He yelped. “Gently,” he wheezed.
Instantly she eased her grip and allowed herself to focus on the feel of him. It was the strangest contradiction of hot softness over steel. The flesh was pliable under hand, yet rigid. And, oh, was it hot.
The muscles in her stomach tightened and the world pulsed about her as she stroked her fingers over him toward the swollen head. At the tip a tiny jewel of liquid rested atop the small slit. Out of sheer instinct, she rubbed her finger over the little ball of moisture and rubbed it over the head.
He gasped and his relaxed form turned rigid, his hands digging into the sheets.
She yanked her hand away from his sex. “Does that hurt?”
She knew so little about the male anatomy except for that it could be used cruelly against the female sex.
“No, Mary. It feels wonderful. Bloody wonderful.”
“Truly?” From such a small touch she could cause such pleasure? If this was the case, why were so many men driven by a need to fuck so harshly?
“Truly.” He studied her closely while his breath came in hungry, shallow intakes. Pleasure ruled his body, urging his hips toward her gentle touch.
An unseemly dose of jealousy drove her pleasure away. She would never feel such pleasure at the hands of a man. Not even Edward. Her own body had been taught the opposite of enjoyment, and would never yield up to bliss. “I—I’m not sure if I wish to—”
Understanding conquered his own desire. “Would you like to just rest with me?”
Relief replaced the indecision in her heart. How was it he could so comprehend her? She slipped away from him, missing the warmth of his skin against hers, but eager to join him on the bed. “Yes. Yes, I would like that.”
He gestured to her gown. “I think you will have to remove your hoops.”
She glanced at the yards of material that draped out several feet over cane circles. It was true. She could hardly rest upon the bed with them on. In fast handfuls, she pulled up her thick sapphire skirts and petticoat. She reached for the tape at her waist and tugged. In one swish of motion, the hoops plummeted to the ground and landed with a clatter.
Approval warmed his eyes before he held out his hand. “Take your ease.”
Without a second thought, she clasped his hand. Gathering the copious folds of petticoats and overskirt into her other hand, she climbed onto the bed.
Edward sat up and pulled the top blanket up over them. Gently, he tucked it about her. “I want you to feel safe with me.”
Tears stung Mary’s eyes and she eased toward his naked body, burrowing close. As he curved his arm about her shoulders, tucking her to his chest, she did feel safe. Safer than she had felt in a lifetime.
“I
t’s about bloody, sodding time.”
Edward blinked furiously at the sudden light piercing his lids. Mary’s once languid and trusting form tensed against him with alarm.
He didn’t need to see to know the owner of that blasted voice. In fact, he much preferred his eyes closed, as if the disembodied voice was an invasion on his pleasant dreams, not an actuality.
Mary had given him such a gift last night. He barely believed he could be worthy of such trust. Oh, he’d worked for it. But until that moment when she stood proud and brave and yanked his boots off, determined to be close to him, he had not understood how important that gift was to her. To him.
The clunk of the curtains against the curtain rod eliminated the possibility that the invading voice was indeed an illusion. All he wanted was to hold Mary and revel in this new bond that they had forged.
Regretfully, he opened his eyes, his pupils adjusting to the bright light in slow degrees, making the man across the room by the windows appear a faceless shade.
“Powers, what the hell are you doing in my room?” Edward didn’t sit up, lest Powers consider it an invitation to stay. It was best not to encourage the blighter in any way.
“I’ve been here a hundred times before,” Powers replied brightly. “Why shouldn’t I be here now?”
Edward scowled. “I have company.”
Powers busied himself, tying back the curtains. “Once again, I’ve been here when you’ve had
company
a hund—”
Edward winced as Mary’s form slid away from his. The feel of her body had been a balm on his withered soul. He was tempted to reach out and pull her against him, but instead he humphed and added, “Christ, are you an imbecile?”
“My father is,” Powers virtually chirped, his mood seeming blithe. He turned to face the bed, his long duster coat swishing about his form. “I thank the fates that in this circumstance it was not hereditary.”
“I’m not entirely certain of that, my lord.” Mary’s sharp reply filled the room with irony as she shuffled under the thick down blanket to the side of the bed, either for the purpose of murdering Powers or to flee. It was hard to surmise which she preferred, given the mortified irritation etched on her brow.
“Good.” Powers clapped his hands together in faux enthusiasm. “She’s awake.”
“And not amused,” she parried.
“Well, I am. Or at least full of bliss that you two have finally consummated your—”
Mary threw the covers back, baring her sapphire silk gown. The skirts were so voluminous that, even twisted about her limbs, they still entirely covered her lower extremities. “Contain your misplaced
bliss.
”
Powers dragged his eyes over her fully clothed form. “Woe to the world, madam,” he mocked. “You know not what you miss.” He then diverted his attention to Edward, buried safely underneath the covers. A slight sniff precipitated Powers’s march forward and abrupt seizure of the linens.
Edward kept a death grip about the bedding, sensing he was about to be bared. “What the devil—”
“Time to rise—” Powers yanked the covers from the bed in a determined snap. He froze, his eyes widening before a huge guffaw twisted his features into an amused grin. “I do apologize. You’ve already risen.”
“Cease your demented prattle.” Edward ripped the sheet from Powers’s hands and tucked it about his waist.
“Failed, did you?” Powers gauged Mary appreciatively with a quick sweep of his gaze. “The lady must lead a merry dance.”
“Go to hell,” she hissed.
With her short hair mussed from sleep and her gown swallowing up her petite legs, she was more desirable than any woman Edward had ever known.
“Have done, little dragon.” Powers swept a twirling little bow. “Learned a thing or two and was sent back to corrupt the world at large.”
Mary curled her lip in disdain and then turned away from him, scrambling to make her way off the bed. “Sod off, then.”
“Before you cast me out of your thoughts so entirely, you’ll be pleased to learn that I know who has beaten our dear bawd to a pulp.”
The residual irritation Edward had felt for being so rudely interrupted crumbled at this information. He vaulted from the bed, safely clothed in his sheet. “Who?”
Mary turned back toward them standing beside the bed, her back ramrod straight.
“A man named Hardgrave. A name never more apt.” Powers crossed to the mahogany table in the corner and lifted a crystal decanter full of whiskey. He poured himself out two inches worth and knocked back half in a single swallow.
Edward watched, detached, a part of him wondering how long Powers could keep using his body so harshly. Before he drove himself back to the hell he claimed to already know so well.
“Rather early for a drink, my lord,” Mary said tightly.
“It’s never too early, my dear,” Powers intoned, swirling the whiskey carelessly in its glass. “You should know.”
Mary’s lips tightened into a white line.
“Or are you a model of sobriety these days?”
She said nothing.
Edward did not mention that Mary had begun to taper her laudanum intake these last several days. When she wished to reveal this advance she would. Through the gradual decrease of her intake, it would only be a day or so before she was free of it. Still, one never knew when the siren song of opium might call . . . and one who had been in its thrall almost always answered. He’d never understand the mind of one caught in the throes of addiction, but he knew the effects all too well. A gift from his dear mother.
Powers drank from his cup, almost defiantly. “I have not yet been abed . . . unlike yourselves. This”—he gestured with his glass—“is a nightcap.”
Mary shifted uncomfortably. “In my service? ’Tis dangerous upon the streets at night.”
Powers rolled his eyes. “No, m’dear. I don’t do things for you.” He thumbed at Edward. “I do things for him.”
Mary heaved out an exasperated breath, her concern for Powers evaporating. “Yes, I understand. I am the plague, the apocalypse, the end of all manly accord. Now what did you find in your untold hours of toil?”
Powers’s brows rose in feigned hurt. “My, we are verbose. The apocalypse? I quite like that. I shall start calling you Death and buy you a pale horse. Or perhaps you’re Pestilence. Hmm. I don’t recollect the good book suggesting a color for your equine companion. I shall—”
“Powers,” Edward uttered tightly. It was tempting to shake the man when he prevaricated. But it would do no good. Powers shared what he wished to share only when he wished to share it.
Powers tsked. “Such temper . . .” He moved back to the window and fingered one of the heavy drapes. His eyes closed for a moment as if glorying in the sun filtering in through the glass. “And on such a splendid day.”
“Perverse. That’s what you are,” Mary pointed out. “You keep us waiting for naught but your amusement.”
“No, no.” He tsked again. “’Tis delayed gratification, madam.” Powers snorted as he raked her with a mocking glance. “Something entirely different than perverse. I’m sure either Edward or I could educate you in the matter.”
Mary froze on the spot, her face coloring with fury. Edward also saw in her face something . . . not quite identifiable. Curiosity?
Edward swallowed back the nasty taste of that last thought. But, yes, curiosity definitely lurked in her violet eyes. Christ, he should stop this here and now. He knew he should, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to castigate Powers. His own sick curiosity drove him too hard. Powers was a master with women, just like himself.
How would Mary bear up under Powers’s obvious interest in her? No. What he and Mary had shared the night before—innocent and good—couldn’t be shaken by any offer Powers might make.
Edward swallowed back a good dose of disgust and commanded, “Speak or leave. I have not the patience to dance with you.”
Powers’s lips parted in amusement. “But you know I love a good dance.” He rubbed a gloved finger against the deep cleft in his chin with protracted contemplation. “I know,” he said as if he’d just experienced the ecstasy of transcendental thought. “Mary, give Edward a damn good kiss and then I shall reveal my news.”
“What?” She gasped.
Powers smirked. “You can have a sip of my whiskey if the thought is so appalling.”
“Why?” she cried, her voice ripe with frustration.
“It amuses me,” he purred as he lifted the glass to his lips and drank another deep swallow.
Mary’s gaze skittered from Edward to Powers. A look of consternation creased her forehead. It was there. She sensed that there was something more dangerous than a kiss straying in these waters. But she could not make it out. Who could, without knowing the workings of the minds of men such as these two?
“You will cease this delay?” Mary asked warily.
Powers clasped a hand to his heart. “Certainly.”
As she took a step toward Edward, anger fairly hummed from her, but then her discontent disappeared from her face, replaced by hard certainty. She stopped in her progress toward the bed.
She turned slowly toward Powers, her entire stance one of cold determination. She glared at him. “My life is not a game and you will treat me with respect.”
Powers’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Will I?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “Because you are not so entirely uncaring as to use me thus. You know how I have been treated. What danger I am in. Would you truly dance about with me in this?”
Powers’s lips tightened into a white line and he glanced away.
Edward could hardly believe it. What was that expression? Anger . . . No, it was a sudden flash of shame. Viscount Powers was ashamed of himself. It was a sight Edward had never thought to see.
Mary placed her hand on Powers’s forearm and said, gently but firmly, “Now cease your games and share your news.”
Edward’s breath stilled in his chest at her words. Had she just made such a declaration?
How would Powers respond?
Edward waited, wondering if, for once, Powers would drop his mocking guard.
“Very well,” Powers said with a slightly too bright air, as if he had not been affected by Mary’s plea at all.
She removed her hand from his arm and stepped away. “Thank you.”
Powers closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them, miraculously composed considering the dressing-down she’d just given him. “Your father has remarried, to the daughter of an earl. Clare Ederly.” His wicked smirk returned. “She’s younger than you. Seventeen.”
“She is damned,” Mary murmured.
“Mmm.” Powers agreed, pouring himself another whiskey.
“And what of Hardgrave?” Edward demanded, cursing the world for condemning the poor Ederly girl into such keeping. But right now he had only one care in this world, and she was standing beside him, no longer the broken young woman he had met, but a fiery creature of passion and courage . . . who still wasn’t in the least bit safe.
“A bloke born in Seven Dials, he’s a Mrs. Palmer’s man. Mary, I believe you know Mrs. Palmer?”
She winced. “She runs the Palmer Asylum, where I spent too many years.”
Powers nodded. “Hardgrave’s reputation for discretion has ingratiated him to men of rank as a reliable villain.” Powers plunked the decanter back down on its silver tray, but this time he didn’t replace the stopper. “He has the constitution of a bulldog. Once he grabs on, he doesn’t let go.”
“He will not be easily stopped,” Edward surmised wearily.
“Exactly, my brilliant friend. Last eve was just the beginning of what we should expect.”