by Darcie Wilde
“Yes!” he cried. “Oh, God, yes, Leannah!”
She closed her lips. She swirled her tongue around him, and she moaned. She liked it, what she was doing, what she raised between them. The fire built higher inside him and his blood burned hotter. He had never been so hard, so strong, so frantic with the need for completion.
And he would be dead and damned if he didn’t bring her with him.
With a mighty effort of will, Harry raised his hand and tangled his fingers in her hair.
“Leannah.” He croaked as he pulled, not hard, just enough to urge her to lift her mouth from him. “Leannah, come here.”
She understood at once, and she stood. Her mouth was wet and glistening from her work. A drop of moisture beaded at the corner, and her tongue darted out to lick it away. Oh, God, who was this woman? What was she doing to him? She was driving him insane, that’s what she was doing. Well, if this was insanity, then let him be consigned to Bedlam because he never wanted to be sane again.
Leannah undid her sash and let the wrapper fall away into a heap. She stood before him trembling, but not with fear or cold. It was desire that shook her. He could see it in her face and her darkened emerald eyes. Her tangled hair cascaded down about her breasts so that the hard dusky buds of her nipples peeked out from between the elf locks. She was a goddess of desire, and he was nothing more than need given man’s breath and form.
He grabbed her waist. She shrieked and laughed, but let herself be pulled forward and lifted. She understood what was required quickly, and straddled him so that her thighs pressed against his. Wonder and need lit her eyes as she leaned forward to kiss his mouth. She tasted of salt and musk and smelled of her own heady spice. Her naked breasts brushed his chest. He spread one hand across her buttocks, savoring their ripe curves. With the other, he sought the nest of curls between her thighs, and the sensitive, wet folds beneath. She moaned into his mouth as he parted her. She was hot and drenched, entirely ready for him. His shaft throbbed sharply, but he forced himself to wait. He let his fingers fondle her. Her soft sounds of pleasure and surprise washed over him like her scent and her heat. Her thighs tightened against his. She was rising up on her knees, seeking to press herself onto him, and as she did, he let his fingers slip up to the very top of her folds, to find and stroke the nubbin of flesh concealed there.
She cried out and he knew a fresh wave of delight, and triumph. She writhed against him, forcing his fingers to press her harder. Her red-gold hair rippled around her, offering him glimpses of her breasts and belly that were somehow more enticing than the full view could be. Leannah was radiant in her pleasure, lost to it entirely, knowing only that she needed, that she wanted.
“Oh, yes, Leannah. That’s it. You like it.”
“Yes!”
She was coming. Her thighs tightened hard and abruptly. Her hips rocked forward, pressing her nub tight against his fingers. He held her there, trapped between his hands. For a moment she was utterly still, her eyes closed, her body entirely alert to what was happening inside. Then she trembled, then she shuddered and her climax took her.
She rocked against him, crying out as he stroked her, prolonging her pleasure, ruthlessly, selfishly feeding his own greed and power on the sight of her, the feeling of her so helpless against his hands and body.
Her climax was ebbing and her strength at last beginning to flag. Leannah slumped forward and he embraced her and pulled her close.
“Oh, yes, my dear.” Harry kissed her and brushed her hair back from her shoulders, which led him to brush his hand against her breast. Her nipple was pebble hard beneath his fingers. He tightened his arm around her. She shifted, slick and wet against him. The pain and need was robbing him of breath. He would not wait anymore. He could not.
Harry grasped Leannah’s hips and raised her up. Her eyes flew open and her mouth made an O of surprise. For a moment he feared she might resist, and then he would have to die, because there was no way he could stand down from this. But a heartbeat later she grinned, and he felt her take her own weight on her knees, so he could reach a hand between them and position his iron-hard shaft at her entrance.
Leannah groaned and let her knees buckle. Harry shouted with desire and relief as he thrust up into her. Her heat tightened once around him, and he was lost—lost to reason, lost to restraint. Desire rendered him mindless. He thrust, hard, relentless. He grasped her, holding her tight and close. She struggled, she rocked, and then she found the rhythm. His rhythm, her rhythm. Now, she rode him. She rode him hard, and harder yet as pleasure drove them on.
Harry’s climax took him without warning. He roared aloud as the waves of it rushed through him, lifting him high and crashing him back down hard to earth, to peace and relief.
To Leannah. His Leannah.
* * *
It was a long time before either of them moved. To Harry’s surprise, he was the first to insist on it. He would have been vastly contented to spend the rest of the day with Leannah curled up in his lap. Unfortunately, she had been right when she said they needed to speak with their respective families before the gossip reached them.
Therefore, albeit with a great deal of reluctance, he got them both to their feet. It took a certain amount of highly enjoyable teasing and cajoling to convince her to reclaim her wrapper, retreat to her room, and ring for the maid. Lewis arrived promptly in answer to this summons with a pair of sturdy girls in tow. The trio had taken charge of Leannah’s trunk and they disappeared into her room, presumably to take charge of Leannah herself. Harry chuckled and wished them luck.
Not that he didn’t need similar assistance. Fortunately, Marshall was not slow in arriving with his own pair of subordinates to take charge of Harry. As a result he was washed, shaved, and dressed in short order. A green coat, clean shirt, plain blue waistcoat, and buff breeches had all been procured. By the time Harry knotted his cravat, he felt much more himself. He, in fact, felt entirely ready to brave the day and begin his new life as Leannah’s husband. He even had time for another cup of coffee and an additional slice of cake. Fortunately, with Leannah in his life, he probably would not have to worry about growing stout anytime soon.
Harry leaned back in his chair and swirled the dregs of his coffee. He stared at the wall, but in his mind he saw her, his Leannah. In his vision, she was beautifully naked, and her red-gold hair curled around her lush breasts. The memory of her sang through him. He glanced at her chamber door. What would happen if he walked in there and dismissed the servants? Perhaps she wasn’t even laced up yet. If that was the case, it would be the work of a moment to pull off her dress and corset and have her naked in front of him in reality. He could lay her down on the bed and show her she was not the only one hungry for exploration. He could suck her folds exactly as she had sucked his shaft this morning, until a fresh climax overwhelmed her. Then, while she was still hot and pulsing, he’d thrust into her, and drive her to distraction all over again.
Harry threw back his head and laughed. Great heavens, he was a lost cause. No woman had ever gotten to him so quickly; not even when he was a raw youth abroad in the world for the first time. He’d taken full advantage of the privileges offered a curious young Englishman with money in his pockets. Fortunately, he’d passed through all that without contracting a serious disease, or fathering a bastard, which was something on the far side of a miracle, all things considered. But that had been simple lust, if lust was ever simple, and opportunity. What he felt with Leannah was as far beyond all that as the sun beyond the clouds.
But just what was it he felt? Leannah delighted him physically and with her strength of mind and character. He enjoyed sparring with her, teasing her, and laughing with her. She turned him protective, mischievous, and wolfish by turns. Could this be the love at first sight the poets nattered on about? Harry sipped his cooling coffee. He’d never believed in such folderol. But if it wasn’t love at first sight, he’d bloody well like to know what was. Which left him with a cold and vital question.
As if summoned by that silent question, Leannah emerged from her room. She wore a cream gown trimmed with peach ribbons that brought out the warmth of her complexion and her hair. The demure fichu at her throat was pinned by a plain silver brooch. Her hair was dressed simply, swept back from her face but with a shimmering spill of curls left to trail down her neck and back.
Despite how well the dress suited her, Harry’s expert eye could see that it had been made over at least twice, and the trim at the sleeves and hem was slightly worn. The pin was quite plain, and it was the only jewelry she wore, besides his ring. She’d said her family was short of money, and here was the proof of it.
She was looking at him, shyly, uncertainly. She was ashamed, Harry realized. He would not permit that. He smiled as he got to his feet and crossed to her so he could take her hands and kiss them both. He noted with approval that they’d been freshly and lightly bandaged. He’d make certain Lewis remained in attendance on Leannah as long as they stayed here. Given the state of her dress, he had a feeling she didn’t have a lady’s maid of her own. That was on the list of things he could and would change.
“You are beautiful,” he told her. “Are you ready for this?”
She squared her shoulders and tilted her chin up to meet his gaze. “As ready as I can be. You?”
“The same,” he smiled, and kissed her. He’d meant it to be light, and brief, but when her lips trembled and parted beneath his own, he could not help but prolong the gesture. Anyway, what was the point of a kiss if he did not put his arms about her and hold her close? Just for a moment, of course; just long enough to relish the sensation of her magnificent curves pressed against him. She yielded to his attentions at once, leaning her whole body against his. She sighed into their kiss and he felt his member twitch.
“Oh, no,” he said, when he finally had to breathe again. “We can’t. Not yet.”
“I know.” Despite this, she kept rubbing her lips lightly along his freshly shaved jaw, all the while pressing those luscious breasts against his chest. His groin tightened abruptly. “I do know.”
With an inward curse, Harry stepped backward. He took her face in both hands, and tipped her eyes up to his. “Tonight.” He said firmly. “We are agreed. We will meet back here at seven o’clock for supper. After which, I will spend the rest of the evening showing you exactly how much I have missed you.”
Leannah took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes. Of course. This is just the beginning.”
But there was a tremor beneath her words, and something too close to fear flickered behind her gold and emerald eyes. Harry kissed her once more.
“We will be back together soon,” he told her. “I promise you, Leannah.”
When they parted again, he saw her touch her brooch, and tug at her sleeve before she turned to pick up the reticule she’d laid on the table. A thought occurred to him.
“At the risk of turning this awkward . . .” he said as he reached into his coat.
“I think you mean more awkward.”
“I believe I do. But, I wanted to make sure you had some money.” He drew out his wallet, and his purse.
“Thank you.”
He laid a stack of notes and coins on the table. Leannah stared at them and swallowed. Her brow furrowed, turning her expression almost angry as she swept the money into her reticule and drew the string shut.
He wanted to ask her what was wrong and where that anger came from, but something in him held back. He told himself it was that they had no time. It was already late. He was going to have trouble making his self-imposed deadline of getting home to break the news before one o’clock when the accepted time for paying calls began. There would be time to ask what so upset her later. There would be all the time in the world.
After that, they were caught up in the bustle of getting ready to leave. Bonnet, coat, and gloves had to be fetched for Leannah; hat, overcoat, and stick for him. Marshall had to be dispatched to see that the carriage was got ready and brought round. Once they descended the front stairs, there was a further short delay while Leannah meticulously quizzed the groom about the health of her horses, and the bona fides of the driver the hotel supplied. Fortunately, the groom had recognized the high-strung nature of the team, and had assigned an older man with a knowing eye and crisp manner to take charge.
Harry kissed Leannah’s hand at the foot of the steps, and helped her into the barouche.
As she settled into her place he could not help but notice the contrast between her genteelly worn dress and the extravagance of the well-sprung carriage with its shining leather seats and team of matched grays. There was a story here, and while he had no notion what it might be, it left him uneasy, especially when it combined with the angry look on her face as she accepted the money. Still, he tipped her a jaunty wave as the driver touched up the horses and set them walking up the street.
He didn’t move for a moment, although he couldn’t have said what he was waiting for. Then, he saw Leannah turn around, looking for him. She was too far away for him to see her expression, but he felt instinctively it was neither comfortable nor contented.
We will be back together soon. I promise you. His own words echoed in his mind, but now they took on a different tone; one that was anxious and far too uncertain.
Harry uttered a soft oath and wrenched himself around. This was not to be permitted. Leannah would return here, to him, just as soon as she was able. He’d close them both into their room and make her understand in the most direct way possible that the life she’d known did not matter. She was his wife now, and he would make all things right for her.
For them both.
With this single thought held firmly in his mind, Harry strode away down the street.
Twenty
Anthony Dickenson was not an impulsive man. His life’s course had been set from the time he was breeched, and he followed it unerringly. From the care of his nurse and his tutors, he had gone to boarding school and then to university. There, he did well enough at his studies, but that was secondary. His father had been quite clear. The primary purpose of school was to meet the men and families with whom he would be associated with for the rest of his life.
After university, Dickenson was installed in the office next to his father’s at the firm on Cornhill Street, four doors down from the Royal Exchange. There, he learned to navigate the world of shares and stocks, and how to buy and sell whatever would yield the best profit. His father sponsored him to join the correct clubs. His university acquaintances gained him invitations to dine at the correct tables. His older brothers taught him how to listen in those clubs and at those tables. Under their influence, Dickenson learned how to consistently put two and two together and make four when it came to business. Other men might approach the markets as they did the gaming tables, but Dickensons never did. They only played when they knew they could win. If necessary, they took steps to make certain of their victory.
So it was an unutterable shock to Anthony when the beautiful girl brought to his attention at the Mallon’s New Year’s affair turned out to be the daughter of Octavian Morehouse. Old “Octopus” Morehouse was the most infamous gambling man ever to haunt the halls of the exchange. Anthony fully expected to forget Genevieve Morehouse as soon as he learned her name. Like his brothers, he was meant to marry to help raise the family’s fortunes and position. Genevieve Morehouse could never be anything to him.
Except he couldn’t forget her. He began to see her everywhere, and every time she appeared more lovely and desirable. He began to make excuses to speak with her. At first, when she returned her tart answers, he’d simply been appalled. This delicate creature who so attracted him could not possibly possess such an acid and impertinent tongue. It was not only unseemly, it went against the laws of nature. He, Anthony Dickenson, could never want such a creature, and yet he did want Genevieve Morehouse. She danced through his thoughts when he should have be
en concentrating on business. The vision of her smiled softly at him as he sat listening at the supper tables. His dreams at night quickly escalated from undignified to unendurable. He must have her.
However, Dickenson knew full well he could not claim her until he comprehended just how and why her character came to be so damaged. He could not make a wife of any girl who did not measure up to the Dickenson standards, however desirable she might be.
Fortunately, it didn’t take him long to understand that the fault did not lie with Miss Morehouse’s intrinsic nature. Rather, it originated with her sister.
Mrs. Wakefield was a cold, calculating woman. It did not take him much looking to see how she deliberately and maliciously poisoned Genevieve’s mind and character in an attempt to make the lovely girl as unyielding, scheming, and proud as she was herself. Heaven only knew where that pride came from, considering the pathetic wreck she had for a father. But after a little conversation with those in the know, combined with a little impartial observation of the sort he applied to business matters, Anthony understood that Mrs. Wakefield was jealous of her unspoiled sister’s youth and beauty. That jealousy led to the ongoing attempts to ruin her.
As soon as Anthony understood this, his course of action became clear. All he had to do was marry Genevieve Morehouse and get her away from her termagant of a sister. Once he had Genevieve all to himself, he could set about reshaping her character and behaviors. It would not be difficult. After all, he would only be guiding her back to what was right and natural. Within a matter of weeks, as long as three or four months, perhaps, Genevieve would be able to stand beside him as a proper wife.