Authors: Cecilia Grant
“Hmm. You’d have done better with me if you’d claimed avarice. I like a woman who takes what she wants.” He said it looking into his teacup, though, and his voice sounded unsteady to his own ears. Because somewhere in her last utterance she’d grown rather magnificent, all will and determination behind the tea-table manners. Like some dire, forbidding fairy in a story, letting slip her mild disguise at the crucial moment.
What if she was like that in bed? Stern and exacting, but soft to the touch. Hell. That could be good. That could be interesting, and very, very good.
He sat back in his chair, crossing one long leg over the other, and put aside his tea. She remained motionless, as though husbanding her energies to meet his next refusal.
Or his assent. No harm in imagining. He could free that creamy skin from its dour wrappings, if he just said the word. He could discover what those elegant hands had it in them to do. He could get her on top of him—she’d like to be on top, fierce fairy, murmuring her stern commands—with her hair falling like a curtain against his cheek, and … “What color is your hair?” he said, as every last wisp of it had been banished beneath her cap.
Two faint creases came between her brows. “Will that make a difference?”
“It might.” Shameful. He ought not to toy with a lady that way. Not when he knew a hundred better ways. He shifted in his seat. What reasons remained to refuse her, exactly? Well, if Granville got wind of this—if his father got wind of it—he’d be bundled off somewhere even more remote, and probably for the remainder of his natural life. But besides that, what reasons?
She raised one hand to her cap-strings and hesitated. He could see her groping after strategy. He could nearly hear the clatter of her thoughts, like all the looms in a Lancashire mill. Her hand lowered again and her head tilted, giving her an air both coquettish and defiant. “You may learn the color of my hair easily enough,” she said. “But not by asking.”
“Ah. Now you begin to speak a language I understand.” A smile rose from somewhere elemental in him, coloring the words. “How often would you expect my services? If I were to agree to this?”
If
. Because he might not. But Lord, she was lovely with her head so angled and her every resource bent on how to get him into bed.
“Once each day. We’ll have nearly a full month.” Her speech accelerated with ill-concealed eagerness. “And I had hoped we might begin today.”
“As a conclusion to this call, I suppose.” Why not? Hell, really, why not?
“If you can contrive it, yes.”
He was contriving it even as she spoke, conveniently enough. He’d been contriving it on and off for the whole of the visit. “Well, Mrs. Russell.” He uncrossed his legs. “You seem to have bought yourself a whore.” Swiftly, before she could correct his terminology, he rose up and leaned over her, resting his hands on the arms of her chair. Her mouth was even prettier at this distance. Was there some way to make her say
sensualist
again?
“What are you doing?” She blinked up at him, eyes dark with disapprobation.
“I thought to begin by kissing you.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Uncertainty suddenly shaded her face. “Unless you require it?”
“Not at all.” He straightened. This was getting better and better. “Which way is your bed?”
“Through that door, and then the door after.” She rose from the chair and edged past him, her hem whispering over the toes of his boots. “I’ll go now. You may follow in twenty minutes. There’s some claret on the sideboard there, if you think it would be helpful to you.”
“Helpful?” What kind of milksop did she suppose herself to have hired? “Darling, the day I need claret to help me come up to scratch is the day you may begin digging my grave.”
So smartly answered, she could make no reply. After a short, inscrutable hesitation, she passed through the door and closed it behind her. Twenty minutes later, he followed.
S
HE MUST
have rung for a maid in that time because he found her in the bed, presumably unclothed, clutching the sheet nearly up to her chin. At his entrance her glance fell on him briefly before sliding away to the wall behind him.
He moved closer. Her hair, freed from its cap and freshly unplaited, fanned out on the pillow in kinks and slight waves. Honey-colored hair, just on that border between blond and brunette. The kind of hair that went luminous under sunlight, but kept its secrets indoors.
All secrets, this woman. And some of them were for him after all. “Mrs. Russell,” he said, and brought her eyes back to his face.
“Yes?” If she had a different voice for the bedroom, she wasn’t using it. Yet.
“I suspect, from what I can see of you, that you’re a beautiful woman.”
“Yes. Very good. Thank you.” Her cadence hitched and hurried as though she spoke a foreign tongue.
And likely it was foreign indeed to her, the language of seduction. Few husbands went to the trouble. He reached for the edge of the sheet. “Let me look at you.”
Her fingers tightened their grip on her covering. Her wary eyes narrowed. “Is this … will it be … useful, in … preparing you?”
“Useful. Yes. Helpful too.” He smiled, all knowing reassurance. “May I, please?”
She closed her eyes and loosened her grip, and allowed him to draw back the sheet.
Something went stuttering in his vitals as he laid her bare. For as many times as he’d done this—seen a new woman naked—one would think he’d learn to take it in stride. One would think the thrill might wane with repetition. But good Lord in Heaven, it knocked his breath out every time.
So many different ways women had of being beautiful. Mrs. Russell’s beauty was of a kind that spoke in whispers, veiled her like mist. As though she had some hope of keeping it to herself, and granted her curves might escape a careless man’s notice, so gradual were they. She wanted a discerning lover. One who saw all her sensual promise. One who knew how to tease out the voluptuousness from an understated form.
Well, she’d picked the right man. No expectation of pleasure, indeed. Here, here, and here, he could do things to delight her. Here, her slight, supple body would arch and twist.
His forefinger touched down on her breastbone and traced a leisurely path between the ribs, into the hollow of her navel, and on down, just to the patch of light-colored curls. “Turn over,” he said, his voice already gone thick.
Her eyes flew open. “I did not authorize anything out of the ordinary,” she said, the words shrill with alarm.
“I only want to look. I promise we’ll fornicate face-to-face like Christians.” He couldn’t quite mask his laughter. “But let me finish looking.”
She frowned at him but did turn over, and he took in the rear view of her: the surprising angularity of the shoulder blades, the long, graceful indentation of the spine, and the unfailing wonder of that last little inward arch at the lower back—the best place to touch, on a clothed woman—where her body seemed to gather itself before curving out again in its tasteful way.
“Will you be needing to do this every time?” The pillow partly muffled her voice.
“Impatient, are we?” He unknotted his cravat. No reason to make the lady wait.
“Impatient to get a child. Surely you must be prepared by now.”
Prepared. Really. If she spared him more than half a glance, she’d know a thing or two about
prepared
. But perhaps her husband had always come to her in the dark, and made her shy of looking. Some marriage beds went that way, all furtive and grasping, the very satisfaction cloaked in shame.
She would learn better pleasures now. With an efficiency only to be gained through much practice, he shucked his clothes. “You may turn over again if you like.”
She did, and looked at him, and looked away, just as she would if she’d been foolish enough to gaze straight at the sun, or at one of those gods a mortal could not bear to behold. Apollo, or someone. Mercury. Whichever was the broadest-shouldered, and most generously equipped.
He knelt on the bed, running his gaze up and down her as he would some sumptuous private repast. His first widow—Sussex had its surprises after all—and he her hired paramour. His hand twitched impatiently; he reached out and settled it on one exquisite breast.
The fit was exactly what he’d calculated, mounding into his palm and the first joint of each finger. Cool, smooth, and sure to be sweet, like some confection—twin confections—made up special for him. Made up and then offered, artfully, in that one tantalizing glimpse against a ground of black crepe. Clever little seductress. He’d never stood a chance.
“Business arrangement, you say.” The words came without thought, the way they always did after a certain point, and his voice dipped down to its most intimate range. “But you meant me to see these, didn’t you? You meant to tempt me with them.” He lifted his palm away and traced, with two fingers, the graceful arc that made the underside of her breast.
Her lips pressed tight together. She stared up at the canopy, cheeks flushing. No, she’d not heard this kind of talk before.
“Well, it worked.” Words, voice, and fingers all conspired to caress her. “I saw what I could and imagined the rest. Just as you intended I should.” Her chest rose and fell in one quick breath under his touch. “I imagined the cool silk of your skin. I imagined the colors. Ivory and rose.” One hand braced on the mattress to hold his weight as he leaned lower, closer. “I imagined your scent.” He closed his eyes and inhaled, slow and luxuriant. “Like fresh flowers.” Like lilac-fragranced powder, to be more exact. Had she dusted it on for this very moment?
Short, shallow respirations—he was near enough to hear them now—were her only response. She was anxious, and not ready. But they had all afternoon. And he had ways.
“We’ll start slowly.” He eased back and lowered himself to lie beside her, up on one elbow. “Will you tell me some things you like, or would you prefer I find them out by trial?”
A second or two went by with no sign she’d heard him. Then the two creases came again between her brows. Her eyes snapped from the canopy to his face. “What?” she said.
“As slowly as you wish. As many little attentions as you need.” His voice sought out its most soothing, buttery pitch. “Where might you like me to begin? Your neck?” He brushed his fingers there. “Your ears? The soles of your feet?” Ladies liked that, to have their feet stroked.
Her eyes widened for a particle of a second, and then looked grave again. “I didn’t hire you for pleasure. I’m not paying you to do those things.”
“But I like doing those things.” Poor woman was shockingly ignorant. “They’re common between a man and his mistress. And they’ll help to make you ready.”
“I’m ready now. You may begin as soon as you will.”
Muscles pulled crazily round his mouth as he fought to contain his merriment. “No, darling.” He touched a fingertip to one unripe nipple. “I meant—”
“I’d be obliged if you could accomplish this without laughing at me.” Her face darkened with all the sternness he’d imagined, but none of the hunger he’d supposed would go with it. “I know what you meant. But men can manage without that. You can manage. Can’t you?”
Why in hell would you want me to
? He bit that back. He’d offended her already with his laughter. “Was this your husband’s way of proceeding?” He spoke casually, looking down as with one hand he tested the beginnings of his own wetness. Probably enough to make do.
The silence vibrated with her uncertainty. For three full seconds he believed she might really answer. “My husband’s way of proceeding need not concern you,” she then said.
Yes
, in other words.
So. He’d have a great deal to teach her. But this moment, with his fingers working to stroke dampness up and down his length, he found himself perfectly willing to oblige her impatience. “As you wish,” he said, and rose up over her.
She moved her legs apart, closed her eyes, and went limp beneath him even as she curled one hand into a fist at her shoulder. Bracing herself, unmistakably.
“Don’t be frightened.” He eased his hips forward so she could just get the feel of him. “I know it’s rather large, but I can assure you no lady has ever had the least difficulty with—”
“I’m not frightened. For Heaven’s sake.” Her eyes stayed shut and her cheeks turned a shade of red he would not have thought possible. “Please do begin.”
Well, then. He flexed and pushed, and met with muscles clenched hard against him. No pliancy. No easy entry. He’d have to use some force, unless … Drawing a deep, ragged breath, he made one last try. “Won’t you let me do a few things to relax you, if only for the sake of—”
“No. We’ve discussed this more than thoroughly. Can you just get on with it, please?”
Her words hung in the air like a chill mist, and a sudden awful slackening came in the flow of blood to his pertinent regions. Could he really put himself somewhere so inhospitable?
Oh, for God’s sake. He was a disgrace to whoredom. To stud-animaldom as well. What bull ever felt a moment of concern for whether the cow actually desired him? Quickly he moved into position. Put a hand down to brace himself. Filled his lungs again. And with one mighty push, he was in. Mere mechanics would take care of the rest. Enough times in and out would get him there. Her tight grip on him—had he ever been so exquisitely sheathed?—might get him there even sooner.
She ought to touch him, though. Her right arm lay slack on the mattress; her left bent to keep that fist at her shoulder. “Can you put your hands on me?” he said in a hoarse whisper. Hark at him, asking politely when the occasion called for command.
But she did what he asked. And then he wished she hadn’t. Her hands fell at random places on his back and stayed there, passively riding his rhythm like a pair of dead fish tossed by the sea. Or rather, one dead fish. The other still curled tight, like a brittle seashell with its soft sensate creature shrunk all the way inside.
Didn’t matter. Didn’t matter. Pleasure was gathering force in him now and he need only keep up the motion; shut out the sight of her impassive, closed-eyed face; shut out the disagreeable novelty of finding himself undesired. He could look at her hair. Better yet, at her breasts, her pretty breasts, bouncing daintily on his every thrust. Good. Perfect. They answered to him now, those same parts she’d used to tempt him, and other parts must answer to him in time. Her whole body would dance to his tune; her face would contort,
yes
, in savage ecstasy. He could see it so clearly, he could nearly hear her wanton cries, and finally all thought fled and the sweet sharp oblivion came as he delivered up the first installment of her purchase.