A Husband for Hire (The Heirs & Spares Series Book 1)

by Patricia A. Knight

  “I should hope so. I would think it terribly awkward to go through the day with a part of this immensity in one’s trousers.” He didn’t respond, simply laughed silently, his cock leaping in the grip of her hand. A clear drop of liquid appeared, poised at the very center of the broad tip. She ran the pad of her index finger around the head and through the glistening drop. She was startled when Miles hissed and wrapped a firm hand around her wrist. “I’m terribly sorry. Did I hurt you?”

  “No. Quite the opposite. Enough of that for now.” He worked his breeches down his calves and stepped out of them. The part of him that so held her fascination slapped against his abdomen.

  Miles turned to her. “I’m neglecting my duties as lady’s maid.” He had her out of her clothes and down to her shift in half the time she’d spent on him. “Do you want to take down your hair?”

  “Please.”

  With an ease of practice, she didn’t wish to think about, he removed all her hairpins and unraveled her braid, finger-combing her hair and massaging her scalp in a pleasure-inducing caress that raised goose bumps on her arms.

  “And now your shift, my lady.” He had it off over her head, and before she registered what had happened, she stood before him just a naked as he.

  Her arms crept toward her breasts and the juncture of her legs.

  “Ah, ah…we’ll have none of that.” Miles placed her arms at her sides. “You have a lovely body, and I enjoy looking at it. I know you may feel hideously uncomfortable, but you need never hide from me.”

  She straightened and held him in a direct gaze. “I feel wretchedly awkward and thoroughly embarrassed, but if the sight of me naked as a babe pleases you, I will strut around thusly at every available opportunity.”

  He chuckled and placed a kiss in the middle of her forehead. “It will be sufficient if you forego clothing in our bedchamber before only your maid and your husband.”

  She blushed. “Of course. That’s what I meant.”

  He took her hand. “The bath awaits.”

  She hadn’t realized that Miles meant to get in with her. Sometime later, with half the contents of the tub on the floor due to some boisterous application of soap that devolved into finding what parts of Lady Miles Everleigh were ticklish, she stepped out of the tub and wrapped herself in a warm towel.

  Miles grinned at her from the tub as he held up a foot and soaped it.

  She offered him a soft smile in return. “Are all men such little boys at heart?”

  “I can’t speak for all men, but as a rule, I’ve found most things that cause embarrassment are best approached with an appreciation for the ridiculous and an ability to laugh at oneself. I’ll chance a guess you didn’t think of your nudity once.”

  She thought about that as she toweled her hair dry. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

  He glanced at her as he washed himself. “For what?”

  She closed her eyes and let out a long breath before she opened them again and allowed her gaze to linger on him. “For your kindness. For your humor. For your patience with me.” She lifted a shoulder, unable—and unwilling—to put into words all the different reasons she’d found to fall in love with him. She sighed and wondered what his reaction would be should she tell him that.

  His gray eyes met hers soberly. “You are welcome.” He continued to hold her in a steady, considering gaze. For a brief moment, Eleanor read something more profound in his expression, a warmth of feeling that answered her own, but he looked away and began to sluice water over his chest, and she decided what she had seen was a product of wishful thinking.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  W

  earing only her delicate silk robe, Eleanor sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed surrounded by three empty wine bottles and multiple silver serving trays bearing the remnants of their dinner. She spooned the last bit of trifle into her mouth. “This appears the site of a bacchanal,” she said around her mouthful of custard and waved her spoon in a haphazard fashion at the wreckage adorning the bed. “I feel exceedingly dissolute and…not precisely sober.” She stuck her tongue out and leisurely licked the flat of the spoon.

  Miles, also in only a thin robe, reclined against the headboard, one leg crossed over the other, and sipped his Madeira, slowly rolling the stem of the crystal wine glass between his thumb and forefinger. His eyes appeared half-lidded, and over the rim of his goblet, they tracked her. She’d offer odds he hadn’t missed a single move she’d made in the last hour. His potent study of her raised gooseflesh on her arms and sent her thoughts careening in a thousand naughty directions.

  With casual grace—Eleanor wondered if he ever did anything that wasn’t graceful—Miles put his glass on the bedside table, got to his feet, and slid the trays abruptly off the bed and onto the floor. She jolted at the ensuing crash. Sitting on the side of the bed, he removed the empty bowl and spoon from her hands and with a careless clatter, they joined the rest of the plates, trays, and cutlery on the floor.

  “A true bacchanal requires one additional ingredient.”

  Eleanor twisted her mouth into a crooked smile and squinted in an attempt to bring Miles’ face into focus. “And that would be, sir?”

  “Debauchery.”

  Her mouth formed an ‘O’.

  “Unless you are not feeling up to it?” he murmured.

  Her teeth clicked as she shut her mouth. “I am in perfect health, good sir.” She sat up primly and blinked, assuming a studious air. “I would very much like to be debauched.” A rude burp erupted from her throat and quite ruined the serious effect for which she strove. She snorted and clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle.

  “Would you now…” Miles slipped off his robe, dropped to all fours, and naked, slunk across the massive bed toward her. The salaciously intent expression on his face combined with the menacing threat of his fully erect member boded no good for her tender person.

  “Miles…” She giggled and crabbed backward as a hint of apprehension traced ghostly fingers up her back.

  He was on her in an instant. She laughed and shrieked in mock fear until her breath left her in a forceful “oof” when his weight flattened her to the mattress. He stilled, his face four inches above hers, his hips nested between her thighs and began to nuzzle her neck where her robe bared her skin. She arched her upper body into his kisses and tried to open the neck of her robe to allow him better access, but she could not move very well.

  “You are very heavy, Miles,” she panted, and never ceasing his attentions to her, he lifted up to support himself on his elbows.

  “Better?” he murmured into her neck.

  “Mmmhmm.” His kisses, combined with her wine-induced euphoria, created such an aura of languid pleasure that she found it difficult to coordinate her muscles or even speak without slurring her words. She flopped her arms out to her sides and spread her legs. “Debauch me, Lord Miles Everleigh. I have no idea what that entails, but whatever it is, I know I’ll love it. I love everything you do.”

  “Eleanor…”

  “Mmm?”

  “I think you have been dipping rather deeply.”

  She sniffed and thought about it as he kissed his way down to her breasts. “Most likely. I recall consuming the entire third bottle unassisted. Oh! Do that again! The tongue thing…please.” She lifted her head and beamed at him before releasing her head to flop back on the bed. “Yes…precisely that.”

  His body shook with not so silent laughter as his hands undid the tie to her robe and pulled it from between their pressed bodies. She more or less lost track of his direction while she reveled in the glide of his smooth, bare flesh against hers—the press of his warm mouth on her belly, her hips, the vee of her groin, the insides of her thighs and on her…“Miles!”

  Woozy from drink or not, she popped up like a jack-in-the-box and stared between her widespread legs. “Is this sort of thing really done? Is it a required part of debauching?” She cleared her throat. “Do you actually find pleas
ure in…that?”

  The pad of Miles’ thumb took over for his tongue and slipped in easy circles around the apex of her sex. The feeling produced was quite distracting and required she concentrate doubly hard on Miles’ words. She’d given up trying to bring his features into focus. Her eyes wouldn’t stop crossing.

  “That is cunnilingus, and I enjoy it very much.” He grinned. “You make the most adorable sounds as you rise in pleasure. I find it quite stimulating. Should you ever wish to return the favor, you need only indicate as such. That act is called ‘fellatio’.”

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. “Put my mouth on your cock? Do you like women to do that?”

  He smiled broadly and winked at her. “I should like it very well if my wife were to do it.”

  “I see.” She collapsed backward on the bed, arms splayed and made a study of the ceiling. “There is much more skill to this debauching than I realized.” The warm, wet caress of his lips and tongue began again, and now that she wasn’t so startled, she had to confess…it felt, ah…good. “Miles?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Are there books I can study about debauching? I am determined I shall be very, very accomplished at it.”

  He laid the weight of his head on her thigh, and his laughter spilled into the room. “Yes, Eleanor, they exist. Some even have illustrations. Next I’m in London, I will look into obtaining the most instructive of debauching literature for you, and we will practice until you are very, very, accomplished at it.”

  By the time Miles finished with her many eye-opening hours later, she felt thoroughly and entirely debauched and even more hopelessly in love with her husband.

  The next morning, Miles left Eleanor sleeping in with a note instructing her to consume the medicinal drink in the glass on her bedside table before rising. Unless he missed his mark, his endearing bride was going to awake with quite a bad head. He had risen at his normal time of 9:00 a.m. feeling thoroughly satiated and incapable of performing any task that required the slightest degree of physical effort or mental acuity. She’d kept him up until 4:00 that morning. Up in all meanings of the word. The night had been…memorable. He smiled into his cup of coffee as he sipped. After three bottles of wine, of which she had consumed the majority, his innocent wife had been devoid of inhibition, avidly curious—and wholly enchanting.

  He now sat in the family dining room enjoying a breakfast of cold bread and butter, lovely chops swimming in meat juice and an egg omelet, all washed down with some excellent cider. He had been joined by the Earl and his Countess.

  “Fedder and Bitters wish Day Dreamer to have a race before the Epsom Derby.” Miles directed his comments to both Lord and Lady Rutledge, who sat opposite him, his gaze going first to one and then the other. “He has suggested a race in Newmarket this Saturday and has paid the late penalty for her entry. Eleanor wishes to attend. If the weather promises to be fair and you felt up to it, we would enjoy your company. We would stay at Fairwood. While it is not as grand as Rutledge, I can promise you will be comfortable. I would be able to introduce you to Mother and my younger brother, Edmund.” As soon as he spoke the words, Miles remembered the Earl’s comments implying an acquaintance with his maman, but he made no mention of it. This was not the appropriate time.

  “My, what a lovely invitation.” Lady Rutledge straightened, and she and her husband exchanged a lengthy gaze. “What do you say, Rutledge?”

  Miles could have sworn some unheard conversation took place between them. The Earl’s eyes rested on him and then Lady Rutledge, but no clue was to be had from their faces.

  “You know I like pleasing you above all things, Lady Rutledge, but in this matter…” The Earl paused to catch his breath. “This beleaguered carcass might give up the ghost should I rattle off to Newmarket.” Again he paused, breathing heavily, and with an arm that shook noticeably, he laid his hand on his wife’s where she rested it on the table. “But, please don’t let my infirmities prevent you if you wish to go.”

  “Well,” her voice quavered, “I should take no enjoyment whatsoever if you were not there.” Lady Rutledge turned her hand over and laced her fingers through her husband’s. She directed a smile at Miles. “There you have it. You will have to bring us back a detailed account. Oh, it nearly slipped my mind. Your young groom returned late last evening and said a trunk is coming today with your clothes. When they arrive, I’ll have Walters turn them over to Mr. Hopwood to be freshened. The groom also brought a letter for you. It’s on the desk in the study.”

  At the rustle of silk, Miles looked toward the door and rose. A waxen-faced Eleanor entered the dining room, stepping cautiously, holding herself in such a manner as not to jar her head. He recognized the stratagem, having used it himself on the rare occasion he overindulged.

  She smiled faintly. “Good morning, Mamma, Father,” she said in a thready voice. Her gaze traveled to Miles and a genuine smile tilted her lips and warmed her eyes for a scant three seconds. “My lord. Pray be seated.”

  “Good morning, dearest,” her mother chirped.

  Eleanor winced and pressed her fingertips to her temple. “There is no need to shout, Mamma. I am in the same room.” She scanned the food laid out on the sideboard with a muted moan while her hands pressed her stomach. “I don’t believe I can eat.” With guarded steps, she closed the few feet to stand beside Miles and allowed the footman to assist her into her chair.

  Miles poured her a cup of tea, fixed it to her liking and placed it on the table in front of her.

  “Thank you.” Eleanor sat rigidly motionless and stared at her cup.

  Miles leaned across the table and murmured, “Lady Miles awoke this morning with a vile head, a megrim. She doesn’t feel at all the thing.”

  “A megrim? I cannot recall Eleanor ever having a megrim. She has always had quite a sturdy constitution. Whatever could have brought on a megrim?” Lady Rutledge’s wobbly voice sounded innocent, but she shot an impish glance at her husband.

  Eleanor rose abruptly. “This was a mistake. I’m returning to my bedchamber to lie down with a cool cloth on my forehead. Don’t hold dinner for me. I bid all of you a good day.”

  Three pairs of eyes watched her leave.

  Lady Rutledge made a sound of sympathetic concern and motioned to one of the footmen standing at attention around the dining room. “I am going to make sure Eleanor has what she needs.” The male servant immediately moved to help the Countess into her wheeled chair and pushed her out of the room.

  “Poor girl,” murmured Miles, shaking his head and raising his coffee cup. “It was that third bottle of Spanish red. I warned her against it.”

  “Sounds carry better than you think they might in these vast estate houses. So much stone, you see,” Lord Rutledge observed in a soft undertone. A dry humor wove itself through his words, and his eyes never left Miles.

  Miles responded with a raised eyebrow as he sipped his coffee. “Merely mending what was amiss between your daughter and me.”

  “Will Eleanor think it worth the price paid?”

  “I can say with all confidence she thought so at the time,” Miles stated blandly as he took another sip of his coffee and then met the steady gaze of Lord Rutledge with an equally steady one of his own.

  Later that evening, after spending the majority of the day with Bitters and Fedder arranging for Day Dreamer and entourage to leave for Newmarket, Miles entered their apartments with a tray of toast triangles, butter and jam, and strong, black tea. Eleanor sat in a wing chair wrapped in a dressing gown, a book open in her lap, though her head rested against the chair and her eyes were closed. She opened them and smiled faintly when he entered, but otherwise did not move. He set the tray on the small table beside the chair and removed the open book from her lap.

  “I have brought you tea and toast. Feeling at all more the thing?”

  “I feel as if I had been planted head down, uprooted by my heels and then dragged at a gallop through the hedgerows.” She straightened slowly and off
ered Miles a wan smile. “Mostly it is my head. My stomach has finally settled. I have also faithfully ignored the amusement displayed by the staff when they think I don’t see.” She eyed the toast and with a minimum of motion, buttered several pieces before loading them with strawberry jam and consuming them and a cup of strong tea straight away. She then closed her eyes and sank back into the chair. “Thank you, my lord. I feel better.”

  “You are welcome. I’ve had a letter from the Dowager Duchess. She reports that Ludlow appeared shortly after she received my letter advising her he might call. She supported our story and says Ludlow departed rather cross.”

  “Hmm. That was good of her. I liked your mother.”

  “Yes, she’s a lovely woman. I’m rather fond of her myself.” He took her hand and gently pulled. “Come along, my dear.”

  Eleanor barely opened her eyes. “What?”

  “I’m going to sit on the sofa and read, and you will put your head in my lap so that I can rub your temples.”

  He settled in with a popular novel, and groaning, Eleanor stretched out with her head resting on his left thigh. The book opened to the place he had marked and holding it in his right hand, he propped it on the arm of the sofa and began to read. His left hand stroked through her hair and massaged her temples in a gentle, repetitive pattern that drew a low moan of appreciation from Eleanor. He’d been rubbing her head for about an hour when her sleepy mumble broke the silence in the room.

  “Miles, aside from my inebriation—Spanish red shall never pass my lips again—last night was perfectly splendid. You proved an exceptional lady’s maid and have quite ruined Sally for me.” She snuggled closer into his lap with a deep sigh.

  Sometime much later and in the barest of whispers, he heard, “I’m so very glad I married you.”

  He smiled to himself and kept stroking as Eleanor fell asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Two