by Nina Mason
When he cupped her bottom and pressed his hardness against her, he broke from the kiss just long enough to say, “Do you feel what you have done to me?”
She smiled up at him. “Am I driving you wild with desire, my love?”
“You are indeed, you beautiful little minx.”
They both laughed and resumed kissing, their bodies pressed together, length to length. She was indeed driving him wild with desire and, thrilling though it was, he wanted more. Infinitely more. He wanted to devour her, to claim her, to possess her and make her his and only his. And he would, by God, before the night was over.
“Georgie,” he said hoarsely. “I want you. Not just physically, but in every way.”
“I want you in those ways, too.”
He kissed her again, more savagely than before, as he slipped his hands inside her dressing gown. She did the same to him, running her hands over his back and buttocks. He shivered, even as the blood heated in his veins.
His mind reached back to the night he’d engaged himself to Miss Stubbs. What little he could recall of it, anyway. After plying him with strong drink, she had led him upstairs. He’d been too deep in his cups to walk without stumbling. That much, he remembered clearly.
She took him into a small room furnished with little more than a narrow bed and washstand. The smell—a foul combination of cunt, semen, sweat, and urine (with undernotes of vomit)—made his head spin and his stomach turn.
It also made him dimly aware that the woman he was with made her money doing more than serving drinks in the bar below.
“Lay down on the bed,” she told him.
As soon as he did, the room started to spin, so he set one foot on the floor. Kneeling beside the bed as if to say her prayers, she opened the flap on his trousers and fondled him until he got hard. Then, she moved her face close to his and said, “I can do no more without an understanding between us.”
Out of his senses with drink and lust, he slurred something in reply. He could not, for the life of him, remember what he’d said. The next thing he recalled was opening his eyes in the light of day with a pounding headache and morning wood.
Jinny had still been in the room, fully clothed and watching him from a chair. Her first words to him he would never forget: “When shall we set the date for our nuptials?”
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, he stepped back, out of Georgie’s embrace. “I cannot do this…”
“Why not?”
He turned away, unable to bear her wounded gaze. “Because it isn’t right … or fair to you.”
“I shall decide what’s fair to me, if you don’t mind.”
There was that defiant spirit again he so greatly admired—and so greatly desired in a wife. “You know not what you are saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying. And what I want.”
“I want to marry you. And would do so tomorrow, were it within my power.”
She came up behind him and set her face and hands against his back. “Then let me write to your father.”
He turned to her, desperate, afraid, and ashamed of himself. Here she was, bravely prepared to stake her future on him, and he was too cowardly to repay her in kind.
He took her face between his hands and looked into her eyes. “Promise you will marry me, even if my father disinherits me and I am sent to debtor’s prison.”
“I promise,” she said, “because I love you too much to ever be happy without you.”
That was all he needed to hear. Scooping her into his arms, he carried her to the bed and gently laid her down.
Sitting beside her, he stroked her soft cheek and silky hair. “You are mine now,” he whispered, “as I am yours. We belong to each other, come what may. Say you agree, or I shall leave the room at once … and never trouble you again.”
“I agree,” she said, eyes glistening. “With all my heart.”
* * * *
Christian got to his feet, confusing Georgie for a moment. When he shed his dressing gown, she understood his purpose: he was going to disrobe and reveal to her all the god-like beauty she’d only imagined until now.
Propping herself on her elbows, she stared up at him in desirous anticipation as he freed his shirt from his trousers and pulled it over her head. As his torso was exposed, her breast swelled in awe. There was no softness to his physique; only lean, sculpted muscle that rolled and flexed exquisitely as he moved.
“You’re so … beautiful,” she said, longing to touch him.
“As are you,” he said, coming closer. He sat on the bed, took her hand, and brought it to his lips. “From the moment I first danced with you at the assembly ball, I wanted you to be mine.”
“And now I am,” she said with a smile.
Her heart was racing and, when he pressed her palm to his chest, she could feel his beating just as rapidly.
“Here I am.” Then, moving his free hand to her Mound of Venus, he said with a smile and a wink, “And here I soon shall be.”
His touch provoked arousal, but with an underlying anxiety for which she could not account. “You really are a rogue, I daresay.”
“A reformed rogue,” he said, kissing her hand. “Owing to your goodness.”
He trailed his fingers down the cord of her neck, across her collarbone, and along her breastbone, leaving goose pimples in their wake. As he drew nearer her breasts, her nipples hardened, surprising her.
Upon reaching the pin-tucked placard on the front of her nightgown, he attempted to unfasten the tiny mother-of-pearl buttons. Georgie watched—half titillated, half afraid—as he struggled, but his fingers were too large to manage the task.
“Let me,” she said, taking over. “While you remove your trousers.”
Surrendering the task to her, he stood beside the bed. As she worked the buttons on her nightgown out of their holes, she watched him do the same with the fall and waistband of his trousers. When they dropped, she stared in wonder and fear at the pole of muscle protruding from between his legs. Far from resembling the tiny, harmless-looking phalluses on Classical statuary, it looked more like an overgrown mushroom—of the Common Stinkhorn variety, to be specific.
Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she lifted her gaze to his. He must have sensed her alarm because he asked, “Is something amiss?”
“Christian,” she began, licking her lips, “while I know this will work—because, well … it has worked since humanity began—I fear it will not be agreeable.” She swallowed hard. “On my part, at least.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and took her hand. “Trust me, Georgie. I know what I am doing.”
“I do trust you, Christian,” she assured him. “Though I probably should not, all things considered.”
“Yes, that is true.” He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Then, looking up at her from under his dark lashes, he added, “And if you want me to go, you need only say the word.”
“I don’t,” she told him despite her trepidation. “I never want you to leave me.”
“I don’t want to go, either.” He kissed her hand again. “But we both know I must—long before the servants begin their day. For if we are caught, especially by Miss Stubbs, it will ruin everything.”
His mention of Miss Stubbs provoked a stab of conscience in Georgie. She had always been a good girl. Spirited, yes, but also obedient. Unlike Louisa, she would have married whomever her father chose for her. Even Cousin Charles, if need be. But now that she was free to make her own choice, she was discovering just how wicked, willful, and wonton she really was. And, truth be known, the discovery of her unconventional streak at once thrilled and terrified her.
She smiled at him, feigning more courage than she felt. “Then we had best get on with it, had we not?”
“Yes, I suppose we had better,” he said, skimming his fingers over her the bodice of her night rail. “But first, this needs to come off.”
Her nightgown was open nearly to her navel. Reaching in
side, he cupped her breasts and ran his thumbs across her tender nipples. She gasped in surprise as pleasurable tingles shot from her bosom to her amorous center.
He peeled the nightgown off her as if it were the husk on an ear of corn, and she the sweet, white kernels inside. She shivered as the cool night air whispered over her bare flesh. He bent over her and brought his mouth down on hers. The pressure of the kiss pushed her down on the bed. He moved over her, naked flesh to naked flesh. It felt strange, but also surprisingly natural and comfortable. He was a signet ring, pressing into the liquid wax her body had become.
As the kiss grew more passionate, his hand worked its way down her body, leaving sweet fire in its wake. She quivered under the sensual brush of his fingers. He was touching her in ways that felt at once sinful and divine, spiritual and carnal. He was an angel and devil combined. He was temptation made flesh. He was a blessing and a curse, her downfall and her deliverance.
Clinging to him, she arched under him and moaned into his mouth. He broke free and kissed his way down her ear. As he nibbled her lobe, he whispered, “I love you, Georgie Bennet. More than life itself.”
He kissed his way lower and, when he reached her breast, he took her nipple into his mouth. As he flicked his tongue against it, she parted her legs instinctively. His hand brushed her thigh before moving between them. And then, holy God, he was touching her there. Giving her indescribable, almost unbearable, pleasure. Her body quivered and quaked uncontrollably. Her fingers plowed and pulled his hair. When he slid one of his inside her, she nearly bucked him off the bed.
“I think you’re ready,” he said.
She did not know what he meant until he maneuvered himself on top of her and pushed up on one arm. She felt him open her with his fingers, spreading her lips and inner folds. Then she felt something much larger than a finger poking at her entrance.
“I’m told this will hurt,” he said regretfully, “but not for long, if we’re lucky.”
She must have tensed up, because he said, “Relax, Georgie. It will be easier for you if you don’t tense up.”
And somehow she did. Slowly, he pushed inside her. His entry burned something awful, but she was determined to carry on.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, biting her lip.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Satisfied with her reassurances, he pressed deeper, groaning as if in pain as he did. Surprised by the sound, she looked up at him. “Does it hurt you, too?”
“No, darling.” He gave her a smile. “Quite the contrary, I assure you.”
“You won’t get me with child, will you?”
“I shall do my best not to.”
He sank deeper and deeper until she was sure she was stretched to the limit. The burning grew worse when he began to move inside her, pulling back and driving forward. The way he was grimacing and gritting his teeth, made her wonder if he lied about not being in pain. But the way he was moaning and panting her name suggested he’d been truthful.
Her pain, too, was beginning to subside. Now, what he was doing with his fingers and his member actually felt good. Very, very good.
“Christian,” she gasped, as a small volcano of pleasure erupted in her womb, “what are you doing to me?”
“Claiming you in the only way I can at present.”
Face contorted, teeth buried in his lower lip, he continued moving inside her. His thrusts, breathing, and noises grew gradually more frenetic until suddenly, almost frantically, he withdrew and fell down on top of her, tense and breathing hard. Between them, she felt the pulsations of his climax and the warmth of his emissions.
“Georgie,” he said hoarsely against her neck. “Remember that I love you, come what may.”
Fifteen
When Christian went down to breakfast the next morning, he was not surprised that Georgie was not among those gathered in the dining room. She had not, he thought with sly satisfaction, had much sleep the night before.
They had made love twice more before he left her room in the wee hours of the morning, and already he wondered, with some trepidation, if his seed had taken root in her womb. Withdrawal, after all, was not a fool-proof method of preventing conception—nor one the Church of England looked upon with a favorable eye.
Strangely, he’d never given much thought to being a father. He’d always assumed he would be one day, of course, provided he was not sterile or his wife barren. Being his father’s heir apparent, he was expected to provide the Earldom with a successor.
He felt a pang at the thought of giving up his legacy. All that he’d anticipated and lived for the whole of his life. He could still have children, of course. Not that he’d be a very good father from his cell in debtor’s prison. Georgie, bless her brave soul, would have to raise them—and support them—on her own.
The Captain, Mrs. Raynalds, Miss Stubbs, and Miss Raynalds were already at the table when he entered the room. The Captain looked up from his freshly ironed newspaper. “Good morning, Churchill.”
“Good morning, Captain,” he returned with a smile. “And the same to the rest of you.”
Christian instructed the waiting footman to serve him a poached egg, pickled herring, a slice of toast, and a cup of Scottish Breakfast Tea. When his plate was ready, he took it to his usual seat, across the table from Miss Stubbs, and began to eat.
He did not want to look at her, but he knew he must. She was already suspicious of his friendship with Georgie, and would only be more so if he ignored her. Swallowing a creamy bite of egg, he lifted his gaze to find her watching him intently.
He forced his mouth to smile, praying she would indeed release him from the engagement when he was bankrupt.
“Did you sleep well, Lieutenant?” she asked with a smile as fake as his own.
“Very well, yes,” he said. “Thank you for asking, Miss Stubbs.”
“I do not think Miss Bennet slept well at all,” said Miss Raynalds.
Christian felt the air go out of his lungs.
“What makes you think my sister did not sleep well?” asked Mrs. Raynalds, from her seat at the foot of the table.
“For the simple reason I heard her tossing and turning most of the night.”
“Well, that would explain why she has not yet joined us,” Christian chimed in. “The poor girl must be catching up on lost sleep.”
Was Georgie still asleep? Or upstairs composing her letter to his father?
“If she does not come down before you begin your rehearsal of Lovers’ Vows,” Miss Stubbs inserted, “I would be only too happy to stand in as Amelia. For I already know all the lines.”
“While it is good of you to offer, Miss Stubbs,” said the Captain, “I doubt my sister-in-law will sleep much longer.”
“Pray, when does she plan to go home?” Miss Stubbs looked from the Captain to Christian and back again. “For now that the roads are passable, I should think she would be most eager to return to her mother and younger sisters.”
To this, Mrs. Raynalds coolly replied, “I have asked her to stay on with us another week, as I shall require her help with our Christmas Eve party.”
Christian wondered if this was a good idea, as having Georgie and Jinny under the same roof would likely lead to trouble. Not that he wanted Georgie gone by any means. If someone were to depart, let it be Miss Stubbs.
“Oh, a party,” Miss Stubbs cried excitedly. “Will there be dancing and parlor games?”
“There will be,” Miss Raynalds told her, “as well as refreshments and a sit-down dinner.”
“I, for one, cannot wait,” said Miss Raynalds, eyes sparkling with excitement. “Especially for the dancing. For I do so love to waltz.”
“As do I,” said Mrs. Raynalds, smiling down the table at her husband. “Though we’ve not had the chance of it since our wedding day.”
“How long ago was that?” asked Miss Stubbs, while spreading jam on a slice of bread. “If you do not mind my asking.”
“A year! But why so long? Are there not assemblies here in Much Wenlock?”
“There are,” the Captain chimed in from the head of the table. “But we were not welcome at them.”
“Whyever not?” Miss Stubbs looked aghast.
“For the simple reason that my father did not approve of our marriage,” said Mrs. Raynalds.
“But now that our father is dead, she and the Captain are welcome to attend them again,” said Georgie as she entered the room. “And able to host their own parties. Is that not right, Louisa?”
Christian’s pulse quickened at the sight of her. She looked as fetching as ever in her plain muslin frock, though not at all well-rested.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” Christian said to her, with all due formality. “Miss Raynalds tells us you did not sleep well.”
“Did she?” Georgie asked with obvious surprise. Then, to Miss Raynalds, she said, “Pray, how did you know I did not sleep well?”
“I heard you thrashing about through the wall between our rooms.”
“I see,” said Georgie, darting a troubled look toward Christian. “I am sorry to have disturbed you, Winne, and shall try to bear my insomnia more quietly in the future.”
Looking down at his plate, he stabbed a roll of pickled herring with his fork. As he popped it into his mouth, he wondered again if he’d gotten her with child.
At the buffet, she asked the footman for a poached egg, a slice of cold ham, some buttered toast, and a cup of Scottish Breakfast Tea. Christian smiled at the latter selection, for he, too, preferred Scottish tea to English.
“Your difficulty sleeping was not owing to illness, I hope, Miss Bennet,” he said as she claimed the seat beside him.
“No, indeed, Lieutenant. I have never felt better in my life.”