, and be once again what he knew himself to be: selfish, irresistible, and damned.

  But something held him back, something he’d thought had died in him long ago. Something that whispered he had sinned enough.

  Filled with dread, he pulled away from her and let her speak.

  “I’m sorry to be such a ninny,” she began softly. “But this is all so unfamiliar. I … I never expected to be a mistress so I haven’t studied the subject. And even if I had wished to study it, my aunt would never have let me read the sort of book that could have furnished me with instruction. The books I have read always stopped short of telling me exactly what it is that happens next.”

  A wave of laughter swept through his body, replacing the dismay that had filled him only a moment before.

  “So that’s it?” he choked out. “You would like to study up on the subject before we proceed?”

  “Well, of course. One likes to know what one is about. And this is so much stranger than what I had imagined.”
/>   “It is, indeed,” he said. “It is, in fact, far stranger than anything I ever imagined.”

  But as true as that was, with an odd sense of relief, he realized it was over and that it had ended far better than he would ever have imagined it could. To be sure, there was still an ache in his manhood, an echo of the lust that had overpowered him only a few moments before. But the blackness that had threatened to engulf him was gone. She had dispelled it with her ability to remain herself when he had been swept away. And somehow, by remaining herself, she had shone light into a place within him that had not known light before.

  When he had recovered his ability to speak, he reached over and put his arm around her, sheltering her. He inhaled the delicate scent of her hair and said, “I think we have both had quite enough learning for one night.”

  Was it a look of disappointment he saw flit over her face? He could not credit it, yet that was what it looked like. But of course, she must fear he would hold back the payment he had promised her. He let his eyelids drift shut as he searched for words to reassure her she would not leave penniless when he sent her away the next morning, but his mind was moving slowly—the brandy perhaps, or perhaps the aftermath of his wrenching inner struggle. When he opened them again he realized no more words were needed. The brandy had had its effect on her, too, and his new mistress—the virgin—had dropped off, snoring quietly, into a faintly sodden sleep.

  Chapter 4

  At dawn, Eliza awoke with a painful pounding in her head and in some confusion as to where she was. She lay beneath the covers of a huge satin-draped bed, clad only in her shift. On the wall across from the bed was a painting of scantily clad nymphs disporting themselves with a satyr. She had a fuzzy memory that on the previous night she, too, had disported herself in a manner not all that different from the nymphs. Indeed, as she grew more awake, it struck her that during the course of the night she must have become a fallen woman. But try as she would, she could not remember the details.

  She remembered drinking the fiery brandy that had burnt her throat and set up a strange buzzing in her head. She remembered Lord Hartwood coming into the bed with her and the gentle way he had taken her hand and allowed it to explore his body. She remembered, too, the surprising discoveries she’d made as he’d explored her body, before she’d become frightened and gasped out something—anything—to postpone whatever it was that was about to happen. But after that she remembered nothing. Nothing at all.

  She shuddered. Perhaps what had followed had been so horrible she had had to blank it out to remain sane. She had heard of such things happening. But somehow, remembering how Lord Hartwood’s soft lips had felt on her fingertips and how gently he had caressed her bosom and so much more in that shocking but surprisingly delicious way, it was hard to believe that something so terrible had followed.

  Gingerly she explored her body. Except for the throbbing in her head, nothing hurt. And most oddly, her underdrawers were still in place. She knew from what little she had heard that ruin should involve the removal of her drawers.

  There was a knock at the door and a maid came in, bringing with her a tray on which reposed a cup of tea and some toast. She set it down beside Eliza, curtsied, and just before making her exit, informed her that when she had finished with her breakfast Lord Hartwood would be pleased to see her in his study.

  She sipped her tea; her stomach was not yet up to dealing with toast and at the thought of having to see Lord Hartwood, it heaved. Eliza could not imagine how she would face him again. But she must, if for no other reason than that there was no other way to determine what had happened. It was a good thing her Aries Ascendant gave her courage. She would need it to get through the upcoming interview.

  Unlike Eliza, Edward awoke with a surprising feeling of lightness in his heart and a sharp appetite. The light that filtered through his curtains seemed crisper than usual, the air, more bracing. His valet, who always tiptoed as quietly as possible in the morning, having suffered in the past from the uncertainty of his master’s temper at that early hour, was greeted with a hearty “Good morning” and an unexpected smile. Edward was surprised at his own good humor—good humor that was all the more surprising considering the abortive nature of the previous evening’s encounter.

  But it was exactly that which was the source of his unusual lightness of spirit. Somehow, last night, he’d done the honorable thing, though to do so had gone much against his natural inclination. The warm, happy feeling he felt welling up within him now must be that emotion with which he had almost no experience—the satisfaction of a virtuous deed well done. He savored it. Such a feeling was not likely to come his way again. He had no intention of making a habit of virtue.

  He finished his breakfast, dressed with his valet’s help, and then made his way down to his study. Of course, after what had happened, he’d have to dismiss the little fortune-teller. There was no possibility now of making her his mistress. That was vexing, to be sure, as he would have to face his mother without a mistress in tow. But he’d pay off the girl generously despite what had happened. No doubt she’d be thrilled by her narrow escape.

  He basked for a moment more in the glow cast by his unaccustomed act of charity, then he turned back to business. There were a few more letters to write before he headed out to Brighton, in particular, a delicate one addressed to his father’s ex-mistress, Mrs. Atwater. She would serve his purpose almost as well as a mistress of his own, and it would be a simple matter to enlist her in his scheme as she was so very fond of money.

  But no sooner had he trimmed his pen than there was a rap on the door and a footman announced, “Your Lordship, Miss Eliza requests a moment of your time.”

  Miss Eliza? He searched his mind, wondering to which lady of his acquaintance the footman might be referring. Then he realized. It must be the little fortune-teller. He hadn’t even asked her Christian name.

  He barked out his permission for her to enter, and she came into the room, closing the door gently behind her. She made her way over to his desk and stopped awkwardly before him with a look on her face much like that of a pupil who had been sent to the headmaster’s office. She was clad once again in her heavy gray wool Quaker’s dress with her auburn hair bound up in a tight knot at the back of her head. She had even more freckles scattered across her flaming cheeks than he had remembered.

  In the clear light of morning, it was inconceivable to him that such an ordinary creature could have inspired him with the passion he remembered sweeping over him the previous night. But swept over him it had—until he had been stopped in his tracks by that unaccountable need not to hurt her. The memory brought with it the disquieting vision of her auburn hair let loose and spread around her, and as their eyes met, he realized with some surprise that, despite his good intentions, the oddity of the situation left him with no idea of what to say to her. Eliza stood silent for a moment, too, twisting her fingers together, clearly finding it difficult to speak.

  Finally she blurted, “Your Lordship, though it is embarrassing to admit it, I am not at all sure of what took place between us in the course of last night. So I must beg Your Lordship to answer me frankly. Am I ruined?”

  Her predicament was far from humorous, but, even so, he was tempted to laugh. Though he was not used to thinking of himself as a man much given to laughter, something about being with Miss Farrell made laughing easier. He collected himself. “Your reputation is gone as you have spent the night unchaperoned in my house. But beyond that, nothing happened.”

  “You are very certain of this, Your Lordship? There can be no mistake?”

  Her face bore such an earnest look as she waited to learn her fate that he experienced once again a most unexpected burst of happiness at the thought that he had not, after all, made her his victim.

  “I am completely certain,” he said gently. “You may go to your wedding bed secure in the knowledge that you are a maiden still. The brandy was too much for both of us. You dropped off into a sound sleep early on. I di
d so shortly after. No harm was done.”

  The relief that flooded her features was followed almost immediately by anxiety. “Then you did not make me your mistress?”

  “No. I thought better of it. It was a foolish idea and I’ve given it up entirely.”

  Her face fell. “Then I shall have to pay back the money you sent to my father.”

  “There is no need to do so. Consider it a gift. And here-” He opened a drawer in his desk and took out some banknotes, which he placed at the edge of his desk so she could reach them. “Here are fifty pounds. Our arrangement is over. The money will help you get settled again somewhere new.”

  She made no move toward the notes, but simply said in an uncertain voice, “So you wish me to leave?”

  “Surely that must be what you yourself would wish for.”

  Surely it should be, Eliza thought. But oddly, it was not.

  Though she should be feeling only relief that she had escaped the consequences of her rash and headstrong decision the previous day, and escaped them, moreover, in possession of fifty pounds she could never have earned on her own, Lord Hartwood’s words had filled her with a sense of loss. She struggled to account for this wholly unexpected emotion, but could come up only with the explanation that though she had read the horoscopes of many distinguished and powerful men, this was the first time she had been given the opportunity to observe such a man in person and see the planets on his chart come to life. It was hard to taste such delight so briefly and then be forced to leave it behind.

  And there was something more: Despite all the terrors of the previous night, there had been something exhilarating in the upheaval that had taken place in her situation. It had been frightening, to be sure, but the glimpse of his world that Lord Hartwood had given her made it hard to resign herself to returning to the dull life of a bookish middle-aged spinster.

  She sighed. Aunt Celestina would have called her ungrateful and she knew she should be glad she was not a fallen woman. But as she watched His Lordship’s long elegant fingers toy with his pen—those very same fingers that had awakened such inexplicable feelings in her body the previous night—she knew that even though he had not ruined her, Lord Hartwood’s subtle touch had awakened something in her that would not easily go back to sleep. The morning light, which poured through the window, illuminated the tuft of silvery curls at the base of his neck, reminding her how her exploring fingers had discovered its silken texture and the warmth and richness of his golden skin. A sensible woman would have delighted in her narrow escape, but the effort it took to force her mind away from that memory told Eliza how far she was from being sensible.