by Jade Lee
Was it of her? She smiled and shook out her hair again, this time lifting her breasts enough that they bobbed with her movement.
“Tease,” he accused, but he was smiling and his eyes had not left her chest.
She straightened, excruciatingly aware that she sat naked before him, this man who was not her husband and never would be. Despite her thought earlier that this was a moment out of time, she could not suppress the awareness that she was accepting a man into her bed outside of wedlock. Her dream of becoming respectable was disappearing by the second. Or perhaps it was long gone.
“I am beginning to think and I don’t want to,” she whispered to Brandon. “We are going too slow.” Then she reached forward and tried to maneuver her hand beneath his waistband.
“Then you have the advantage of me,” he rasped. “I find I cannot think at all.” He lifted her hand away from his clothes, unbuttoning them with quick movements. He stepped off the bed long enough to shuck all of it away until he was as naked as she.
Her eyes went to his organ. It stood large and proud, outlined clearly by the glow of the fire. He meant to come to the bed, she knew, but at her focused stare he stilled.
“Are you afraid?” he asked.
She shook her head, her eyes still on his organ. Then she stretched out her hand and slowly traced the full dimensions of him. She knew the wiry texture of his hair, the velvety suede of his skin, and the ridges from veins. There was a distinct edge at the mushroom head, and she traced the near circle of it before sliding on top. The wetness there made her finger move in a circle, spreading the moisture around before she wandered back down. And as she went, she leaned forward so she could curl all her fingers until she held him fully.
His buttocks tightened, pushing him against her palm. She hadn’t kissed him before. Not there. Not like he had done to her, and so she stretched toward him with that intent.
He stopped her with a hand on her cheek. Then he cupped her chin and pulled her gaze up to his.
“I will never last,” he said. “Is that what you want? For me to not . . .”
She shook her head. She wanted him inside her. She wanted her belly filled with him. She even wanted his child, but she shuddered away from that thought. The implications of that were too huge.
“I will try not to spill my seed in you. I will try to—”
“No. There are other ways.” She had learned of such things from the actresses. She scrambled off the bed and crossed to her bag. Annette had packed it, and Annette was especially careful about these things. “Can you light a candle?” she asked.
He did, bringing it to the dresser where the mirror doubled the light. Searching through her bag, she found what she was looking for: a glass vial and a sponge. She should soak the sponge in the vinegar solution and insert it now as deeply as possible. It wasn’t a perfect method, but it was enough.
She straightened, smiling at him in the mirror. She didn’t have to speak. Their eyes met and held, and he understood. Then she watched as he came up behind her. She felt his heat on her back and the push of his organ against her bottom. Then he bent his head and began to kiss her neck, just beneath her ear. His hands circled around her, sliding over her belly and then up to cup her breasts.
She stretched upward into his arms, lifting her breasts into his hands, and thrusting her bum against his organ. Her head dropped back against his shoulder. His hands were doing such wonderful things to her breasts, holding them, tugging at her nipples, squeezing and twisting. Soon she was writhing beneath his touch.
“I should use the sponge—” she gasped.
He tightened his grip on her, keeping her exactly where she was. He wrapped one arm more fully about her torso while he began a rhythmic push against her bottom. She wanted to lift up higher, to let him seek between her legs, but he positioned his organ along her spine well away from what she wanted.
“I won’t risk it,” he said against her ear.
“It will only take a moment,” she said, but she didn’t push out of his arms. She wouldn’t mind so terribly to have his child. Any child was a joy, but his child . . . The very thought filled her with a silent yearning.
“I won’t risk it,” he repeated. Then his right hand roamed down over her belly. Her legs were already weak. It was easy for him to push his fingers between. She was so wet that he could slide easily over her mound and between her folds. “Lean forward,” he said, as he pressed his chest against her back.
She bent at the waist, bracing her hands on the dresser. In the mirror, she could see herself reflected clearly, her left breast held in his hand, her nipples hard and pointed. He was bent over her, the angles of his face chiseled and dark. His eyes met hers in the mirror, caught and held her gaze. And then the fingers between her legs began to stroke her.
She had little room, encircled as she was by his body. His arms trapped her torso, his body pressed against her back, and his legs slipped between hers, spreading her wider and wider. His organ pushed hot and hard against her bottom, upward between the fold of her cheeks. And his fingers pushed deep inside her only to pull up in a long, full stroke.
She gasped, shuddering at the exquisite feel. He pressed a kiss into her shoulder, a nip against her neck. She arched, feeling him push two fingers deep inside, only to pull out in another long stroke.
A flash fire of heat seared her skin. She arched again, but there was no place to move. She felt his organ pulse in response. He was pushing hard against her. Or perhaps she was arching backward. Then her thoughts splintered as he pushed his fingers in again.
Deep push, then the long slide out. Punctuated by a pinch of her nipple.
Her breath stuttered. She was leaning forward, her arms barely able to support her weight. Mostly, he held her. He stroked her. In. Out.
She whimpered, her gaze still held by his in the mirror. Faster. He was moving faster and her breath was coming in rapid pants. Her entire body was moving forward and back in time to his strokes.
Faster.
Deeper.
Yes!
The ecstasy hit as an expanding wave of pleasure. It centered on his hand, but rushed inward, pulse after pulse of bliss. He held her throughout it all. She had closed her eyes in the end, arching with a cry.
The waves had just begun to slow when she felt him shift his grip on her body. He slid to her hips, holding her steady as he pushed against her bottom. Not inside. Vertically, along her spine, but with a ferocity that caught her attention.
His face was taut, his eyes blazing with hunger. She held his gaze, silently communicating her joy to him, and then his own pleasure gripped him. He thrust hard and she felt his spasm along her whole spine. His head was thrown back as he lost control. She watched his throat stretch and his chest ripple. Her own pleasure returned just from seeing his.
Another ripple of her own. A gasping moment of delight. Pleasure suspended out of time. So sweet.
So sweet.
And then it passed. Time started again. Their bodies collapsed forward onto the dresser, their arms trembling, their breaths still short and quick. Another moment more and he slowly straightened.
It should have felt awkward with the way he cleaned her. There was a pitcher and bowl next to the dresser, cloths hanging from a rack on the side. He wet the cloth and washed her, taking care to be gentle on her sensitive skin. It should have felt awkward, but it didn’t. The business of afterward was comfortable, the rhythms easy even though they had never done this before.
Then he helped her to bed, settling her down on the pillow before climbing in behind her. He intended to pull her backward against him, but she didn’t want to face somewhere else. So she rolled over to set her head on his shoulder, her arm on his chest. He wrapped his other arm around her, pulling her close.
There were no words. They didn’t need any. All was in silent accord as she closed her eyes. His free hand reached up to hold hers where it lay on his chest. And soon she felt his breath deepen into sleep.
&nbs
p; She lay there a little longer, her mind replaying the events of this night. She remembered her own pleasure, but what she relived the most was the sight of him arched in release. He was a beautiful man, she thought, lean and powerful. More than that, he was a good man, careful of her in ways that no one else had ever been. What man denied himself so that she would not risk pregnancy? What man thought to bring her to a private inn, arrange for food and bath without expectation of more? And what man listened as she spoke, understood her in all her moods? Even when she had no understanding of her own?
No one in her life.
Again the question resurfaced, troubling despite the bliss that still saturated her body. What would she give up to be with this man forever? Kit was gone, but her dream of respectability still lingered.
This night of sex has been amazing. But was the temporary joy of their coupling worth the loss of her hope of becoming a wife and mother? How would she feel about him, about this in the morning?
She didn’t know. Worse, she didn’t want to know. If it had been up to her, he would have buried himself in her, releasing his seed into her womb and damn the consequences. Damn her reputation and forget the life that waited for every child born as a bastard. Another boy raised in the theater? Another girl who could aspire to no better than to become an actress/whore? What did she care when he held her so sweetly?
She hadn’t cared at the time. She did now. And she absolutely would have cared in the morning if she found herself pregnant.
He had taken care that that didn’t happen. He had seen that she didn’t worry, and for that she adored him. But what of next time? What of the future? Would he always be so concerned? And would she always feel that another night like this, suspended away from the world, was worth the disdain that waited in the daylight?
Could she live with the consequences if she became his mistress? Would she give up becoming respectable, being a wife to an honorable man and a mother to legitimate children? Was this moment of bliss worth a lifetime without respectability?
No.
As wonderfully amazing as this night was, the answer was still no. There would be another man for her. Not Kit, obviously, but someone. She merely had to lower her standards and not look among the aristocracy. She should allow her financial status to become known. Fear had always kept her silent, but if everyone knew how much money she had, dozens of respectable men would vie for her hand. The only reason she hadn’t taken the step before was because she had held out hope for something different, something special.
Brandon.
Everything she wanted was in Brandon. But he couldn’t give her respectability. She sighed, burrowing tighter to his side. Could she? Could she really be happy wed to someone who wasn’t Brandon?
Yes, she lied. A thousand times yes. She could be respectable and happy with someone else. And if she kept repeating that, then eventually she would come to believe it. And in the meantime, she would sleep here, curled tight to the man she . . .
She would not say “love.” She absolutely would not believe that she loved Brandon. That would be a folly beyond any other folly she had ever committed. Thinking that she loved Brandon would be like opening her heart and soul to a raw dagger. If she thought she loved him, if she said the word in her mind or—God forbid—out loud, then she would be committed. Something in her soul would link with him and never be satisfied with less.
She would not do that to herself. She would not open herself to misery with no hope of redemption. She absolutely, positively did not love Brandon and never would.
Chapter 22
Brandon watched Scheherazade dress. Her movements were efficient, her manner calm. She appeared happy, smiling at him with warmth whenever their gazes connected. But there was a reserve in her, something that he could not assign to one action or another. A stillness that was from sadness or maybe even despair.
Perhaps he was being maudlin. Perhaps it was his own emotions he was sensing. But he could not shake the feeling that as wonderful as last night had been, he and Scheherazade were further apart than ever. He waited until they were in a hired carriage to press her. He hadn’t meant to mention it at all, but the isolation of the vehicle invited confidences, and he could not stop himself from trying to bridge whatever gap had formed between them.
“Are you anxious about the service? You won’t be turned away.”
“Yes, I will,” she said softly. Then she lifted her chin. “But it doesn’t matter. I will stand outside of St. James if I must. I will show Kit proper respect.”
“You won’t be turned away,” he repeated firmly. He would see to it. It was the one thing he could do for both Scher and Kit. “He would want you there.”
She didn’t respond, and they both lapsed into silence. He sat across from her, feeling the space between them widen. He studied her profile, the curve of her face, the length of her neck. Objectively speaking, she possessed above-average beauty. Her face was well formed, her eyes expressive, but the stresses of her life showed. Dark hallows haunted her eyes, and even when she smiled, she rarely showed her teeth.
And yet, when he looked at her, he saw so much more than her skin or her eyes or her teeth. He knew the solid strength of her as she went about her days, managing the playhouse and the troupe, handling financial crises as well as medical ones. Her skills were beyond amazing. This morning, in the time it had taken him to tie his cravat, she had pinned and adjusted her gown to fit her slender frame.
She would make an excellent wife and mother. Competent in all manner of care, with a loving heart and a generous spirit. She wouldn’t be one of those overly anxious or hysterical mothers. She would manage all with a firm but loving hand. But it would be a sad home, he thought as she turned to stare out the window. The children would bring life into it, she would bring quiet strength and love, but who would bring the laughter? The joy? Kit would have. He understood that now.
“I shouldn’t have tried to stop you and Kit,” he confessed. “I was wrong.”
Her eyes barely flickered. “And now?” she whispered. “Now that he is gone and you no longer need to save him from me—”
“Now someone needs to save me because I do not think I can leave you be.”
She arched a brow. “Even if I say no? If I declare no more, my lord? If I bar my door to you and ban you from the Tavern Playhouse?”
He shrugged, his hand dropping away as he admitted the truth to himself as well as her. “Even then I will pursue you.”
“Because my wishes mean nothing to you?”
“Because there is no place in the world that would not be better with you in it. No part of my life feels whole without you. Even in my own mind, I cannot turn around without wishing I could share my thoughts with you.”
Her eyes widened in shock at his words. He, too, felt shaken by the absolute truth of what he had just said. And in that stunned silence, the cab slowed to a stop. They had arrived at St. James.
He helped her disembark, his eyes scanning the crowd of carriages. He could already tell that the service would be well attended. Though only a lesser son, Kit had been universally liked. And no one in the haut ton missed an opportunity to attend the funeral of someone related to an earl.
He saw Michael immediately. The earl was obviously waiting at the front, scanning the crowd. Lily stood at the very door, greeting people as they entered. She looked just as a countess ought—appropriately severe in black even with the fashionable cut of her gown.
Michael’s body slumped in relief when he spotted Brandon. But then his expression tightened into a dark frown when Scheherazade stepped into view. Not surprisingly, a number of the crowd noticed her as well. Brandon caught a number of pointed fans and outraged gasps.
“I’ll take care of everything,” he murmured to Scher as he extended his arm to her. Then he silently offered a prayer to God that he could keep his promise.
She squeezed his arm, reassuring him when he had tried to reassure her. Then together they glided forward. Mich
ael met them well before the door, his every movement radiating total disapproval.
“Good to see you alive, Brandon,” he drawled. “We expected you last night.”
Brandon shrugged. “I cannot help your expectations, brother. Next time, you should make your orders more clear.”
“Yes,” he drawled. “Apparently I have been too vague in the past. I shall attempt to remedy that.” His cold stare shifted to Scheherazade. “You are not welcome. I do not know what wiles you have to so besot two otherwise perfectly normal members of my family, but I assure you, I am immune.”
“Have a care, Michael,” Brandon growled to no apparent effect.
Michael gestured to a waiting carriage and the two large footmen standing beside it. “You will climb into that carriage there. It will take you wherever you wish, then you will never again contact any of my family.”
“Or what?” snapped Brandon before Scheherazade could speak. “You will destroy her reputation? You have already done so. Threaten her person?” He glared the two footmen back. “Already done. Do you plan next to burn down her playhouse? Shoot her in the head?”
Michael reared back, his expression shocked. They all three knew of the tragedy in India. They all knew what had been done there by Englishmen who pretended to be honest, moral Christians.
“Do not thrust your demons onto me, brother,” Michael snarled.
“Kit would want her at his service.”
A cold female voice cut in. It was Lily, speaking with the gentle tones appropriate to a countess. “But Kit is gone; his wishes no longer matter. Kit’s mother, however, is alive, as are his brothers and his grandmother. Kit’s family has no wish for a scene at Kit’s funeral.”
Brandon straightened. “Then step aside and there will be no scene.”
There was a moment of taut silence. Michael and Lily stood together, a solid wall of aristocratic arrogance. Brandon faced them, his every breath radiating his absolute determination that Scher be allowed to grieve her fiancé in an appropriate manner. What Scher thought was a mystery.