by Millie Adams
He pulled again, and forced her chin to tilt upwards. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, and she withstood. She felt proud. Infinitely so. For she was strong. And free.
Here, in this moment, she felt as if she was proving it. Not just to him, but to herself. To anyone who had ever found her weak.
This was her moment, to step into the role of warrior. Prove she could withstand.
And that thought alone brought her an infinite sense of satisfaction.
And then his mouth, oh, his mouth. It was on hers, and it was not the stuff of romance and softness. It was a hard sort of heat that she had never imagined. It was devastation. Each movement of his lips was expert and, combined with the intense tug on her hair, made her feel as if she were drowning.
Oh, she felt she was drowning.
And then, he slid his tongue between the seam of her lips, and her legs folded. But he caught her. By her hair. And the resulting tug drew a scream from her lips that he swallowed. His hold was firm, and he did not let her collapse completely. Briggs would never let her collapse completely, and in spite of everything, she felt that to be true. In spite of all the anger that had just passed between them, she trusted that.
She trusted him.
She found herself being pushed backwards, right up against that naked male statue. Because she had been right. Briggs was just as hard. But he was hot. The marble was cold beneath her back, and it dawned on her slowly, as she shifted her gaze for a moment to stare at the statue, that the very hard thing she could feel pressed against her stomach was...
Well, if she was correct, the statue paled in comparison to Briggs.
He was kissing her. She could not quite believe it. Did that mean that he... Did that mean that he wanted her?
She was so new to this. To the idea of desire. Of want. But he had said that people did this for reasons other than procreation. He had said that it was about pleasure. And pain.
And then she found the top of her gown, the chemise beneath, being pushed away, revealing her breasts.
He took a step away, only for a moment, and stared down at her, his expression hungry.
She was confident in that. His expression held hunger. She did not know how, but it was as if some ancient wisdom inside her body had materialised for this moment.
And she did not feel confused. Somehow, the absurdity of her lips meeting his, of his tongue sliding against hers, crystallised these mysteries, and if anyone had asked her how it would do that, she would have said she did not know. She would’ve said it was impossible. She would have said that she did not wish to be licked by Briggs, and yet now she knew she did. And that she wished to lick him in return.
He moved forward, holding her breast with one large hand. And then he pinched her. Slowly, carefully, applying even pressure to one tightened bud. And then, he made it hard.
She cried out, pain radiating through her body, an answering echo between her thighs. And it was like an exultant hallelujah chorus. A burst of bright, sharp hope echoing through her body.
A wash of strength pouring itself over her like liquid gold, coating all that she was and reinforcing her.
She felt like a warrior in this moment.
Real. True.
She felt weightless. And she felt fearless. And then, he moved to the other side, but he did not build his pressure quite so slowly; this time he clamped down, his eyes making contact with hers as he did so.
Until she had to let her head fall back against the statue’s abdomen and surrender. She closed her eyes and shivered, shook, as pleasure and pain mingled together until she could not sort one from the other. Indeed, she wondered if they were different.
For one showed her that she could withstand, and the other was the reward for that patience. For that endurance. Then he fastened his mouth to her neck, sucking hard, before returning to her lips and kissing her, kissing her until she couldn’t breathe. Until she was senseless. But then, perhaps she had already been senseless. Then he bit her lip at the same time he pinched her again, and she felt something unravel inside her, and then bloom. And it radiated through her in a wave. On and on and she could barely breathe. Could barely think. And it reminded her of dying. Like when she would lose her breath and float towards that space where there was no sound, no light.
And then bursts of fireworks.
The vision of something bigger, greater than herself. And when it subsided, she shuddered. And slid down the statue. All the way to the ground.
And Briggs stood above her, his gaze something like triumphant, and something like terrifying.
He bent down, and gripped her chin. ‘You did well.’
And she realised she was shaking. Shivering from the cold and from something else that she could not name. She found herself gathered up into his arms and held close to his chest. And then he lifted her up off the ground, and carried her into the house, carried her up the stairs. Her heart leapt like a wild thing. She didn’t know where he was taking her. Or what would happen next. He took her to her room. And laid her gently on the bed, his manner suddenly soothing and entirely different to the way it had been moments before.
‘Sleep,’ he said.
‘Briggs,’ she whispered.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Do not speak.’
‘But I need to... I need to know. Are you going back to the brothel?’
‘No,’ he said, his tone hard.
‘Please don’t.’
‘I do not answer to you, darling wife.’
‘I know. I do not wish you to go, though. And I would hope that that matters, whether or not you must obey me.’
‘I will not return to the brothel tonight.’
And that she knew was the best she would get from him. But was that what he went to the brothel to do? To touch other women like that? To make them... She had no idea what he had done to her. She had never felt anything like it. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before, and she was desperate to experience it again. But also terrified. Because the way that it made her feel... Desperate and aching and restless inside... Well, she did not particularly care for that. That, she found, was almost entirely unbearable. She wanted him to hold her. She realised that with stunning clarity. But all of the confidence that she felt in that moment, all of the strength and brilliance and perfection seemed to fall away from her. She was simply... Undone. And she hated it. As much as she had loved all that had come before.
For a moment, she had felt strong. For a moment, she felt like a warrior. For a moment, she had felt like a woman. And now she was just back to being Beatrice. And it was enough to make her dissolve.
Chapter Eleven
Briggs was in hell. Because he had spectacularly ruined everything last night. And she had been... She had been a triumph. She was everything that he had suspected she was. And what a cruel joke that his best friend’s younger sister should be made quite so perfectly in such a twisted, glorious fashion that she could fit up against every kink in him? It was a cruelty. But she had come apart in his arms from just a bit of pain and pleasure, and he had a feeling that were he to push her further, faster, they would find heights together that... It did not bear thinking about.
Today, he had to deal with his son.
Today, he would be taking him to see the sights around London. For they had endured the trip all for that. On one score he suspected Beatrice might be right. That if William had the distraction of those things which he was most interested in, he would weather everything else quite well.
And after that nightmare of the trip, there had to be some compensation. He was practised enough in the art of indulging himself in a bit of mastery and then going back to being the Duke of Brigham, and father to William, without allowing any of the night’s previous indulgence to affect him in any way. Or to linger into the day. And yet he felt affected by this. By his indiscretion in the garden
with Beatrice.
An indiscretion with your wife? A new low, and who knew you could still reach those?
He would laugh, but it wasn’t funny. Nothing about the damned situation was funny.
He decided to find William and try to ply the boy with toast and drinking chocolate prior to presenting him with the day’s itinerary. If he knew one thing about managing William, it was that an itinerary was very important, but he had to be sure to stick to it, because if he did not, then his son would be sure to let him know all the ways in which he had failed. And the point of this was not to fail.
But when he arrived at his son’s room, Beatrice was already there, sitting on the floor beside him, engaged in what looked like a very intense conversation about shoes.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
She looked up at him, a deep blush staining her cheeks, and something inside him roared in satisfaction. She was remembering last night too.
She had been beautiful.
He could teach her.
Fire, excitement, licked along his veins. He could teach her. She would be a beautiful student. And she would...
No. No.
‘William and I were discussing going for a walk,’ she said.
‘I have plans for the day,’ Briggs said. ‘No engagement scheduled whatsoever, because I am intent upon taking William to see London.’
William looked up at him, and there was visible excitement in his eyes. William was not a bubbly child. He did not show exuberance in the same way other children did, and while Briggs did not have experience with other children, he could see the differences between them and his own son. But he had learned to accept the excitement that William felt. To treasure those moments. For they were rare and precious when his son put his joy on full display. And sometimes he pitied other fathers, for he felt the outward joy of their children was so cheap they might never learn to value it. Briggs on the other hand treated every smile like a piece of gold.
‘I have a complete list of what we might do today,’ Briggs said.
‘What time?’ William asked.
‘First it will be toast. And drinking chocolate. And then our day will begin.’
‘What time?’
And Briggs knew that he had to choose his answer very carefully. He checked his timepiece. ‘How about we leave the house at ten thirty?’
‘Yes,’ William agreed.
‘But you must wear shoes,’ Beatrice said, looking slightly triumphant.
‘I will wear shoes,’ William said, looking at Beatrice as if she had grown another head. And Briggs could only be amused by that.
‘Can I join you?’
‘For toast?’ William asked.
‘For the day?’ She directed that question at Briggs.
He was about to issue a denial, when William turned to look him in the face, which was so rare that Briggs could not help but be completely taken back by it.
‘She must come,’ he said.
‘I had thought,’ Briggs said, ‘that it would be just men.’
‘But that would be boring,’ William said. ‘Because Beatrice is not boring.’
‘Beatrice, is it?’ Briggs asked, wondering what the boy should call her, but certain it should not be her first name.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I asked him to call me Beatrice.’
‘Because we are friends,’ William said. ‘She calls me William.’
He could not argue with this unassailable logic. It was quite annoying.
‘Then of course Beatrice shall accompany us, but I will have hurt feelings that you think I’m boring.’
‘I did not say you were boring,’ William said. ‘I said Beatrice was not boring.’
And he could not argue with that either. Instead, he found himself going down to breakfast with them, where toast for William, and coffee and eggs and meat awaited the three.
‘I am pleased that we are going on an outing,’ Beatrice said.
‘I’m not an ogre,’ he said. ‘I would not bring William here and not take him to see the city.’
‘But you would bring me and have me not see it?’
‘You will see it in time. There will be balls...’
‘That is not the same,’ she said.
‘Have you not been to London?’
‘I have been to London once. I did not see the sites. I spent my days shut up in Hugh’s town house. And I was sent home early. For he had concerns regarding my well-being, and the quality of the air.’ She did not elaborate. But she looked like she might want to.
‘And?’
‘I had a fit with my breathing. It upset him greatly, it was the first time I had one in a very long time. And he sent me home.’
‘You find your breathing well now?’
Anger burned through him.
She should tell him these things. She should tell him it was dangerous for her to be in London.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I have not had the same sort of maladies that I had all those years ago. I was fourteen when that happened, and I have been quite well since. Please do not make this about my illness. I find that far too many things are.’
‘I will not worry, but you will tell me if you feel ill.’
‘I will.’
‘Are you sick?’ William asked, and he looked terribly concerned. ‘My mother was very sick.’
Beatrice’s face contorted with alarm.
‘No, William. I am not sick like that. I was very sick when I was a young child. That’s all.’ Except she had no real idea what kind of sick Serena was. But then, neither did William.
‘Good,’ William said decisively. ‘I do not wish for you to die.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ Beatrice said.
He and Beatrice made eye contact, and her cheeks flushed again.
He looked at William, who was now absorbed in his toast, though he had a feeling that at exactly ten twenty-nine his son would emerge from wherever it was he went to let them know that they were in danger of running behind.
‘You slept well?’ he asked, where he was being provocative.
‘No,’ she responded. ‘I did not.’
There were a great many things he could say in response to that, but he decided that none of them would be in particular aid of the situation.
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’
‘I was lonely.’
‘I could not have stayed,’ he said, hearing his voice go gruff.
She looked at him for a long while. A litany of questions was in her blue eyes and he did not wish to answer any of them. ‘Why?’
‘Do not ask questions you are not prepared to hear the answer to.’
‘Do not assume what I am prepared for. You, like everyone else, underestimate me.’
‘I do not underestimate you, but neither do I forget the reality of your health.’
‘Is it truly me you worry for? Or are you simply obeying my brother’s orders?’
He frowned. ‘I worry for you. And of course I respect what Kendal has asked of me...’
‘I know my brother made it clear you must watch out for me. But he is not here. And I am fine.’
‘I do not trust you to always make the best decision when it comes to your own needs,’ he said.
‘That is a shame,’ she said. ‘Because I do. And I should like it if even one person gave me the benefit of being treated like a woman. You have done so once,’ she said, her blue eyes meeting his, crackling with heat. ‘Is it not hypocritical to treat me only as a woman when it suits you, and to otherwise relegate me to the position of ward?’
‘Is it not hypocritical of you to ask for something and then attempt to use it against me?’
‘I have asked for one thing,’ she said. ‘With consistency. To be treated as if I know my own mind, and to be given the fre
edom that I feel I deserve. I did not act counter to those wishes last night. I did what I wanted.’
She wanted.
He knew exactly what she wanted.
He could give it to her.
‘It is time to go.’ Just as Briggs had known he would, William returned to them as if an internal timepiece had told him that they were nearing the moment Briggs had said they would leave.
He was grateful. Because he did not wish to continue this conversation. He felt perilously close to the edges of dreams he’d had years ago. That perhaps he was not so bent, he only had to find the woman who would decide to bend around him.
He could pay women to do so, but part of him had always desired...
The hunger he saw in Beatrice’s face.
And yet he could not. They could not.
* * *
With Alice and attendants, they got into the carriage.
It was not just the look of wonder on William’s face that Briggs found himself captivated by. But Beatrice’s.
He had forgotten what it was like to look around the world and see anything new, but everything was new to her.
The sights, the sounds, they were significant to her. Special. And it filled him with a deep sense of pride to be the person to have shown her.
And of course, it was unavoidable, he could not help but compare it to the pleasure that she had been shown last night. In his arms, she had fallen apart, and he had prevented her from splintering. He wanted to know if she had ever felt that manner of pleasure before. If she had found it with her own hand. He enjoyed that image very much.
Beatrice, laying on her bed, her hand between her thighs...
He wanted to know so many things, and he wanted to show her so much more, and yet, he knew that it was impossible.
Why? You said so yourself, there are many things that can be done without producing a child.
It was true. However, while he enjoyed games of self-control, there were limits. And while he believed himself to be a man of extreme control, and in fact enjoyed that as an aspect to his bed sport, eventually, he would need to be inside a woman. That was just how it worked. He was not a man who could forgo being inside a woman forever. And if he were to play with her physically, it was possible she would be hurt by his need to take his fulfilment with other women. And it was just best, easiest, if these things remained separate.