by Alyson Chase
She dropped her head. “I don’t care.”
Thank all that was holy, the sound he’d been waiting for met his ears. No more need for restraint. He plunged into her, watching her arse shake with each hard thrust. “You don’t care if everyone knows what a little wanton you are? If they hear how you beg for it?”
Her sex tightened about him like a vise. “No,” she breathed out. “Please.”
She was close. The base of his spine tingled. So was he.
He pulled her upright, pounding into her through the change in angle. He gripped her jaw and turned her head. “I’m glad to hear it since we have an audience.”
An audience was an exaggeration. The elderly woman shuffling beside the house had her gaze fixed on the garden path. But Netta still stiffened in his arms. “Oh God,” she whispered.
He pressed his hand to her mons, grinding the heel against her clit. “Do you want me to stop?”
“No,” she whispered. “Please.” She reached back and dug her fingers into his hair.
“Then beg.” He pinched her nipple, slowly rolling the bud with increasing pressure. “Let her know who’s cock you’re desperate for.”
She moaned. “I”—she panted—“can’t.”
“Then I should stop.” He slowed but had no intention of ending this.
She tugged his hair until his scalp burned. “Don’t you dare.”
His ballocks ached, the need to release overwhelming. “Then beg. Tell me to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk tomorrow. Tell me, and no whispering it.”
If she didn’t break, he would. Sweat rolled down his spine. The planks of the gazebo creaked. He wasn’t going to make it. She wasn’t going to crack. She—
“Fuck me! Fuck me so hard I can’t walk tomorrow.” Her neck arched. She looked back at him, her eyes wild. Need warred with fear, confusion with titillation. He could read each and every beautiful emotion as they crossed her face. “Just don’t stop, John.”
He slammed into her, holding nothing back. Cupping her cheek, he took her mouth with his own. He swallowed her moans as he fucked her, increasing the pressure against her sensitive nub.
Her body jerked. She bit his lower lip. And with a muffled scream, she spasmed around him.
Her channel drew him deeper, milking his length, begging for his release. With every ounce of discipline he possessed, he pulled from her body. His hand had just clenched about his cock when his seed spurted against her lower back.
He ground himself against her bum, dragging out each shudder of pleasure until his muscles went limp. He dropped his forehead to her shoulder and sucked down shallow breaths.
Netta sagged against him. “Who was that?” she whispered. “Oh God, did she hear?”
John looked up, but the servant was gone. “My washerwoman. She cuts through the garden on her way home each night.”
Netta spun and planted her hands on her hips. The outraged expression on her face didn’t have the same effect when set over a naked body.
Without thought, John reached for her breast. She slapped his hand away.
“You had me remove all my clothes and bent me over a railing knowing someone was going to come along?” Her voice rose with each word until John worried that she would rouse the household. “What if she’d heard us?”
“That would have been a miracle.” He wrapped his hand in her hair and tugged her close. She stood stiffly in his arms but she didn’t push him away. “Mrs. Wapner hasn’t heard anything for the past ten years. She’s deaf.” And half-blind. The perfect person to cause Netta alarm without any true threat of discovery.
She slapped his chest. “You tricked me!”
He caught her hand and brought it to his mouth. Gently, he kissed each of her fingers. “Of course. It’s what I do.” And how sweet it had been. The cleverer a woman was, the more satisfying a successful illusion.
He pressed a soft kiss to her lips. Toying with Netta was going to be very, very satisfying.
She curled her body against his and clasped her hands behind his neck. “I will grant you that your ruse was moderately adept.”
“Moderately?” He arched an eyebrow. “I seem to remember you saying you could accept defeat with grace.”
She smiled but it wasn’t friendly. Her teeth looked predatory as she lowered his head to hers.
Against all common sense, John’s flagging cock twitched with interest.
“I’m glad your memory is in good health.” She flicked her tongue against his lower lip before staggering him with a devastating kiss. “Remember this, John Chaucer. The pleasure you give me is sweet.”
She nipped his jaw. “But revenge is sweeter.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Not the jonquil, I think.” John squinted, but the color of the gown against Netta’s body still offended his sight. “She has pink undertones to her skin and the yellows just won’t do.”
Netta held out an arm and examined the sleeve. “I like yellow.”
“I’m sure you do, poppet.” He crooked his finger at the modiste, and she scurried to bring over another gown. “But yellow doesn’t feel the same about you.”
They stood in one of his favorite shop’s in London. Pile after pile of gowns were strewn over all available surfaces as Netta was measured, fussed over, and trussed up in every fabric and style. Usually John shopped for his mistresses, and his choices were more provocative. Dressing a woman from morning gowns to ball gowns and everything in between was a novel experience.
One that would have been more diverting had Netta appreciated his and the modiste’s efforts instead of scowling at every rejected gown.
“Turn to face the window, will you?”
“It’s not going to look any different facing north,” Netta said, but she did as he asked.
“That window faces west, but you’re right. Full sun doesn’t improve the picture.” He turned to the modiste. “Let’s stick with the blue fabrics for the walking gowns. We’ll take the four pelisses we discussed, the eight gowns over on that settee, and we really must talk about slippers.”
The owner of the shop muttered something to the seamstress next to her, who scribbled notes furiously. A portable wooden desk was wedged to her side with one arm, the contraption not looking nearly large enough to hold the list of purchases that were accruing. The girl dipped her quill into the inkwell on the corner of the desk, nodded to the modiste, and wrote some more.
This bill was going to make his banker wince.
The modiste turned her attention back to John. “I also have some lovely Belgium lace just in. It will make the most charming of chemises, or perhaps a seductive night rail or two.”
Netta’s cheeks flushed a delightful rosy hue. After last night, he hadn’t thought she would suffer from embarrassment. He knew every inch of her body, knew how she sounded, felt, when she was brought to completion. Yet discussions of undergarments still made her blush.
He rocked onto the balls of his feet, his limbs feeling light. Netta acted as though she were a gently-born woman. He’d worried over this idea of his, wondered if she could pull off her part, but the answer was clear. She could charm any gentleman she chose.
He should know. She had charmed him.
“Include them in my order.” He looked about for the gown Netta had worn into the shop. “I’ll assist Miss Courtney in dressing while you prepare the bill.”
The seamstress plucked Netta’s gown from the top of one of the piles and bustled forwards, handing it to John. Her feet tangled in the skirt and she tripped.
John reached for her elbow. He should have reached for the desk. It flew from the chit’s hands, the inkwell tumbling end over end and splashing against his jacket.
His pale peach jacket of Lustring silk with seed pearls and topaz stones embroidered into the collar and lapels.
The girl’s face crumbled. “My deepest apologies,” she said, addressing her employer instead of her victim. “I
didn’t mean to ruin another garment.”
The modiste flapped her hands. “Never mind that! Get a cloth and wash basin. Monsieur, if you will give me your jacket I will see to it at once.”
Netta winced. “I don’t think soap and water will save it. No ink fell on my gown, did it?”
John shrugged out of the stained garment and examined the damage. “Your concern for my apparel is overwhelming,” he said dryly. He looked down. “Your gown is fine. Not that it matters since it’s my property, as well.”
“Yes, but you can walk about without your jacket. I can’t do the same without a gown.”
John arched an eyebrow.
Netta planted her hands on her hips. “No.”
No, even John wouldn’t push the boundaries of decency that far. He handed his jacket to the modiste. “I’m afraid Miss Courtney is right. Forget the soap. Do you have any pure alcohol and vinegar?”
“I can get some.” A line creased the woman’s forehead. “But what will I do with it?”
“Mix a solution of equal parts of the liquids and apply it to the ink. Let it rest for several minutes, then pour salt over the stain.”
“Salt?” both Netta and the modiste asked.
“Yes. That white granular mineral that preserves food and improves its flavor.” John sighed. The stain was setting on his lovely jacket as they spoke and the women wanted to question his every directive. “Allow it to rest for another ten minutes and then scrub the stain with a soft brush and rinse with hot water. The ink should dissolve.”
The modiste looked from him to the jacket. She shrugged. “It will do no harm to try.” She turned to her assistant. “Fetch the items the earl mentioned and meet me in the back room. Monsieur,” she said to John, “if this doesn’t work, I will…” She swallowed. “I will of course compensate you.”
He waved his hand. “We’ll worry about that later. Attempt the alcohol and vinegar solution first.”
The woman nodded and hurried from the room, her seamstress two steps behind.
Netta stepped out of the yellow dress and picked her own gown off the floor. She lifted it over her head. “Alcohol and vinegar to clean ink stains?” Her question was muted through the fabric until her head popped free. “Wherever did you learn such a thing?”
He stepped behind her and worked on the buttons down her back. If his fingers lingered over their task, it could be forgiven. It went against their nature to assist a woman in covering up. “At King’s College, Cambridge. I studied chemistry there.”
She looked up at him over her shoulder, her mouth a tantalizing circle. “Truly? Such an education is hardly necessary for an earl, is it? Or were you that determined to never lose an article of clothing to ink accidents? I realize fashion is of utmost importance to you, but that is what valets are for.”
He smacked her rump. “You are not nearly as droll as you think you are, woman.”
She smirked. “I found it amusing and that is all that matters.” Peering at her reflection, she adjusted her bodice. “But truly, why chemistry? What could have been the use?”
“The use?” He cocked his hip against a low bureau, tracking her movements as she slid her gloves onto her hands. “My knowledge of chemical science saved my earldom. I’d say it was of immense use.”
She lifted her hands, palms up. “And? You can’t start a story like that and then stop. What did your family need to be saved from? And how did chemistry save it?”
One side of his mouth edged up. “Why Netta, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you cared.”
She slid her arms into a blush-colored redingote. “But you do know me better. And even though I find you arrogant and infuriating, I also think you are—”
“Preternaturally comely and uncommonly virile?”
She tied the strings of the overdress with more force than necessary. “Moderately interesting. I want to know your history.” She dipped her chin and raised her eyebrows. “I also think it is time you tell me about this scheme of yours. I believe you’ve worked out the details and I’d like to know what my part is.”
Yes, he supposed it was time. Netta needed to know what her performance would be. But something made him hesitate. If he told her and she objected, if she left…. He rubbed his chest. Well, that would put him in a poor position to reclaim his property. That could be the only reason for his reticence.
But it was one he needed to overcome. He scratched at a spot on the bureau. “My mother died giving birth to my youngest brother when I was but six. I only mention it because it has a bearing on my family’s fortunes. My father, you see, used the loss as an excuse to gamble and whore his way through London. Within two years, the family was bankrupt.”
He heard her gown shift as she moved closer, but he didn’t raise his head. “Ever since a boy, when I mixed black pepper with gunpowder to see if I could cause a bigger bang, I was interested in chemistry. I made enough money as an apprentice to a couple men of science to pay my way through college, then I took what I learned and restored the Summerset name.”
The toes of her slippers came into his line of view. Then her hand holding a small sack.
He sniffed. Licorice. That explained why she smelled of it.
She opened the sack wide and held it up to him. “I always find it easier to speak of disagreeable things when there is something sweet in my mouth. Pomfret cake?”
John huffed and raised his eyes. There was no pity or condemnation in her gaze over his fallen circumstances. Only interest. And kindness. He plucked out one of the shiny black confections and popped it in his mouth. Spicy and sweet. Just like Netta.
“Where was I? Oh yes. How I made my fortune.” He swung his foot back and forth, much more comfortable relaying this section of his history. “Although pepper does nothing productive for gunpowder, I found several minerals that did. I brought my family out of debt selling my new, more stable brand to the British government.” He shrugged. “Of course, now that the wars have ended, that income stream has virtually dried up. Which leads me to why I want you.”
She looked down at her bosom and back up at him. “I know why you want me.”
John turned to sit more fully on the bureau. He looped his finger in the closure of her redingote and pulled her between his legs. “You are more than an impressive pair of breasts, poppet. Don’t undervalue yourself.”
“That has never been a problem.” She rested her hands on his shoulders. “Now, to my part in your scheme.”
He traced his finger along the edge of her gown. “After my marvelous gunpowder invention, I branched out to steel production. My grandparents had property rich with chromite ore. I tested chromium’s effects on steel and received letters patent on a new production process. My smelts are responsible for growing my family’s wealth fifty times over since I became Summerset.” He puffed his chest out. It had grown nearer one hundred times larger since the jumble his father had left them in. But it wouldn’t do to boast.
“And how did it go wrong?” She leaned against his thigh, the fabric of her gown brushing against his falls. The light from the window illuminated her pale blond hair like a halo. With her entrancing eyes and sweet pout, she looked like an angel.
Luckily for him, she was of the fallen variety. They were much more fun.
He leaned forwards and pressed a kiss to the rounded top of one breast, then the other.
She shuddered.
“My brother went wrong. He owns the land the ore mines are on. And he lost them on a game of hazard.” His stomach churned and he sat up straight. “The man who holds the deed refuses to sell. So I intend to win it back.” He watched her expression as he laid it out before her. “And you, my dear, are the stakes I intend to play with.”
She didn’t blink. Her face held no expression at all.
“I won’t lose,” he was quick to reassure her. “I’ll make sure of it. I wouldn’t let another man touch you. You are merely necessary to get him to t
he table.”
She tapped her thumb against his shoulder. “For four thousand pounds you want me to flirt and beguile a man so as he’ll risk a deed worth tens of thousands?”
“In essence, yes.”
More thumb-tapping against his shirt. “I don’t just want the essence. What are the particulars?”
John exhaled slowly. “This man. He wouldn’t be playing for a night of simple tupping. He likes inflicting pain. Humiliation. And I think the opportunity to inflict such on an innocent, gently-born woman, or someone he believes is such, would be too tempting to resist.” He swallowed. “The fact that I will make it appear you have value to me will also rouse his interest. He seems to enjoy taking what’s mine.”
He held his breath. Would she be horrified? John was used to such things. To people who only liked to give pain, never pleasure. This was the point where Netta might flee, and she would be wise to do so. He knew he would keep her from harm, but how was she to trust him?
But Netta didn’t run. “Surely you won’t lose everything without those ores,” she asked.
“They are the only known chromite ores in England,” he said. “The cost to import the mineral would dramatically cut into my profits.”
“Well, what about a new venture to make up for the old?” she asked. “What are you currently developing?”
John’s shoulders hardened. “Nothing.”
Her eyebrows knitted together. “Nothing? But you spoke of your love for science. Why not—”
“My days in the laboratory are over.” His voice emerged harsher than he wanted. He didn’t like the concern that it brought to her expression. Or the curiosity. Why he left his laboratory wasn’t a topic he was willing to discuss.
He cleared his throat and forced his customary indifference back into his words. “Which is why I intend to win it back. Why you have been hired. Do you think you can do it?” he asked, infusing the question with a challenge.
She cocked her head. “Oh, I can do it. But I want something for it. All the gowns and slippers and fripperies you’re dressing me in for the role. I want to take them with me when I leave, in addition to my four thousand pounds.”