by C. J. Archer
He caressed the swell of her belly, her hip, her thigh, and her inner lips. She opened up for him and her eyes fluttered closed. She was hot and wet and his fingers slipped in easily. Her mouth formed a silent “Oh” and soon she was rocking to his rhythm. His thumb found the swollen, tender nub and he rubbed until she threw her head back and clenched her fists in the bedcovers.
Her body shuddered, once, twice, and the muscles in her jaw worked and he knew she was trying not to call out. Even in the poor light cast by the single candle flame he could see that she was flushed all over. He waited, his cock throbbing at the sight of her. He picked his shirt off the floor and laid it on her other side. Then he waited some more because he wanted to watch her as she rode the final waves of her pleasure. He waited until her breathing went from ragged gasps to a more even tempo. He waited until she opened her eyes and smiled up at him with a languid curve of her lips.
Then he kissed her. She dug her hands into his hair as he rose above her. He pressed against her opening and she bucked as his cock brushed her sensitive nub. Slowly, carefully, he slid into her all the way. He gritted his teeth against the sensations filling him up and pressed his forehead to hers. Like that he could watch her, read every note of pleasure etched on her face. Her beautiful, interesting face.
He picked up the rhythm, or perhaps she directed their pace, he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything except that he wanted her so much the house could fall down and he wouldn’t notice. He was mad. Mad for her.
And he didn’t care.
Her hands pressed against his rear, her breasts were two soft pillows beneath his chest. He tried to slow the pace, make it last, but his cock had other ideas. Faster. Harder. Deeper.
She gasped and arched her back into him, thrusting her breasts out and up. He felt the first shudder of his climax and pulled out, spilling his seed into his shirt.
Afterward, he wrapped it up and threw it on the floor and lay on his back on the bed, one leg over hers. She curled into him, a warm, soft bundle. Her hair smelled like smoke from the fire that had long ago died down. He kissed her forehead and listened to her breathing until it became even. She was asleep.
He carefully extricated himself from her limbs and stood. Before he drew the covers over her he took a moment to admire the sleek lines of her body, the curve of hip and breast, the way her hair tumbled over her eyes. He dressed in his hose and netherhose and bundled his shirt up under his arm. At the door, he looked back at her, half hoping she would stir and beckon him back to bed.
But that was his cock talking. His head was telling him to get out while he could, before his cock woke up properly and demanded to enjoy her again.
He shook his head, wishing he wasn’t running away like a coward. But it was the only choice he had. To stay would be a monumental mistake, and he’d already made enough of those.
He closed the door and left.
CHAPTER 12
One of the maids woke Alice when she came to relight the fire. Alice cracked open an eyelid and pulled the covers up to her chin. The other side of the bed was cold and empty. Warhurst had not stayed. She wasn’t at all surprised.
“Would you like breakfast in your room, Mistress Croft?” the maid asked, returning the flint stones and fire steel to the tinderbox.
“What does the family usually do?”
“Eat in their chambers, miss.”
“Then I’ll do the same.”
The maid left but Alice remained in bed, staring at the flickering flames. She’d not expected Warhurst to stay in her room all night, but she had hoped for something from him—a kiss, a good-bye, or at least an indication of how he wished to proceed. This silence was so palpable it was painful.
She missed him. Missed his strong body pressed against hers, the smell of his skin, his arms wrapped tightly around her.
Best not to think about it. That would only lead to heartache.
She cast off her melancholy, rose, and dressed. By the time she’d finished, the maid returned with bread and ale for breakfast. Alice ate alone, sitting at the little table near the window. When she finished, she fixed her hair, donned her hat, and opened the door.
Warhurst was standing there as if he’d been waiting for her to emerge. The similarity to the previous night when he’d come to her room struck her immediately. Unlike then, he was fully clothed in the most exquisite indigo silk doublet embellished with silver buttons and intricate embroidery down the sleeves. The richness of his dress drove home the point that he was one of the nobility who dined with royalty, attended balls at palaces. And married other members of the nobility.
“You must be going somewhere important,” she said, steeling herself for the awkward conversation they were no doubt about to have.
“I have business at court this morning,” he said without meeting her gaze. “May we speak, Mistress Croft?”
So it was Mistress Croft again, not Alice, despite everything. She bit the inside of her lip until she tasted blood. The sting took her mind off the other, sharper pain stabbing at her heart.
She stepped aside and he swept past her into the bedchamber. She closed the door, clasped her hands in front of her in an attempt to look as serene as possible, and waited for him to turn around and face her. It was several moments before he looked away from the window, and when he did, his face was a mask.
“I’m sorry I seduced you,” he said.
“I don’t think the seduction was entirely your fault.”
His face remained impassive. “Even so, I blame myself. I came here to assure you that no one knows, not even the servants. Your honor and reputation remain as they were.”
She gave him a tight smile. “We both know my honor wasn’t as pure as fresh snow before last night.”
He looked away again and she wished she hadn’t reminded him of her previous lover. Men could be odd about things like that. But she would not pretend Charles Grayshaw didn’t exist. He had been a part of her life, and his actions, both good and bad, had shaped her into the woman she was today. Denying that was foolishness.
“Even so, I am sorry,” he said heavily. “I want you to know that it won’t happen again.” She felt the color drain from her face. “I will not be ruled by my passions,” he went on, “you can be sure of that.”
The room tilted and she pressed back against the door to steady herself. So he didn’t care for her. It had all been about uncontrollable passion, nothing more.
Nothing more.
Of course. What had she expected from a peer of the realm? Gushing declarations and love tokens? To a seamstress? That was the stuff of fairytales and Alice had been around theatres and players too long to believe in such artifice. Real life rarely had happy endings.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat and gathered her wits. “You regret making love to me?” she managed to ask. Her voice shook, her body trembled. She felt both hot and cold. It was like having the ague except that her heart pounded so hard her ribs hurt.
He looked out the window and back again, but his gaze settled on her shoulder. “I should not have seduced you last night, but I did. It happened because I couldn’t control myself.”
“I seem to recall being overcome by passion too, so don’t blame yourself.”
A hint of color infused his cheeks but it was gone as rapidly as it had appeared. “I should have used more restraint. I should have employed reason, but I did not. I was ruled by my desire for you and I am sorry for it.”
“I can see that,” she snapped.
He groaned. “I am trying to apologize.”
“No, you are trying to dismiss what happened between us as something dirty. Something to sweep under the bed with the dust motes and forget.” She clenched her fists and tried to will herself not to cry in front of him, but the tears pooled in her eyes nevertheless.
He took two steps closer to her before stopping in the middle of the room. “What did you expect? I have apologized, what more do you want?”
She
hugged herself. Despite the fire in the grate, she felt cold to her bones. “Recognition that last night had been…special.”
“Yes,” he hissed. “It was.” He turned his back to her and hung his head. “Don’t you see, that’s why it can’t happen again. That is why I have to forget it. Forget you.”
She blinked back tears. “If I was not a seamstress, you wouldn’t be apologizing now, would you?”
Time stretched before he finally spoke, but what he said answered nothing. “Do you think I’m proud of my actions? Do you think I like being ruled by desire?” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “I can assure you, Mistress Croft, I do not. But I can’t make the same mistake again. Do you understand me?” He looked suddenly haggard, drawn, years older.
“Yes,” she said through a rigid jaw. “I understand that I’m not good enough for you, Lord Warhurst. But I also understand that you are rude and selfish and arrogant.” She wasn’t hugging herself for warmth now, although she still felt very cold; she was trying to hold herself together, as if her arms could stop the sadness that seemed to spill out of her very skin. “I hate you,” she said quietly. This wasn’t the man she’d made love to. That man had been sweet and gentle, attentive and utterly unselfish.
He inclined his head in a slight nod as if he understood her hatred and accepted it. Welcomed it. “I have responsibilities,” he said. “A reputation to maintain. My family and the future of the Warhurst title depend on my good character. I can’t allow this to continue. Someone will find out and scandal will erupt all over again. You cannot be my mistress.”
She almost laughed at that but the sound came out a strangled choke. “You are right on that score at least.” She could not be his mistress. Making love to him then watching him return to his wife would remove a little piece of her heart each time. Eventually there would be nothing left except bitterness and regret.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, lifting a hand as if he would touch her. But he was not close enough and he dropped his hand to his side again.
“Tell me one thing,” she said, picking up her scattered thoughts. “Why did you bring me here to your home when I am an embarrassment to you?”
Leo couldn’t answer her. Not because he didn’t know the answer but because it might finally unravel him. He was only just holding himself back from going to her, taking her in his arms and telling her…what? That he wanted her? God knew, he still did. But that was all, and it would pass. Desire always did.
“I have to go,” he said, but he stayed where he was. She stood near the door and he didn’t trust himself to remain impassive if he got any closer to her.
She stepped aside and tilted her chin. The tears had vanished from her eyes, thank God, and she looked composed once more. He breathed out a sigh. “What are we to do about Marlowe’s information?” she said.
A return to a safe topic at last. He wanted to laugh with dumb relief. “I will make some enquiries at court today. I was at Oxford with a Charles Grayshaw, one of Walsingham’s clerks, he might know something.”
Alice gasped. At his raised brow, she quickly said, “Oh?”
“We need to know if there is information on Hawkesbury and if the coded missive remained in Enderby’s possession or was handed over to Walsingham. If it is still with Enderby we might be able to retrieve it.”
“Do you think…Grayshaw will help?”
“He might if I appeal to our friendship.” Grayshaw was also one of the only people at court who didn’t hold a grudge against the Warhurst name, but even so, getting him to cooperate could prove difficult. Grayshaw, like anyone at court, rarely did something for nothing, and nothing was all Leo had to offer at the moment.
“Well then,” she said tartly. “Good-bye, Lord Warhurst.” She bowed formally, as she had done to his mother the day before.
His chest constricted as if a hand clasped his heart and squeezed. He moved past her and laid his hand on the door handle. “If your arm continues to trouble you, see Sweet Mary immediately. Greeves will tell you how to find her.” He opened the door, checked that the landing was empty, then left. His words of farewell stuck in his throat.
CHAPTER 13
The court was at Whitehall, one of the queen’s favorite palaces, for the approaching winter. Leo joined the scores of other courtiers and gentlemen vying for Her Majesty’s attention in the presence chamber. They were like baby birds opening their beaks for their mother to drop a morsel into their mouths, only to swallow it and demand more. She must hate it. Leo would if he were in her place, never knowing who were her true friends and who only wanted favor and advancement.
Leo knew who his friends were. There were precious few of them. His neighbors the Finchbrookes and some of his old Oxford pals, Charles Grayshaw among them.
And Alice Croft.
No, not her. Not anymore. She must want to forget him after the way he’d treated her.
He certainly wanted to forget her. So far he’d had no success in that endeavor despite last night’s attempt to exorcise her from his mind and satisfy the ache in his cock. A very thorough attempt.
He searched the cavernous room for Grayshaw’s amiable face among the familiar, less friendly ones. As on all his visits to court, which were blessedly few, most gentlemen pretended they didn’t see him while some openly sneered. These were the very men he’d repaid upon gaining his majority years before. Everywhere he turned he was met with cool stares and even colder shoulders.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the prodigal son returned,” a voice mocked.
Leo turned to see the ruddy face of Lord Enderby. The pockets of flesh at his jowls wobbled into a supercilious smile revealing yellow-gray teeth.
“Lord Enderby,” Leo said, mustering as much politeness as he could without vomiting up his breakfast.
“I’m surprised you dare show your face at court,” Enderby said, adjusting his black doublet over his grossly protruding waist.
If Leo put a fist into Enderby’s pug nose, he’d probably be thrown out, or worse, end up in Newgate. It might be worth it. Thankfully, before he had to think of a retort, Charles Grayshaw approached and clapped Leo on the back.
“Finally you’ve returned to bask in the glory of Her Gracious Majesty like the rest of us, you old dog!” Grayshaw turned to Enderby. “Please move, sir, you are getting in the way of my basking.”
Enderby spluttered so hard spittle stuck to his moustache. He looked like he wouldn’t move an inch but then the queen herself lifted her head, covered by a cap trimmed with pearls, and smiled in their direction. Enderby bowed but it was shallow thanks to his lack of a waist. When Grayshaw bowed, he touched one knee to the floor, swept his hat along the flagstones, and remained that way until the queen laughingly told him to rise.
Grayshaw smiled back and a collective sigh came from all the women. He took a step forward, as if the queen had beckoned him. But she had not and he stopped and waited. Her Majesty looked past him to Leo.
She beckoned him with her fan. “Lord Warhurst, isn’t it?” she said as Leo approached. She held out her hand for him to kiss. Leo wasn’t surprised to see that his mother wore more rings than the queen. “It has been some time since you were at court, my lord.”
“Almost a year, Your Majesty,” he said. “Too long to be away from your glory.”
She laughed, a high, girlish laugh, and covered her mouth with her fan. “Pretty sentiments, my lord. I suppose you are about to tell me I have changed for the better in the year’s absence, that I am looking more radiant, more beautiful than ever. That is the customary thing to say if you want my favor. Ask anyone.” She swept the fan in an arc to include all the men and women in the presence chamber. “They’ll all tell me that very thing after an absence of a week, a day, a minute!”
“Then I am an ignorant man,” Leo said, “because I was not thinking such a thing. Forgive me.” Behind him someone—Grayshaw?—drew in a sharp breath. Conversations that had been going on around them dried up. The entire room seemed to str
ain to listen. “I was going to tell you that you have not changed in the least, Your Majesty. If that isn’t the customary thing to say, then I apologize. My northern country manners need some refining.”
It was a blatant lie, of course. Up close, the thick white face paint couldn’t quite hide the new pockmarks, and the jewels in her wig, dress, fingers, and ears didn’t dazzle enough to detract from the extra wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. For all that, she was still a remarkable-looking woman, not a beauty but certainly striking.
“It is not the customary thing,” she agreed, “but I like it better.” She tapped him on the arm and leaned forward although her voice didn’t drop. What she said in this room, this theatre, was said for the benefit of any who would listen. The queen was the best player Leo had ever seen. “As to your country manners, perhaps it’s time you sought a wife to teach you more refined ways. I’m surprised your good mother and my dear friend, Lady Warhurst, has not found you a bride yet.”
It wasn’t for her lack of trying. “It’s my greatest wish that I obtain a wife soon,” he said. The trio of ladies’ maids sitting in the window embrasure stopped talking and turned their heads toward him like sunflowers.
“See,” the queen said with a satisfactory nod to the women, “already you have garnered some interest with your handsome face and country manners, my lord.” All three of the women blushed on cue. It was like watching that boy player in Alice’s troupe—Hawkesbury’s troupe—smile and say his lines exactly as they’d been written for him.
“Unfortunately that is all I have to offer a wife,” he said. “That and an estate in Northumberland.”
“That might be enough for some if it comes with a face as favored as yours. You have your father’s looks, sir, but it appears you lack his charm. Let us hope you also lack his fickle nature.”
Leo swallowed and acknowledged her pointed comments with a nod.