by A. C. Cobble
His body, having been initially slow to respond, senses dulled by drink, was now fully awake. The baroness slowed, still gently rocking her hips, eyes closed, pretty mouth open, drawing in lungfuls of air.
“My turn,” Oliver growled. He picked her up, spun her, and settled her back down. She wrapped her legs around him and gripped his biceps while he hovered over her.
Wordlessly, he began to thrust, picking up his pace. The outside world faded away, only the two of them left. He bent toward her, kissing, sucking her bare skin. She put one arm around him and dug her nails into his back. The other hand squirmed between them, finding its way between her legs. Writhing against him, she rose on another wave of ecstasy. Frantically, he pounded into her, fighting to hold on, urgently racing, until he felt her tense, and together, they gasped and quaked. He collapsed, feeling her twitching body beneath him as he spasmed helplessly.
Moments passed, but he’d long ago lost his awareness of time. Her breathing slowed, and he regained some sense of himself. He sat up and looked down at the disheveled baroness. Her intricately swept-up curls were a tussled mess. Her gown was bunched around her waist, exposing everything above and below it. Her neck and shoulders were dotted with small, red marks that he knew he’d left in his passion.
“My, my,” she said softly. “We should do that again.”
“I don’t think I can right now, Aria,” he mumbled.
“When you get back, silly man,” she breathed, a hand rising to trace along her naked skin. “When you get back.”
He grunted and adjusted his trousers, awkwardly pulling them up in the booth and stuffing his shirt down as best he could from a seated position. By the time he’d buckled his belt, fixed his coat, and his hair, the girl’s chest was rising and falling with steady breaths. Her eyes were closed, and her head was tilted to the side. She was asleep, half-naked, in the booth of a public pub.
He groaned.
He leaned over and began to adjust her gown, easily pulling her skirts down then struggling to pull the dress up and cover her breasts. Magnificent breasts, he thought, before shaking himself and regaining his focus.
He poked her and called her name, but nothing disturbed the girl’s slumber. He sighed. Getting her out of the place without anyone seeing them or being able to guess what they just did was going to be a significant challenge. It would be nearly impossible to quell the rumors if the crowd of patrons below saw him carrying the girl out in such a state. Grimly, he decided it was a lucky turn that he was scheduled to depart for the tropics that morning. Otherwise, he’d likely get flogged by his brother. Or worse, his brother may claim the activity had been a promise to the girl, and where that led was not a place Oliver was ready to go.
The prince wasn’t going to listen to how an innocent, delicate young woman of the peerage had been just as eager as he was. She had been even more so, thought Oliver, but that explanation wasn’t worth making to the prince. No, he needed to depart quietly. As quietly and stealthily as he could, given how many people had likely noted them stumbling up the stairs.
Briefly, he considered laying down next to the girl on the booth and sleeping until dawn when the patrons of the pub would all be in their beds and his head would be a bit clearer, but then he swallowed uncomfortably. At dawn, he was meant to be on an airship, flying to Archtan Atoll.
After checking his hair again, he poked his head out of the curtain. The balcony was empty, except the attendant, who was nervously shifting from foot to foot by the stairs, and Sam, who had relocated to a nearby table and was working on the last few drops left in a clear glass bottle.
“What are you doing up — Is that my gin?” he hissed. “Were you listening to me?”
She snorted. “How could I not? That’s not why I’m up here, though. Sitting at your table, drinking your liquor, was drawing some suspicious looks so I moved. Besides, I told you we need to talk, and we have only two turns of the clock before you’re meant to depart. I need a ride, and I need your chop to get me on deck.”
“You listened to me… to me having—”
“Duke,” she interrupted.
He kept talking, “The baroness is a member of the peerage. High society. This is not an acceptable—”
“Tell that to her uncle,” snapped Sam. “He was down below looking for her half a turn of the clock past. I sent him off across town with a claim that I’d seen you two in the Seven Shillings, and I made sure the staff kept quiet about it. You owe me six pounds and seven shillings, by the way.”
“Six pounds!”
“Is that more than the going rate for keeping someone quiet about your illicit sexual liaisons?” chided Sam. “Sorry. I’m not as familiar with these types of payoffs as you are.”
“No, no,” grumbled Oliver. “I don’t… There’s nothing illicit about it. It’s just… the girl’s family won’t appreciate the, ah, well, she’s half-naked and asleep in a public pub. They won’t like that. We need to get her out of here, immediately.”
“We?” Sam laughed.
“You wanted to talk before I left, right?” growled Oliver. “This is what I’m going to be doing the next two turns of the clock, so if you want my chop to get a ride, you’d better help.”
“I’m not sure this is what the bishop had in mind when he assigned someone from the Church as your companion last week,” grumbled Sam.
“Well, if you don’t tell him about this, then I won’t tell him how much you’re drinking,” declared Oliver.
“How much I’m drinking?” asked Sam. “Why would he care about that?”
“Priests aren’t allowed to drink. Church law,” claimed the duke. “Priestesses, whatever.”
“I’m not a priestess,” countered Sam, “not really. And even if I was, there is no Church law against drinking. The bishop himself enjoys a tipple every now and then.”
“You’re not a priestess?” questioned Oliver. “Then what—”
“Perhaps we should discuss this another time, maybe after we’ve disposed of your drunken, half-naked baroness?”
He glanced over his shoulder where the girl was peacefully slumbering. He frowned and checked his hair again, hissing at the sloppy knot he’d tied moments before, but he ruefully admitted, if he was spotted walking out of the pub with an unconscious girl, his hair was the last thing anyone would be staring at.
Hesitantly, the attendant stepped forward, audibly clearing his throat. “I, ah, m’lord, I thought you should know that there is a back stairwell to this building that is accessible from the balcony.”
“Fetch us a carriage,” Oliver instructed Sam. To the attendant, he added, “Your discretion is appreciated.”
The man smiled and held out a hand. “I believe the girl mentioned something about six pounds?”
The baroness, more or less covered, hung limply in their arms as Oliver and Sam stomped down the back stairwell.
“She’s beautiful,” said Sam, holding the girl’s legs, admiring her face which was nestled in the crook of Oliver’s arm. “One of Baron Child’s twins, isn’t she? I’ve never seen either in person, but they’re something of a legend amongst—”
“Can we just get on with it,” muttered the duke, pushing on the baroness, trying to encourage Sam to keep backing down the stairwell.
“I’m just saying she’s a lovely catch,” complained Sam, moving again. “Which one is she?”
“Aria. Aria Child,” replied Oliver. “And she will have a very upset family if we do not get her back to the palace before dawn.”
“Are you sure that’s who she is?” jested Sam. “I was told the girls are indistinguishable. They could swap places, and no one would ever know. You can imagine the jokes.”
“Aria has a small strawberry-colored birthmark on her bottom. Isabella does not,” said the duke as they reached the landing. He turned, trying to angle his body to open the door without dropping the baroness.
“How do you… You’ve bedded both of them, haven’t you!” accused Sam. �
�You have to tell me what that is like!”
“Why would I do that,” he muttered.
The knob turned and he was finally able to shoulder the door open. A mechanical carriage was puttering in the dimly lit alleyway, the door ajar, the driver up front where he couldn’t see who was exiting the pub. Oliver briefly wondered how many passengers were picked up in such circumstances. Then he climbed into the compartment and laid the girl down on one of the padded benches.
“I didn’t know where we are going,” said Sam, placing the girl’s legs on the bench and then putting one of her high-heeled shoes down on top of her. “I thought the baron’s palace or your brother’s, but I wasn’t sure.”
“Her father, Josiah Child, stays in my brother’s palace when they’re not in Eiremouth,” said Oliver, stepping out of the carriage to instruct the driver on where to take them. “Josiah is an old friend of my father’s. The girls stay with him, of course. Their uncle spends most of his days in Westundon, and he has a townhouse somewhere in the city.”
He hopped down into the alley then paused.
“Duke Wellesley,” said a cool, urbane voice.
A man stepped out of the shadows, and Oliver suppressed a groan. “Baron Child, good evening.”
“I can only assume you have one of my nieces in that carriage?”
Oliver scratched at the back of his neck, unsure if a lie or the blatant truth had a better chance of getting him out of the mess without his brother hearing a word of it.
“My brother thinks only of getting the girls married,” said the baron, taking a step closer, and revealing a hulking body man lurking behind him. “He thinks a good match with someone like you will elevate our family, that you and the Wellesley line would shower us with land and wealth. He’s not completely wrong, is he? The girls are beyond beautiful, and I’m sure you can attest to their persuasive prowess. They’d be legends in the brothel, but that’s the catch, isn’t it? A man like you does not buy what he can have for free.”
“They’re good girls,” mumbled Oliver, unsure of what to say.
“Unimpeachable honor?” snickered the baron. “I’m a realist, Duke Wellesley. The girls are an asset to the Child family, but all it will take is one foolish evening and they’ll ruin their reputations. You could ruin their reputation. Those fine marriage prospects my brother loves to go on about would all evaporate. The two girls could end up spinsters. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
“What are you asking for, Nathaniel?” asked Oliver, rubbing a hand across his face. “It’s late and I have somewhere to be at dawn.”
“So does my niece,” growled the baron.
Oliver raised his hands, palms up. “What do you want?”
“My brother is plotting marriage, but I have my sights on a more obtainable goal. Grant the Child’s a ten percent share in your expedition to the Westlands, and I’ll forget I found you — and my niece — in this condition. You’ll have no worries that this meeting will be discussed with your brother, Prince Philip.”
“I’m not going to the Westlands this morning, Nathaniel. I’m going to Archtan Atoll.”
“I know that,” snapped the baron. “I also know you will lead the expedition to the Westlands when you return. The Company won’t deny Duke Oliver Wellesley such an assignment. A ten percent share, and you may still enjoy the company of my nieces without fear that I will ever mention it again.”
“Ten percent is half my own stake,” argued Oliver. “I can grant you one percent.”
“One percent?” scoffed Baron Child. “That is nothing.”
“The rumors of the Westland’s potential are true,” challenged Oliver. “One percent of the expedition will rival the value of your entire estate — both you and your brother’s. You’ll double the Child family’s wealth.”
“Five,” countered Baron Child. “It’s cheaper than your brother forcing a marriage on you, don’t you think?”
“I couldn’t do more than two percent without the approval of the Company’s Board of Directors,” said Oliver, “and I don’t think either one of us wants to explain the situation to them.”
“I have two nieces,” said Child. “Two percent for each one of them. Make it four total, Duke Wellesley, and I’ll even open up my country home for you and either of the girls to relax and celebrate when you return from the tropics. Bring both of the girls if you can convince them.”
Oliver grimaced.
“Who is that?” asked the baron.
Glancing over his shoulder, Oliver saw Sam had stepped out of the carriage. He turned back to the baron. “Two percent — one for you, one for your brother. Enough in the family to give both girls a secure future. I cannot do more, Nathaniel, so do not press it. I do this for the girls, only them. Not you or your brother, and not out of some fear you’ll tattle to my brother. They’re good girls, and either one would make a fine match if it came to that.”
The baron stared at him for a moment and then offered a curt nod. He stepped forward and held out his hand to Oliver. “I wouldn’t call you a good man, Wellesley, but you’re not a bad one either, when you pause to think things over.”
“Thank you… I think.”
Baron Child stepped back. “I’m satisfied, but my brother won’t be. Not by pounds sterling.”
Oliver frowned.
“No percentage of shares in the Westlands will appease my brother if he hears who I caught violating his daughter,” continued the baron. “He would have insisted on a marriage. A proper thank you, though, may keep him happy. In the spirit of keeping this between us, I do hope you won’t mention it to your own brother. If this comes back on me or on my body man, I hate to think of what the papers would say about it.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the duke, a flutter of concern creeping up his spine.
“Jack,” said Baron Child, his voice suddenly cold, “leave him able to travel in two turns of the clock, but otherwise in as much pain as you can manage.”
“My pleasure, boss,” growled Baron Child’s body man.
The hulking giant stepped around the baron and removed his small circular hat and then his coat. His shirt strained as heavy slabs of muscle shifted beneath it.
Oliver stepped back, his eyes darting around the alleyway. The driver of the carriage seemed to have vanished, and otherwise, the alley was empty. That late at night, it was sure to stay empty. He briefly considered running, but it wasn’t befitting a man of his stature, so instead, he let his hand drop to his belt where his broadsword should have been and would have been if he had been out on expedition that night, instead of taking in the theatre and bedding a baroness.
The big body man rolled up his shirtsleeves and shuffled forward, his fists raised in a boxer’s stance. A giant bushy mustache framed the straight-line of his mouth, and his bald head reflected brightly in the sole light of the carriage’s lantern. His knuckles were scarred from what Oliver could only guess were countless rounds of fisticuffs.
“I hired him out of the fighting pits two years ago,” explained Baron Child. “Jack had a, what, a thirty-and-three record at the time?”
“Thirty-two, m’lord. I’d won thirty-two bouts. All of my last dozen or so.”
“Ah, yes, thirty-two,” said Baron Child, “and in the prime of his career. He enjoys the fight, Oliver, and only agreed to hire on when I promised him the opportunity to practice his craft on noble flesh. You won’t tell your brother, will you?”
Oliver raised his fists and fell into a stance similar to the looming Jack.
Baron Child laughed. “Good luck, Duke Wellesley. You’ll need it.”
Jack closed, and the duke decided there was no point waiting. He wasn’t intending to run, and at the very least, he fancied getting in a few jabs before the bruiser flattened him. He darted at the big man, feinting with a fist.
Calmly, Jack raised his hands, prepared to absorb the blow on his battle-scarred forearms.
Oliver ducked and launched a quick rabbit punch a
t the man’s side with his left hand. It landed solidly and he grinned at the sound of his fist thumping into meat.
Then, Jack caught him with a short jab on the side of the head and followed with a punishing cross. Oliver staggered back, blinking stars from his eyes. Taking his time, Jack pursued, his feet dancing gracefully over the cobbles. With speed that belied his size, the big boxer swung a fast hook.
Slipping it, Oliver dodged to the side and brought his fist up as hard as he could, pounding the larger man on the chin, snapping his head back and eliciting a startled grunt from the massive boxer. He launched a flurry of strikes into the former pit fighter’s midsection, forcing him back. Then, Oliver wound up to crash a fist into the man’s head again but paused as the former boxer gave him an undazed, painless smile.
“Nice one, Wellesley,” drawled Jack. “You’re faster than you look, but now it’s my turn.”
The thought of running flitted through his mind again, but before he could decide on the matter, Oliver was rocked by Jack’s fist jabbing him in the face. The knuckles were a blur in the dim light. He didn’t have time to block or dodge, so he tilted his head and absorbed the blow on the crown of his skull. His vision flashed white, his neck creaked in protest, and he stumbled back.
“Stupid move, Wellesley. You’ll get hurt doing that,” chided Jack. He reached out, gripped Oliver’s shoulder, and then smashed a fist into his gut.
Coughing and heaving, Oliver stumbled to the side, a string of bile trailing from his open mouth.
“Hurry it up, Jack,” instructed Baron Child.
The big man moved forward and then stopped.
Oliver, dreading the sound of the next step, glanced at the boxer and saw Sam had come to stand between them.
“That’s enough,” she said.
“What?” guffawed Jack. “I’ve just gotten started. The man touched the baron’s nieces, and he’s going to regret it.”
“It was consensual,” mentioned Sam.
“What does that matter?” growled Baron Child.