Once Upon a Christmas Wedding

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Once Upon a Christmas Wedding Page 259

by Scarlett Scott


  He trailed kisses down the side of her neck as he began removing the pins in her gown.

  “You do not mean to undress here?” She asked.

  “Why not? I have locked the doors, though I could open them if you prefer.”

  She huffed, “Of course I would not!”

  He grinned. “Perhaps one day you will.”

  She stared at him before shaking her head as if faced with an incorrigible child.

  The skirt of her gown slid to the floor. He untied her petticoats, allowing them to pool at her feet, then pulled the sleeves of her gown down next. After removing the top of her gown, he leaned down to kiss the swell of her breasts. He remembered one guest describing the orbs of young women as peaches and the bosom of older women as melons. That man preferred the latter. Arthur appreciated both types of fruit.

  Reaching over, he pulled over a ladder-back chair with a silk cushion. “Have a seat.”

  She sat down, her posture prim and proper. He shook his head and pressed down on her shoulders so that she slumped in the chair instead. He took one arm and bent it toward the back of the chair.

  “Spread your legs,” he directed.

  She colored.

  “Madam, I have seen everything of your body. I have touched everything.”

  With lowered lashes, she parted her knees.

  He pulled her shift up to her thighs, then took her other arm and positioned her hand between her legs. The color in her cheeks deepened.

  “Touch yourself.”

  She glanced up at him.

  “This is highly irregular,” she demurred.

  “Do it.”

  With reluctance, she brushed her hand against herself.

  “I think I will follow your example of using incentives in favor of punishment. If you please me, I will allow you to retain your undergarments.”

  She touched herself again.

  “Very good,” he said as he removed his coat. He preferred not to be constrained by garments when in the East Wing. “I want you to fondle yourself till you're wet.”

  He worked on loosening his cravat next.

  “I know not that I can arouse myself in your presence,” she said.

  “Try.”

  As he removed his cravat and collar, he watched her tentatively moving her fingers along her flesh. If he were a painter, this was the pose he would paint her in, lounging wantonly in that chair, her legs spread wide, pleasuring herself. He shed his waistcoat and pulled down his braces.

  “You are a lovely sight, Philippa.”

  She flushed and said nothing, but he was pleased to know his hunger was reciprocated for she had unconsciously licked her bottom lip when he pulled his shirt overhead. Her gaze traversed the ridges of his chest muscles.

  “Are you wet now?”

  She moved her fingers lower. “A little.”

  He walked over and knelt beside her. He reached over to join his hand with hers. Taking her digits in his, he guided them along her clitoris. She let out a soft moan. After several minutes of stroking, he dipped his fingers down.

  “How nicely your cunnie weeps for me,” he told her.

  Together, they fondled her till she showed evidence of straining toward her climax. A minute or two more and she might spend, so he stopped and pulled her hand away. Her lower lip dropped. She looked at him in a confused daze.

  “On your knees,” he commanded.

  She did as he bid. He grabbed his neckcloth and bound her arms behind her.

  “Is this necessary?” she asked.

  “I find that women often know not what do with their hands, and it proves a distraction to themselves.”

  She gasped when he cinched the linen firmly. He went to stand in front of her. “Now we will attend to my pleasure.”

  Chapter 14

  Philippa found herself staring at his cock. She had never beheld one so close before and was somewhat mesmerized. This extension of him had been inside her, had lengthened and hardened till it felt of stone. She eyed the veins, the flare of the head, the slit at the top, where a drop of moisture glimmered.

  “Taste it,” he said.

  She balked.

  “You’ve not tasted of cockmeat before? Not even your husband’s?”

  “I have not.”

  Taking his member in hand, he presented it to her. She grimaced. This was irregular, deviant and wanton.

  “Come, Mrs. Grayson,” he urged.

  She had to walk on her knees to reach him.

  He placed the tip of his rod upon her lips. “Lick it first.”

  She flicked her tongue over the slit and tasted the saltiness of his seed. Her cheeks warmed. Was there a special place in hell for those who engaged in perversions?

  “Now open your mouth.”

  She parted her lips for him to insert himself into her. She gagged when he touched the back of her tongue.

  “Try again.”

  Straightening, she opened her mouth once more, and once more she gagged when his flesh grazed her tongue.

  “It takes practice,” he admitted. “Luckily, we have all night.”

  She frowned at the prospect, and this time, when he inserted himself, she ignored the reflex to gag.

  “Now close your lips, but not your teeth,” he instructed.

  She did as he bid

  “Well done,” he praised. He entwined his fingers into her hair. “You have such pretty lips. They are a thing of beauty about my cock.”

  Cupping the back of her head, he urged her forward onto his cock. She gagged at the additional inch. He let her come off his member, but she knew he was not yet satisfied. She prepared to take his length inside her mouth once more. He slid himself into her and groaned as he settled his length upon her tongue.

  “Now suck.”

  Obeying, she closed her lips about him, trying not to bite him, and sucked. He grunted. His hips moved, sending more of him into her mouth. She started to gag, but he held her head in place this time. He pistoned his hips several times before pulling her off him so that she could catch her breath and recover.

  Philippa knew not what to think of this. She felt depraved, naughty, and somewhat titillated, partly because his enjoyment was evident. For that reason, she opened her mouth to receive him.

  She controlled her reflexes better this time, and he was able to shove himself deeper into her mouth, but when he tried to fit all of him into her, she choked. With his member still filling her mouth, she coughed and gagged. She desperately wanted her hands free to push him away.

  He pulled out. “You are a delight, Philippa.”

  Picking her up, he placed her over his shoulder, then tossed her onto the bed. He spread her legs and positioned himself between them. After gathering her shift past her waist, he brushed his fingers through the hair he had laid bare before grasping his member. He stroked her pleasure bud with his tip. She marveled at how he wielded this instrument of his, this steel wrapped in velvet. Currents of delight flowed from her clitoris, rippling through her loins. She sighed in contentment till gradually, the pleasure built to a frenzied pitch, then her sighs became pants. The tension coiled in her belly needed release.

  As if he knew this to be the case, he stopped. She groaned at being left bereft. Her climax had been near. Why did he stop?

  He flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her to her knees. With her arms pinioned behind her back, she could not hold herself up. Her shoulders dug into the bed, and she had to turn her face to the side to breathe. He threw the hem of her shift toward her head, revealing her derrière. With both hands, he caressed her buttocks.

  “You have so many assets,” he murmured before giving one buttock a playful swat.

  She flushed. She knew not what to say. He groped her bottom cheeks, sinking his fingers into the flesh, grasping and kneading. He stopped to spank one side, then the other. She cried out, more in indignation then pain. The indignity of it all! She had never felt so embarrassed. She was a grown woman, not a wayward child, but
she said nothing when he spanked her some more.

  He got off the bed and went to retrieve from the sideboard a riding crop. She swallowed with difficulty.

  “Do you remember your safety word?” he asked.

  “Rokana.”

  He tapped the crop to one buttock. She contemplated saying a prayer.

  Smack!

  She yelped. It stung but was not as painful as she would've expected.

  Smack!

  The second blow did smart more like she had expected. He rubbed the buttock he had struck.

  “Do you wish for more, Mrs. Grayson?”

  “What happens if I say no?”

  “We can certainly stop and call an end to the evening.”

  An end to the evening? Did that mean she would have no chance to spend? Her body still hummed with desire.

  “I should like more, please,” she said.

  He obliged and brought the crop down on her other buttock. He varied the strikes, sometimes light, sometimes hard. When he had applied the crop harshly three times in succession, tears pressed against the backs of her eyes. She let out a ragged breath.

  “Now your arse has the right hue,” he remarked.

  Reaching beneath her, he fondled her. The pleasure surprised her. It was as he had said. The smarting of her rump enhanced the pleasure between her thighs, or perhaps it was the former engendered greater feelings of gratitude for the latter. The more he fondled, the more the sting of her backside receded.

  He tossed aside the crop. She heard what she hoped was him putting on a sheath. It was, for she felt the difference when he pressed his member against her folds and sank into her. He rolled his hips at a leisurely pace. Despite the discomfort of her position, the waves of bliss continued to build, larger and larger, higher and higher. Until they crested, drowning her in rapture. As she wailed in relief, he shoved himself into her repeatedly. He would have sent her across the bed if he had not a firm grip upon her hips, holding her up. With a few more forceful thrusts, he spent with a roar.

  He collapsed beside her while she gingerly straightened her stiff legs. She had survived. Arthur had no doubt been merciful with her for she had not come near to using her safety word. She contemplated the soreness of her backside, but it had been more than worth it. She had never spent so fiercely before.

  He reached over and untied her arms. “How do you fare?”

  “Well, I suppose.”

  He gathered her into his arms. As she sighed against him, she wondered if she should reveal to him that she would be willing to endure more. She would not mind staying a while in the East Wing.

  Philippa purred as she felt the warmth of Arthur’s arms about her as they lay in bed. She blinked at the light slicing between the curtains, ready to nestle further in his embrace when she sat up with a start. They had slept through the night!

  “Miss Collingsworth!” she blurted. “Lord Devon!”

  Half asleep, Arthur grunted, then pulled himself up in bed. They dressed quickly and went in search of the pair. Not finding them in any of the common areas, Philippa and Arthur split up. Philippa came across a maid and asked where Miss Collingsworth’s chambers were.

  Coming up to the doors, Philippa could hear crying. She knocked. The crying stopped.

  “Miss Collingsworth? It is I, Mrs. Gray.”

  After a few moments, a trembling voice uttered, “Come in.”

  Philippa opened the door to find Miss Collingsworth in her bed, shaking, her face covered in tears. Philippa quickly went to her.

  “My dear, what has happened?”

  Miss Collingsworth lifted the bedclothes, revealing her bloodstained night shift.

  “It won't stop,” she cried.

  “When did it start?”

  “Last night when I gave up my maidenhead.”

  “Could it be your flux?”

  “Perhaps, though I had it a fortnight ago.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  “It hurt so much last night I thought I would die. It hurts still, though not nearly as bad.”

  Philippa pressed Miss Collingsworth's hand. “I think all will be well, but I should like to send for a doctor.”

  Miss Collingsworth nodded.

  Philippa went in search of a maid to bring Miss Collingsworth some tea and breakfast. She came across Arthur.

  “Find Madame Follett and request a doctor,” she told him.

  “She is as bad as that?” he asked. “Is she hurt then?”

  “I know not the extent, but she is terrified. Where is the Viscount Devon?”

  “I found him asleep in the Inquisition Room.”

  “Inquisition Room?”

  “It is one of the harsher rooms.”

  Philippa paled. “Poor Miss Collingsworth.”

  Arthur went to talk to Madame Follet. After finding a maid to request sustenance for Miss Collingsworth, Philippa returned to the young woman.

  “I am such a fool!” Miss Collingsworth wailed. “Château Follet is nothing like what my friend Anne told me!”

  “You said your family was back in London?” Philippa asked.

  “Yes, but they think I am with Anne and her family!”

  Miss Collingsworth burst into a new set of sobs. Philippa put her arms around the young woman. After she had quieted some, Philippa asked what Lord Devon had done? It took several minutes of coaxing, but Miss Collingsworth finally described clamps that had been attached to her nipples, being lashed upon the legs and backside with a cane, and penetration, first by the Viscount and then by a wooden dildo on a stick.

  One of the guests at the château happened to be a doctor, who, after examining Miss Collingsworth, said there might be a sizable tear inside but that it should heal.

  “Dry your eyes, my dear,” Philippa said. “The doctor says you shall heal, and I shall see you safely back to London today.”

  From the corners of her eyes, she saw Arthur, who stood near the threshold, straighten. She turned to him. “We must.”

  He nodded.

  Philippa released a sigh of relief. She knew not what she would've done if he had refused. She supposed she could appeal to Madame Follet to lend her a carriage, but it was much nicer returning with him.

  While their things were being packed and Lord Carrington’s carriage prepared, Philippa stayed by Miss Collingsworth’s side as much as possible. They did not come across Lord Devon till they had put on their coats and were ready to enter the carriage.

  “I say!” Devon protested. “What is happening?”

  Philippa went up to him. “If I were your mother, I would have such words—no, I should do more than have words with you!”

  Devon turned to Arthur, who returned no sympathy and said, “I have spoken with Madame Follet, and she wishes to have a word with you. I would not keep our hostess waiting.”

  Flustered, Devon looked at them all before whirling on his heels to find Madame Follet.

  During the carriage ride, Arthur made several attempts to cheer up Miss Collingsworth. At the posting inn, Philippa assisted in changing Miss Collingsworth’s linen and petticoats. The bleeding had subsided.

  “I shall forever be grateful to you both,” Miss Collingsworth said when the carriage pulled up to the Collingsworth household.

  “I think perhaps I should go with her,” Philippa told Arthur. “I will send for a chaise to bring me home.”

  He looked disappointed but nodded. He declined Miss Collingsworth’s offer to join them for tea and returned to his carriage. Philippa watched the vehicle pull away, realizing that she missed him already and wishing they had had their full time at Château Follet.

  Chapter 15

  “Devon? I would challenge him to a duel and blow his head off if I could,” the Baron Rockwell had said.

  Arthur had come across his friend at a coffeehouse the day after returning from Château Follet.

  “The bastard cut my time at Château Follet short as well,” Rockwell continued. “I have told Marguerite to ban him. He is
no good and makes prey of virginal young women.”

  “I wish I had known better,” Arthur said. “He had with him this poor young thing. She reminded me a little of Adeline, and I thank God it was not Adeline who was with him.”

  Which made someone like George Grayson a relief. True to his word, Arthur had given more thought to Grayson’s suit. He was disgruntled that he did not have the full three nights he had expected, but he would uphold his promise to Philippa.

  Back in his townhome, memories of Philippa filled his head. During their carriage ride back to London, he had noticed her gloom and had asked her about her marriage as that seemed a happy subject for her. He did not doubt that George Grayson had had as good an upbringing as could be had. In many ways, Grayson’s lack of wealth meant that George spent a good deal of his childhood with his mother instead of a governess. And to receive such love and devotion from a woman such as Philippa must have been glorious. Arthur felt both sad and envious.

  But he had had Philippa in a way George never would. Arthur could see with vividness her delightful backside rounding the bed, hear her cries as she came undone, and feel her heat wrapping his cock.

  A visit from Adeline interrupted his reveries. She had come to request more pin money.

  “Your current amount is insufficient?” he asked as he sat down at the writing table in his study.

  “I need new gowns or, at the least, my old ones altered,” she said, staring down at her feet.

  “You had new gowns sown last month.”

  “Yes, but I—I think I have indulged in far too many yuletide sweets.”

  “That is a shame.”

  He looked more closely at his ward, noting that her face appeared rounder. Had Philippa remarked on the state of Adeline’s health? What precisely had she said? Did Philippa know something?

  Are there no extenuating circumstances in which you would approve marriage between Miss Hartshorn and George? Arthur remembered her asking.

 

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