by Erica Ridley
“Very good,” she said in appreciation, and turned her derrière toward his groin. The hard length of him pressed against her, potent and promising. She could not wait to feel him between her legs, without any layers to separate them.
As he loosened her stays and slid them over her hips, he peppered slow kisses from beneath her ear, down the curve of her neck, to her shoulder. She slipped the coin from him without him noticing, and almost lost control of it herself when his open mouth brushed the side of her breast, so close to her peaked nipples.
She kicked the whalebone stays aside with her stockinged toes and held up the guinea, her words almost too breathy to be understood. “Waistcoat.”
With a suggestive, knowing smile, he unbuttoned the fastenings and shrugged off the embroidered blue silk, then held out his hand for the coin.
She placed the guinea in his palm.
He arranged the coin as best he could, tensing his fingers this way and that to try to form a better hold and never quite succeeding. She gave a loud hiccup and burst out laughing. He sent her a quelling look, which only made her hiccup again. He turned over his hand.
The coin didn’t fall.
He glanced up at her, wide-eyed.
She held up the guinea between two fingers. “Shirt, please.”
“What—? How—?” He flipped over his empty hand and glowered at his traitorous palm. “You hiccuped it from me?”
With an unrepentant grin, she tugged his linen shirt free from his waistband. Ever so slowly, she pushed the hem up over the flat planes of his stomach, pressing a soft kiss to each muscle in turn until at last he pulled the rest over his head and flung it out of sight.
He took the coin from her and placed it back in his palm, turning sideways to ensure it remained out of her reach for the length of his trick. It lasted several seconds this time before tumbling free.
“Shift,” he demanded with obvious pleasure. “Allow me.”
He knelt before her again, this time lowering his head all the way to her hem. Torturously, he kissed each inch of bare skin he exposed as he tugged the thin fabric higher and higher.
When he reached the juncture between her legs, his mouth lingered there.
She grasped the bedpost to keep from falling over and parted her trembling legs to give his mouth full access. He licked and swirled, nibbled and teased. Her knees could barely keep her upright as the pressure built higher and higher.
Without pausing his erotic kiss, his hands continued higher to reach her breasts. She all but pressed them into his palms, greedy for every wicked sensation he wrested from her. His fingers teased her taut nipples while his tongue danced at her core until she was gasping for breath.
“Trousers,” she panted.
He lifted his mouth only slightly from between her legs. “Do you have the coin?”
“Who cares about the deuced coin?”
“Capital point.” He swung her into his arms and tossed her atop the bed, then removed his trousers and climbed in beside her.
She wrapped her fingers about his shaft, reveling in its thickness and heat. He shuddered as she stroked him, as though struck helpless by her touch. But he did not allow her to wield power over him for long.
He gripped her hips, turning so that he was on his back and she was seated astride him.
Her pulse quickened with anticipation. “What are you doing?”
“Teaching you a trick I think you’ll like.” He positioned her atop his shaft longways, allowing the hard ridge to glide slickly between her legs until her mind had no coherent thought besides More, more, more.
“Please…”
In answer, he allowed the tip of his shaft to penetrate her, just a bit, then a little bit more. As her body stretched to accommodate him, he lowered his thumb to her sensitive nub and began to stroke lightly.
A jolt of pleasure flashed through her, and she sank a little lower onto his shaft. She could not stand the teasing, longing to have all of him within her.
Without ceasing his thumb’s expert ministrations, he leaned up and took one of her nipples into his talented mouth, suckling possessively.
“Ohhh.” Suddenly she was fully seated on his shaft, tilting her hips into his touch, arching her back to press her breasts to his mouth.
There was no holding back now, no patience, no teasing, just an uninhibited coupling toward mutual pleasure. She gave, she took, she demanded, she surrendered. He gripped her hips as she rode him, finding a rhythm that drove them higher and higher. The pressure building was too big, too much, too—
She cried out his name and he caught it with a kiss, his own hips pumping even faster.
As soon as her tremors subsided, he jerked his shaft free, spilling his seed to one side. With shaking arms, he pulled her close and cradled her to his chest. She smiled drowsily against him. His heartbeat pounded fast and strong, just like hers.
She cuddled against him, closing her eyes as he pressed little kisses to the top of her hair. Was it any wonder she loved him? She could curl against him like this for the rest of the week, for the rest of the year, for the rest of her life. Perhaps he wanted it, too.
“You’re lucky,” she grumbled. “You wake up every morning in bed with you.”
She could sense, rather than see, his grin.
“So could you,” he murmured into her hair. “Stay the night.”
A damp chill feathered across her bare skin. She had never spent a night away from home. Not since the day she’d returned to the orphanage to find another needy child tucked asleep in her bed. They had replaced her after only a couple of hours. What would an entire night do?
Her breath came too quickly. “I can’t.”
“You could.” He smoothed a stray hair back from her forehead. “A brand-new day dress and night rail await you on a special shelf in my wardrobe, in case I ever trap you in my arms for an entire night.”
“That’s very presumptuous of you,” she mumbled.
“And expensive,” he agreed. “I had to sell a painting, but if I can keep you a little longer, it will have been worth it.”
She lifted her head. “You sold a painting?”
He nodded. “I had intended to replenish the larder, but then I thought to myself, ‘What if I made love to Chloe all night instead?’ I hope you like porridge for breakfast.”
“I hate porridge for breakfast.”
She burrowed into his warmth, pulse racing. What if she could make love to Lawrence all night? What if she could wake up in the morning not replaced at all but still held fast in his embrace? What if this was the first night of many?
“All right,” she whispered, despite the fear. “I’ll stay.”
31
Chloe could not repress a grin as she set out across Grosvenor Square, arms swinging jauntily at her sides. The sun was dim and the wind was sharp, but nothing could squelch this new spring in her step.
She’d spent the night with Lawrence. In his bed. In his arms. She hadn’t expected to be able to sleep, but she’d lain her cheek against his steady heartbeat, and the next thing she knew, it was morning.
Chloe had sent a note home to Tommy saying, Don’t worry—I’m with Faircliffe. Tommy’s response had read simply, I know. Graham told me.
Chloe’s cheeks heated. There would be no keeping this secret.
Perhaps it needn’t be a secret for long. Not only was Chloe wearing a gown Lawrence had purchased for her, she was also walking across the square to the reading circle from his house. She had left by the rear door so as not to give the gossips fodder, but people would notice if this became a habit.
Was Lawrence thinking about courting her? Or at least thinking again about whether they might suit after all?
She tried to push such thoughts out of her mind, at least for now. For the next few hours the reading circle deserved her attention.
This time was different. She was no longer lurking. Gone was her aggressively forgettable attire.
Chloe looked like a lady.<
br />
If she was overlooked like this, it would be because no amount of finery could make unremarkable Chloe Wynchester anything but ordinary. She infused her posture with confidence.
No more hiding in a shadow of her own making. The person whose acceptance she needed to earn was her own. She was Miss Chloe Bloody Wynchester. She wasn’t inferior to anyone, no matter what their birth. She did impossible things all the time. Of course she could succeed at this.
She strode up the familiar path to the Yorks’ front door. When the butler opened it wide, she offered not a calling card but a sunny smile.
“How do you do, Mr. Underwood?”
“Very well.” He blinked, taken aback at being greeted by name, particularly when he likely could not recall hers.
Chloe slipped past him and took several steps down the corridor toward the parlor before a different obstacle blocked her passage.
“Miss Wynchester.” The syllables dripped like poison from Mrs. York’s curled lip. “I hope you don’t think you are welcome here.”
Ah. Respectable Mrs. York would not be appeased by a How do you do and a smile. When Philippa had lost Lawrence, Chloe had lost her usefulness.
She held her ground. She was visible; that was step one. Mrs. York might sneer down her nose at the Wynchester family, but she remembered Chloe’s name and face.
“Thank you,” Chloe said, and meant it. “That means more to me than you could know.”
Mrs. York blinked. “Er…what?”
Philippa floated into the corridor in a cloud of delicate lace. “Mother, what are you… Oh, Chloe, there you are. Come on in. We’re waiting for a few more guests before we get started.”
Visible. Remembered. Recognized.
Wanted.
“I’d be happy to.” Chloe started forward.
Mrs. York’s arm flashed out to block her.
“Mother, desist at once.” Philippa’s voice was cold. “If you want me to consider reentering the marriage mart, you will unhand my friend.”
Friend. The word made Chloe dizzy. Or perhaps that was due to being defended rather than dismissed.
“If your acquaintance in any way harms my daughter’s chances…” Mrs. York hissed beneath her breath. “Mind yourself. Or I will pay you back in kind.”
But she lowered her arm and allowed Chloe to hurry past.
Upon reaching the noisy parlor, she paused inside the doorway to catch her breath. Her tense muscles began to relax.
She liked the reading circle. No, she adored the reading circle.
During the previous weeks, they’d all been the heroines they read about. They’d fought invading armies or escaped crumbling abbeys or won the handsome prince. They argued over the parts they liked best and least. Wouldn’t it have been better if this? Or more logical if that? If I were Emily St. Aubert, how I would have felt and what I would have done was…
Those were Chloe’s favorite moments. It made Chloe think that if young ladies with family titles could imagine themselves as ordinary people in popular novels, surely some of them could imagine life from her perspective. It made her think that instead of pretending this was her group of friends, perhaps she could really belong.
“Next month,” Philippa was saying, “we’ll need a new book. Who’s next on the list to choose?”
Immediate chaos broke out as ladies vied against each other, complaining that it had been months since they last chose, and they were positively brimming with suggestions on what everyone else should read.
A voice cut through the din. “Miss Wynchester hasn’t had a turn.”
All eyes swung toward Chloe in unison. Seen. Remembered. Recognized. Her cheeks flamed with heat.
Lady Eunice was the one who had spoken. She was the daughter of a marquess.
“All right,” Philippa agreed. “Chloe, your turn. Bring your selection next week so we can all note the title. Where on earth is Gracie?”
“Her tardiness gets worse with every passing week,” groused another young woman. “If she hadn’t been waltzing with rakish scoundrels all night…”
“Inconsiderate hen,” said another. “Some of us want to talk about books.”
“Let’s start without her,” someone else suggested. “The rest of us are here.”
The rest of us. Chloe was part of an “us.” Her limbs lightened with joy.
“Did you hear the Duke of Faircliffe is on the market again?” whispered one young lady to another.
Chloe froze and pretended every iota of her being wasn’t trying desperately to overhear.
“Now that he’s available,” said the young lady’s friend, “I, for one, will send as many sultry looks over my fan at Almack’s as it takes for him to notice me.”
“Do that,” said another. “I’m going to sneak into his theatre box at the next performance. I needn’t even swoon into his arms. My presence will be enough to stake my claim.”
“Diabolical,” murmured her friend, impressed.
At the moment the only woman who held his attention was Chloe. Her chest fluttered. She still couldn’t believe she’d spent the night in his arms. And that he’d invited her to do it again tonight.
Gracie rushed through the open door out of breath, her cheeks chapped from the wind. “I’m here, I’m here!”
“Finally,” called one of her friends. “The book bacchanalia can begin.”
“All right, ladies.” Philippa clapped her hands together. “Please take your chairs. It’s time for Evelina.”
Everyone scrambled for the best seats—where there was more light, or next to a bosom friend. Chloe hurried to the one in the corner, the one Lawrence had found for her because it was out of the range of the Yorks’ many decorative mirrors.
Gracie reached the chair when Chloe was still two yards away.
She paused, indecisive. Tossing a magistrate’s daughter out of an armchair would not help her to be accepted by the group.
“Gracie,” Philippa said. “Not there. That’s Chloe’s chair. If you’d arrive on time once in a while, you could claim a different one for yourself. Go sit by Lady Eunice so we can begin.”
That’s Chloe’s chair.
Her head swam.
Chloe’s chair.
“Apologies,” Gracie giggled, and rushed off to join Lady Eunice.
Chloe sank into her chair with weak knees. Never had the mahogany seemed so sturdy, the velvet so soft and welcoming, the view so perfect. This was her chair. Her place. Her personal slice of “us.”
Her head swam at the new sensations.
“Who’s going to Mrs. Ipsley’s tonight?” Gracie asked, as if she had not heard Philippa call the reading circle to order.
Everyone began speaking at once. It seemed Mrs. Ipsley was hosting “just a small gathering” to which everyone who was anyone had apparently been invited.
“We’re all going,” Florentia crowed in delight. “I should have known.”
Chloe hugged herself as if she didn’t care.
“I’m not.” It was a small voice, but she had found one. “I wasn’t invited.”
“What?” Lady Eunice pressed a hand to her bosom as if in genuine shock that Mrs. Ipsley could make such an omission. “Your invitation must have been lost.”
“It wasn’t lost,” Chloe mumbled. “It was never coming. I’m a Wynchester.”
“Bah,” Gracie said. “The older generation might care about such things—”
“Patronesses…” Philippa agreed. “My mother…”
“—but we obviously do not,” Gracie finished. “It’s 1817, for heaven’s sake. We’re modern women.”
Lady Eunice nodded. “I’ll call on Mrs. Ipsley as soon as I leave here. Your invitation will be on your mantel by the time you arrive home.”
Florentia smiled wickedly. “A party isn’t a party without the entire Ladies of Lusty Literature Book Coven.”
“We haven’t a name,” Philippa protested in mock horror.
It was too late. The company had already
dissolved into raucous laughter, bandying about improper title after improper title until references to lust and book bacchanalia seemed pious in comparison.
Chloe’s cheeks hurt from grinning at the antics of all her…friends? Perhaps next time she wouldn’t have to try so hard to avoid seats facing looking glasses. She suspected all she would see was joy reflecting back at her.
She leaned forward and leapt into the competition for who could invent the most scandalous group name.
32
Lawrence could not calm his nerves. His pacing would have worn holes in his carpets if he still had any.
Spending an entire night with Chloe had been more than he’d dreamed it would be. Perfect. Magical. A terrible idea.
No matter how much he yearned to, he couldn’t keep her. His duty was to his title, not his heart. He should not let himself forget it again.
Even if she was everything he wanted.
To clear his head, he raced Elderberry down Rotten Row. On the way home, he passed Gunter’s Tea Shop.
A row of carriages lined Berkeley Square. Some of the passengers still perched in their open conveyances. Smart waiters dashed back and forth between the shop and their customers, taking and delivering orders. On a fine, sunny day like today, Gunter’s was second only to Almack’s in amassing the greatest number of fashionable people. If he hoped to find an heiress with a dowry capable of saving his ancestral estate, he ought to start there.
Lawrence tied Elderberry to a post.
Leaves crunched just behind him.
“Faircliffe,” said the Marquess of Rosbotham with far more joviality than their superficial acquaintance warranted. “I hear your courtship with that York chit spoiled like month-old cream.”
So the word was out.
Lawrence clenched his fingers. Until he settled his finances, he could not afford to alienate any member of the ton and risk his standing.
“No promises were made, nor hearts broken,” he replied evenly. “Her business is her own, as is mine.”
“Oh, come now,” Rosbotham chuckled. “Her mother claims the girl was the one to walk away, but we both know that family would have toppled a king for a chance at a dukedom. What’s wrong with the chit? You can tell me the truth.”