Lady Wallflower (Notorious Ladies of London Book 2)

by Scarlett Scott

  Some of the color fled her cheeks at last. “I shall do for myself, thank you. Unless you prefer it?”

  It was clear she did not want to displease him. And further that she was as out of her depths as he was. Some part of him—that old, stalwart bachelor—was having difficulty believing this was his new life. That he had a wife.

  Nothing has to change, he reminded himself. My life can be just as it was.

  “Whatever you wish is what I would prefer, my dear,” he said.

  There. He could be an accommodating husband.

  Husband, yes, there was that. He was married. The parson’s mousetrap had snapped upon him. The impending horror that ought to have accompanied these thoughts was strangely absent for now. And they did nothing to abate the irritatingly rigid state of his cock.

  “Thank you,” she returned softly, giving him a smile that also did nothing to quell his rampant erection, for it called attention to the plush invitation of her lips.

  He caught a whiff of orange blossom and jasmine as she resumed arranging her selections on her plate with dainty precision. Two things occurred to him then, in rapid succession. One, he was gawking at his wife. Mooning over her as if he had never seen a woman. Vomitus. Two, his servants were bearing witness. One of them—a footman named Dawkins—had been smirking until he caught Decker’s stare upon him and hastily banished all expression from his countenance.

  Wise decision, you smug prick.

  Decker turned his attention back to the impressive selection his chef had provided, presumably in an effort to please his new mistress. Without a care for what he was choosing or the quantities, he began to heap foodstuffs upon his plate. His mind was whirling, and his cock was aching, and neither of these two states were conducive to his having a productive day.

  Before he knew it, his plate was towering with bacon and sausage and nothing else. There was no space for eggs or the luscious-looking hothouse pineapple and strawberries.

  Damnation. He was going to have a gut full of meat.

  But there was no help for it. Inwardly stewing at his ridiculous reaction to this morning, he stalked to his customary place. Jo was already there, awaiting him. Nothing has to change, he repeated to himself as he settled into his chair. His coffee was prepared just as he liked it, awaiting him. His newspaper was ironed and ready.

  He flipped to the State of Trade section, as usual. The price of coal was down. The cotton market was lackluster. His eyes wandered over railroad shares. He felt Jo’s stare on him like a touch. He flicked his gaze to her, finding her watching him expectantly.

  Well, bloody hell. Did she want to converse?

  “I spend my mornings reviewing The Times,” he explained. “It is imperative, as a businessman, that I keep apprised of all the comings and goings of the world.”

  Her lush lips compressed. “Of course, Mr. Decker.”

  Ah, she was nettled. She did want to converse.

  He lowered the paper to the table. “No mister, my dear. Decker will continue to do.”

  “Hmm,” she said, before beginning to methodically cut the wedges of pineapple on her plate into smaller, bite-sized portions.

  Each delicate clink of the cutlery on her plate nettled him.

  Her silence said more than her words could, and he did not like it. However, he had his morning routine for a reason. It settled him. This was the manner in which he began his day, every day. He would not alter it because he had a wife. Just as he would not alter any part of himself. He was the same man he had always been.

  He picked up The Times and resumed reviewing the reports. The Exchange on Paris was on the rise. His attention wandered, and he was briefly distracted about an article concerning an explosion on Her Majesty’s ship Inflexible. Someone was outraged about something Lord Randolph Churchill had said. A case of poisonous cream ices in Lambeth-walk…

  He snapped the newspaper closed once more, irritated with himself for his distraction. His wife was calmly consuming her breakfast. She paused when he lowered the paper, her dark eyebrows lifting in question.

  “Is something amiss, Mr. Decker?” she asked in her sweet, dulcet voice.

  Yes, something is amiss, he wanted to holler. You are intruding upon my life.

  But of course she was, wasn’t she? He had married her. She lived here now. She had every right to have expectations of him. Somehow, in all the fantasies he had entertained during the time he had waited to marry her, he had never envisioned anything other than fucking her until he had effectively excised her from his blood. He had not thought about sharing the breakfast table with her or—good God—hosting social events. Would she want to throw balls and dinner parties? Would she expect him to speak to her during breakfast?

  “Of course not,” he said smoothly, breaking himself free of his thoughts. He cast a glance toward the servants dancing attendance upon them. “That will be all for now, if you please. I will ring when our meal is complete, thank you.”

  He waited for the footmen to depart before turning his full attention to Jo.

  “Why the devil do you keep referring to me as Mr. Decker?” he demanded. “Is this some sort of nonsense you insist upon doing before the servants? If so, I can assure you, my domestics are amply recompensed for their service. They do not give a damn if you call me Mr. Decker or Decker or Elijah or Eli or Adam for that matter.”

  “Mr. Decker seems like the sort of man who would ignore his new wife in favor of burying his face in The Times,” she returned.

  Curse it, he had been correct. She had expectations of him. He ought to have warned her not to waste her time.

  Instead, he raised a brow. “Have I displeased you already? That was a remarkably short amount of time.”

  In truth, he was unaccustomed to what followed his liaisons. In the past, he had always made it clear to his lovers what they could expect of him: one night of senseless shagging. That was all. Not since Nora had he been so available to a woman in the way he now was with Jo. He had never broken his fast with lovers.

  But Jo was not just any lover, was she?

  “I thought we might talk,” she said, “that is all. If you are more interested in your newspaper than speaking with me, I shall not force you to suffer.”

  That was when he heard it—the underlying note of hurt and disappointment in her voice. Something slid through him, clenching his stomach.

  Remorse.

  Last night had been profound. They had made love and then napped together. Later, he had shared a bath with her and had made her come once more with his fingers on her pearl beneath the warm, soothing water. They dined in his chamber and fed each other cream ice. They had just made love the once, Decker wanting to give her body time to adjust.

  And how did he follow up such day?

  By being an arse to her, naturally. All because the lifelong bachelor within him was rebelling at the notion of the power she had over him.

  “There is nothing more interesting in this newspaper than you,” he told her, and that was the truth. “I am simply a man of routine. Forgive me?”

  “Of course I forgive you.” Her gaze searched his. “This is new for you. It is for me as well. We must grow familiar with our change in circumstances together.”

  Together.

  That was another new word, a new concept.

  He wanted to hate it, but he could not muster the sentiment. Instead, all he felt was…hope.

  That was it. All the blood had clearly abandoned his brain in favor of rushing to his cock.

  He suddenly had an idea of one manner in which they could grow accustomed to their circumstances together. What the devil was he doing, having a civilized breakfast and poring over The Times when the woman he could not stop wanting was here, within reach?

  Decker rose from his chair, stalked around the corner of the table to her. She watched with wide eyes.

  “You are correct, darling.” He extended his hand. “I find myself famished, but not for breakfast.”

  She sett
led her diminutive hand in his, and even the innocent-enough contact made his prick twitch. “What are you suggesting?”

  “That we begin this morning again the proper way, as we should have done from the first.” He hauled her to her feet. “With you in my bed.”

  Perhaps she ought not to have given in with such ease.

  But as Decker kissed his way down her naked body, Jo was not sure she cared. Her earlier irritation with him had vanished like her gown and all the underpinnings beneath. His clever hands had made short work of all her trappings.

  Of course, they had. Were he not a businessman, he would have made an excellent lady’s maid.

  Except, no lady’s maid did what her husband was currently doing to her.

  His hands were on her thighs now, coaxing her to open for him.

  “Decker,” she whispered, shyness mingling with excitement and hunger. “What are you doing? You cannot possibly mean to—oh!”

  When his mouth found the wildly sensitive bundle of nerves between her legs, she forgot what she had been about to say.

  He lifted his head, his bright-blue gaze meeting hers and stealing her breath. “I can. Relax, bijou. Let me do penance for being an oaf at the breakfast table.”

  He had been an oaf. She ought to still be aggrieved with him, but maintaining her crossness became impossible when his tongue stroked over her. She gasped, her hips jerking, offering herself up to him, seeking more.

  “Mmm,” he murmured into her sex as if he were feasting upon the most decadent dessert. “Perfection.”

  And then, he sucked her into his mouth. And it certainly felt like perfection, what he was doing. Wonderful, wicked man.

  A strangled cry escaped her. Sensation blossomed. Pleasure unfurled, beginning there at her center and radiating outward, bringing with it the desperate need for more. She had seen the act, of course, represented in his naughty alphabet pictures at his club. But a hand-tinted lithograph could hardly compare to his skilled lips and tongue.

  The desire he wrung from her was intense. She writhed beneath him, moaning when he caught her between his teeth and bit. Dear. Sweet. Heavens. Above. His tongue flitted over her in quick, steady pulses, soothing that sting, sending flutters of heat through her.

  He licked down her slit next, parting her folds. His tongue sank inside her, thrusting in and out as he had the night before with his manhood. The wet slide, lapping at her core, was electric. And then, his thumb found her already desperately sensitive bud, flicking over her with fast, steady pressure.

  Jo lost control. Something deep inside her clenched, and then she felt the same molten rush she had the night before. Her hips swiveled from the bed, and her fingers sank into his hair as she held him there, exactly where she wanted him. The sight of his dark head bent between her legs was so carnal, so thoroughly erotic. It only served to heighten the impact of her spend as it washed over her.

  But as the last ripples of bliss subsided, he did not stop. Instead, he buried his tongue deep, as if he were seeking something, lapping up the wetness that seemed to be trickling from her core. He moaned, the sound guttural. A sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

  He liked this every bit as much as she did, Jo realized. The knowledge only served to heighten each sensation. She sifted her fingers through his wavy, mahogany locks, rocking into his mouth. Now that she had spent once, she was greedy and ravenous. She wanted to spend again. She never wanted his mouth to stop.

  She whimpered when he at last withdrew, already at the edge of another climax.

  He glanced up her body, his beautiful lips glistening with her dew, and lazily stroked his thumb over her pearl. “I think I want your cream for breakfast every day.”

  The words had their intended effect. She trembled beneath him, desperate. He swirled over her again, then sank a finger deep inside her channel, working it in and out of her. The wet sounds echoed in the chamber. Her need for him was at once a source of embarrassment and a frantic yearning she could not deny.

  “Would you like that?” he asked, adding a second finger, stretching her.

  She felt a twinge of discomfort, her body still unaccustomed to such an invasion. But his deliberate thrusts and the slickness of her passage abated that.

  “Hmm, Josie?” he asked again, curling his fingers deep inside her. “Would you like to begin every day like this?”

  Before she could answer, he dipped his head, delivering a few languid licks to her swollen bud. “Yes.”

  Oh, yes.

  Did he need to ask?

  He suckled her again, then stroked her with that clever tongue as his fingers moved. She thrust against him, wanting him deeper. And he gave her what she asked for, reaching a place inside her she had not known existed. As he slid in and out, he used his teeth to abrade her pearl.

  That was all the encouragement she needed.

  The tangle of need within her tightened into a delicious knot.

  Spasms quaked through her. She came so hard, little pinpricks of light burst around the periphery of her vision. And all through it, he stayed with her, bringing her to such impossible heights. He suckled her, then pressed a reverent kiss to her flesh, withdrawing his fingers at last.

  As he settled between her legs, she could not help but to glory in the masculine beauty of his body. How different he was from her, all lean planes and sinews, that arrow of dark hair she had detected the day before trailing directly to his engorged cock. He seemed somehow larger, thick and long. The sight of him made the flesh he had awakened between her legs throb in anticipation even as she wondered how he would fit.

  That he had yesterday seemed a miracle as she looked upon him now.

  He grasped himself, aligning his tip with her entrance. Lowering his head, he sucked her nipple just as he had done to her pearl. Longing arced through her, settling between her thighs in an undeniable ache. She marveled at his strength as her hands settled on his shoulders, caressing over the smooth skin.

  He kissed his way to her neck, and then she knew the same burning stretch as she had the night before, the sensation of him entering her. This time, however, there was no twinge of pain, no lingering ache. Her body was ready for his, and after the two climaxes he had just given her, the slide of his cock inside her passage was nothing short of breathtaking.

  They sighed as one when he was fully seated. He kissed her throat, her ear.

  “Oh Josie, darling,” he said, his voice low and decadent. “You feel so damned good, all tight and wet on my cock.”

  His vulgar words made her want him more. Instinctively, she wrapped her legs around him, moving her hips to get him deeper.

  “You feel good inside me, too,” she dared to say.

  His appreciative groan told her he approved. “Wicked girl.” He tongued the hollow behind her ear, making her wild.

  And then he began to move in earnest, thrusting in and out of her slowly at first. Measured and steady. Her body lifted from the bed to meet his. She rubbed her cheek against the fine scrape of his freshly shaved whiskers. Her fingernails raked over his flesh.

  His strokes became faster, more frenzied, more furious. He was losing control, his implacable grip on his restraint weakening. All because of her. And she loved it. She was perilously close to the edge, to losing herself yet again.

  “Come on me,” he urged into her ear. “Spend for me, bijou. Bring me there with you.”

  How could she deny him?

  Her body convulsed as wave after wave of intense pleasure washed over her. On a guttural growl, he grew more rushed, each powerful pump of his cock sending her sliding up the bed into the soft mound of pillows. She clung to him, crying out her helpless pleasure as he slammed into her again and again.

  Finally, he stiffened and withdrew. Her channel pulsed, mourning the loss. Gripping himself as he had the night before, he came, a torrent of seed jetting from his cock and splattering on her belly and breasts. She was covered in him, sated, mindless, and boneless on his bed.

  Gr
oaning, he flopped to his back at her side, his breathing every bit as ragged as hers. For a moment, she lay there in the aftermath of her crisis, attempting to catch her breath, her heart hammering in her chest. He had rocked her so utterly, he had robbed her of the capacity of thought. Speech was beyond her.

  “A fine way to spend each morning,” he said at last. “Much better than The Times, darling. Thank you for showing me the error of my ways.”

  And then he rolled from the bed to stalk across the chamber, naked as the day he had been born. Utterly shameless. Not a hint of embarrassment. Though, as well formed as he was, she could hardly fault him for his confidence.

  Still unable to move, Jo watched him go, admiring the tight curves of his bottom and the long lines of his legs. Every part of him was lovely—that broad back, the dimple above his buttocks, the muscled calves and thighs.

  She sighed. If he saw fit to begin every day thus, she was never going to eat breakfast again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ways to be Wicked

  1. Kiss a man until you are breathless.

  2. Arrange for an assignation. Perhaps with Lord Q? your husband? Strike that, bijou. Definitely with your husband.

  3. Get caught in the rain with a gentleman. (This will necessitate the removal of wet garments. Choose said gentleman wisely.)

  4. Sneak into a gentleman’s bedchamber in the midst of the night.

  5. Go to a gentleman’s private apartments.

  6. Spend a night in a gentleman’s bed.

  7. Make love in the outdoors.

  8. Ask

  One whole week.

  Decker gritted his teeth and scrubbed a hand over his jaw.

  He had been married to Jo for an entire seven wonderful, frustrating, tiring days, and he still had not had his fill of her. They had crossed off two more items on her wicked list. He had made love to her every morning before they breakfasted together. Sometimes, he returned in the afternoon to take her again, the endless wait until night too much to bear.

  Half past one, and he was beginning to fear this would prove one of those days. Reports from the piano factory lay untouched before him, along with the ledgers of his publishing company. To say nothing of the rough proofs of his erotic serials, corrected for press.