Once Upon a Moonlit Night: A Maiden Lane novella (6 page)

“Ah, this reminds me of my salad days,” Lady Whimple said with what sounded like a great deal of satisfaction. She and Hippolyta sat in a small inn room. There were a faded settee, several tables, and a pot of tea. Lady Whimple held a cup, but Hippolyta had been too nervous to take any. “An heiress kidnapped, a chase, a passionate embrace, the possibility of a duel. Oh, the scandal!” She leaned toward Hippolyta, who she seemed to think had somehow contrived to get herself into this terrible situation on purpose. “I do congratulate you, my dear. Hardly any of your generation have the mettle to set the gossips aflame, as it were.”

“Erm…thank you.” Hippolyta glanced nervously at the door to the inn room and then asked delicately, “How did Papa know to go north? I mean to find me?” Had the Duke of Montgomery left a note or…?

“He didn’t,” Lady Whimple replied promptly. “As you can imagine there was a to-do when he found you missing, but your father is a smart man. He kept the news to himself and a few trusted allies and friends. The Duke of Wakefield went south with his duchess, while Lord Griffin Reading and his wife, Lady Hero, took the western route.”

“Oh.” For a moment Hippolyta blinked, feeling touched that she had such friends. Then her brows drew together. “But why were the ladies included?”

Lady Whimple poured herself another cup of tea. “Actually, that was the doing of us ladies. It was thought that if we did not find you before your captor had bedded you, then it would be best if you had a feminine shoulder to lean on.”

Hippolyta opened her mouth…and then didn’t know what to say. What a truly ghastly thought.

Lady Whimple seemed to understand what she was thinking. She patted her hand. “But as it turned out, I wasn’t needed for
that
, was I?”

“
No.
Thank goodness.”

“Indeed.” The elder lady sipped her tea serenely.

But Hippolyta still worried her lip, thinking. “Then my kidnapper didn’t leave any sort of note behind?”

Lady Whimple shook her head.

“Do you think I should tell Papa who kidnapped me?”

“No, indeed,” Lady Whimple replied. “Not unless you wish your father dead. He’ll be forced for honor’s sake to call out the man, and then…” She shrugged fatalistically.

Hippolyta shuddered. She didn’t doubt at all that the horrible Duke of Montgomery would accept a challenge from her poor father. The duke would kill Papa without turning a golden hair on his head.

No, Lady Whimple was right: far better for Hippolyta never to tell who had kidnapped her. Of course Papa might have his suspicions—the Duke of Montgomery
had
been making a nuisance of himself—but as long as Papa had no confirmation, he need not make a move against the duke.

A male voice shouting suddenly rose from somewhere outside. But the sound was muted enough that Hippolyta couldn’t tell if it was from Papa or Matthew.

“Whatever can be taking this long, do you think?” she asked.

“Oh, gentlemen.” Lady Whimple waved a dismissive hand. “They might take hours coming to terms over a marriage contract.”

Hippolyta’s gaze snapped back to the elderly woman’s face. Lady Whimple was in her eighth decade and had a sweet, gently crinkled face, made soft with white rice powder and pink rouge on lips and cheeks. The lady herself, however, was neither soft nor sweet. Her gray eyes were every bit as sharp as her grandson’s.

On the whole Hippolyta found herself rather liking the old woman—especially since, by her own admission, she’d come to rescue her. “Do you think then that my father will accept Mr. Mortimer’s proposal?”

Lady Whimple snorted. “He will if he has any brains—and your Papa didn’t make a fortune in India by luck alone, girl. No, once he calms down he’ll see this is an excellent outcome.”

“But…” Hippolyta paced the little room. “Mr. Mortimer will be so angry. No man likes being forced into marriage.” And forced he was being, even if he’d made the announcement himself. As a gentleman and a man of honor, he’d had no other choice once he’d so thoroughly compromised her in front of witnesses.

“If he were being roped into a partnership with a penniless nobody, perhaps,” Lady Whimple replied. “But don’t pretend unnecessary naïveté, dear. Some see it as charming in the young, but I’ve always found it cloying.
You’re
an heiress.
He’s
got a title and debts from the previous earls. He might’ve spent years trying and not found a better bride than you.”

Hippolyta swallowed, feeling something settle deep in her stomach. “The earldom is in debt?” That must be the “family business” he’d spoken of in the carriage.

“Yes.” Those sharp gray eyes examined her. “You didn’t know? Well, I suppose he wouldn’t have announced it to you, would he? But don’t fret. Your dowry will be enough to repair the Paxton fortunes. Aristocratic marriages have been built on far less, I assure you.” Lady Whimple poured a second cup of tea. “Now, come and sit, my dear. Soon you’ll be married and this will be all over.”

But as Hippolyta obediently sat she felt something inside crack a little. This wasn’t how it was meant to be, a small voice cried. This wasn’t how she and Matthew should’ve come together.

If they’d only kept driving instead of stopping at
this
inn.

If they were still inside that carriage, bumping over rutting roads.

If they were just Mr. Mortimer and Princess.

But they
had
stopped. They
were
the Earl of Paxton and Miss Royle now.

And as Hippolyta sipped the lukewarm tea Lady Whimple had handed her she knew: the freedom of being only a ragged anonymous beggar maid was over.

She had to face her real life now—and everything it entailed.

Two weeks later Morris, Matthew’s new valet, withdrew from the earl’s bedchamber with a murmured good night and a bow.

Matthew breathed a silent sigh of relief as he pulled the neckcloth from his throat. He hadn’t had a valet since he’d left England, and acquiring one, along with all the other more pompous accoutrements of an earl, had been wearying at the very least.

Not to mention acquiring a wife—not that
she
was wearying.

Matthew paused before the door that connected his room with Hippolyta’s in the Paxton town house. They’d married just that morning, but besides at the wedding breakfast at a little past noon, they’d hardly talked. At the formal meal, attended by their families, Hippolyta had asked after Tommy, Charlie, and Josiah, and Matthew had complimented her on her dress. Previous to that they’d been kept determinedly apart by her blasted father, possibly in a ridiculous attempt to close the stable doors after the horses had run amok in the pastures. Immediately after the wedding breakfast he’d been waylaid by lawyers and men of business and had spent the afternoon and evening incarcerated with papers and legal matters. The earldom was in a shocking state of affairs, though with the help of Hippolyta’s dowry, it was slowly being set to rights.

He hadn’t even been able to take supper with his new bride.

But now…

Matthew set his palm against the old oak door. He could almost feel her heartbeat on the other side. He had no idea what she thought of this marriage—if she was glad or frightened or grieved. He knew only what he felt.

Exultation.

He had her, his Princess, his little beggar maid, his Hippolyta Royle. His ragged girl who had turned out to be the richest heiress in England and exactly who and what he needed in a wife.

He had her and he would not let her go.

Matthew pushed open the door.

The countess’s bedroom was intimately lit with only a few candles. Hippolyta sat in the big bed, dressed in a lace-trimmed wrapper, playing with Tommy. Her ebony locks fell in a dark, shining wave about her shoulders.

She glanced up at his entrance, a smile on her lips. “Oh. I missed Tommy so.”

He strolled to one of the chairs by the fire, banked now. “So you mentioned at our wedding breakfast.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat.

She scratched the little mammal under his chin and Tommy—the wanton—chirped and flipped onto his back, curving into a C and tilting his head to give her better access. “Do you think he missed me?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied as he shrugged out of his waistcoat. “He doesn’t show his underbelly to just anyone.”

“Hmm,” she murmured thoughtfully, pushing her dainty fingers through Tommy’s sleek fur. “He’s a warrior. He needs to keep himself—and his heart—safe.”

“He does indeed.” Matthew pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it carelessly aside. He could feel her gaze upon him as he propped a foot on the chair to unbuckle his shoes. She wasn’t as calm as she tried to make out. “But you should be careful with him.”

“Wh…what do you mean?”

“He’s a hunter. He thinks like a hunter.” He pulled off the first shoe and stocking and then the second before straightening to look at her. “He might be letting himself appear vulnerable to lure you in.”

Her big brown eyes widened as he faced her and unbuttoned his falls. “Oh, I don’t think—”

Tommy suddenly curled tight around her hand and mock-attacked her fingers.

Hippolyta shrieked.

The servants probably thought he was ravishing his new wife.

Matthew would’ve smiled had he not been encumbered with a near-painful erection. Carefully he shucked both breeches and smallclothes. Then he picked up the mongoose—holding the animal and his claws well away from his cock and bollocks—and looked Tommy in his vulpine little eyes. “Go and find somewhere else to sleep for the night.”

He gently tossed the mongoose to the floor before turning back to her. “Never underestimate a hunter intent on capturing his prey.”

Her soft throat moved as she swallowed. “And when the prey is captured?”

He set his knee on the bed. “Then he feasts.”

Hippolyta stared at Matthew—
her husband
—poised nude on the edge of her bed like a leopard approaching his prey, and fought back sudden panic. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned her wedding night when she’d been a young girl. This wasn’t how she’d envisioned her marriage. She’d thought vaguely then that there would be wooing with flowers and whispered compliments. That she’d fall in love. That her husband-to-be would sink to one knee and propose in her father’s sitting room. That she’d be married in a grand cathedral with pomp and all of society gathered.

Rather than with a few friends and family hastily assembled at an unfashionable church.

This wasn’t what she’d dreamed of, but it was what she was left with. And the man?

He wasn’t anything she could’ve imagined back then.

Matthew was big.

From his broad shoulders to his thick muscled arms to that hairy thigh planted firmly on the bed.

And he was blatantly male.

Not the kind suitor of her imaginings. Not the sweet, blushing swain of her dreams.

His chest was hairy. An inverted triangle of curls between his dark nipples pointed to his navel. From his navel a line of dark hair led to his ruddy penis, already erect, already thrust rudely at her from a tangle of dark pubic hair.

He was too real, too
raw
.

She wanted to cringe away.

And at the same time, she wanted to look her fill.

She realized suddenly that she’d remained silent too long. Hippolyta blinked. Despite his aggressive words he was still poised on the edge of her bed, waiting…for her? She didn’t know what to say. She’d never done this before.

So she simply held out her hand.

Her fingers were trembling, but apparently it was the right thing to do. He leaned toward her, hot and overwhelming, a frown between his brows, and took her hand.

He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. “Princess.”

His breath blew hot over her wet skin and she shivered.

He glanced up at that and crawled onto the bed. Deliberate. Slow. He planted one knee on either side of her, crouched above her, and she could smell him, his musk, his
sex
, as he leaned down and took her mouth. This kiss was different from the one in the inn yard. That one had been fast. Aggressive.

This was leisurely. As if he meant to learn her. Explore what made her a woman and him a man. She sank into the pillows, her heart beating fast, feeling his heat above her, his tongue in her mouth sliding against her own, the press of his hips, and the length of his cock against her thigh.

She wanted…

He angled his head, widening her mouth with his own. One hand slid down over her throat to her collarbone and the bodice of her wrapper.

He pulled back, looking at her with green eyes that seemed to burn. “Let me.”

She licked her lips and nodded.

He glanced down, a line incised between his brows as his big hands untied the ribbons that held the wrapper closed. He drew it open and sat back, helping her to rise and pull the garment off. Underneath she wore her chemise—a much more elegant garment than the ones she’d worn on their travels in Yorkshire. This one was linen with fine lace and embroidery. He didn’t seem to notice—or care—though, merely yanking it over her head. She thought she heard a rip and then she forgot all about her fine linen chemise.

Because he was looking at her.

She felt her middle heat, as if a fire had kindled there, as if his gaze alone had lit something within her. Instinctively she tried to close her legs, pushing her palms to the juncture of her thighs so he couldn’t see that part of her.

But he caught her wrists. “Don’t.”

She was panting, something like fear rising in her. Only it wasn’t
quite
fear.

He pulled her toward him and kissed her and she felt his chest against her nipples. The brush of his hair across her tender breasts. His bare arms encircling her back.

All that
skin
.

His thigh—muscled and hairy—pushing between hers, and then she was on her back again on the bed amid the pillows and he was over her. He was
on
her. His body rubbing against hers, and it was quite, quite lovely.

In a rather overwhelming way.

She inhaled, shuddering, as his lips left hers to travel down her throat, past her collarbone, to one breast. He licked over the upper slope and then opened his mouth over her nipple. She felt the sweet, strange pull as he suckled her, like nothing she’d ever experienced before in her life. She arched beneath him, even as he thumbed her other nipple. Was she supposed to feel so sharply, so deeply? How did people walk and talk so normally, take tea and act as if nothing were amiss, when they’d done
this
the night before?

She felt him urge apart her legs and she spread her thighs wider—and then wider still until he lay between them, his hips against hers.

He levered himself up and she opened her eyes as she felt his fingers
there
.

She stared into his green, green eyes. “What…?”

“Shhh.” He was touching her, opening her folds with his big fingers, and she could feel that she was wet.

Her lips trembled. “
Matthew.
”

His mouth turned sharply down. “Hush.”

She felt something else down there. Hotter. Bigger.

His fingers left and his cock pressed against her. Into her.
Burning.

She’d known it might hurt, but she’d rather hoped it wouldn’t. She clutched at his arms and didn’t make a sound.

Not a sound.

He was big. Much, much too big.

He didn’t pause. He must know that he was hurting her, for she was still and tense, but he continued thrusting steadily into her with his great thick penis and she wasn’t at all sure this was going to work.

Or if she really wanted to do this ever again.

Then his pelvis met hers and he closed his eyes and whispered, “Jesus.”

She watched as a bead of sweat formed at his temple.

He didn’t move.

She ached between her legs where they were joined and she wondered when he would be done.

He opened his eyes, green and intent on her, and bent and kissed her. First on the forehead.

And then on the mouth.

He teased apart her lips. Slowly. Patiently. As if they were sitting together on a settee instead of lying intimately linked, his cock pulsing
inside
her. He licked the tender inner part of her lips, making her gasp, and then thrust inside, sliding and teasing until she broke and suckled his tongue.

His hands were on her breasts now, softly brushing her nipples.

She moved restlessly, pinned by his weight, by the cock still impaling her, by his mouth demanding her attention, her submission. Her hands unclenched from his arms. She threaded her fingers into his hair—his thick, lovely hair—and pulled the tie from his tail. It fell in waves around his face, brushing against her cheeks as she kissed him and he kissed her.

He closed his fingers on her nipples and she arched into him at the sudden pleasure-pain.

He moved then, pulling his cock slowly back, and for a second—a sad, lonely second—she thought they were done. But then he reversed the movement and thrust back in.

And again.

The ache was receding, disappearing under a wave of heat and longing. Of restless
want
rising up. She flexed her legs, curling her knees up, and yanked on his hair so that she could see his eyes.

He looked down at her with a predator’s stare, hungry and waiting as he continued to thrust into her, his big body pressing over and over into hers. He was all around her, surrounding her, overwhelming her, his scent in her nose and in her mouth.

She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but let herself
go
.

And be swept up in the wave that seemed to build and build until it crashed over her, destroying everything she’d thought she knew about herself and him.

She gasped and shook under him, dimly hearing his shout of triumph as he slammed into her a last time and slumped on her a dead weight.

She lazily stroked his slick back, thinking, no, this wasn’t at all what she’d once imagined marriage to be.

But it might be better.

Matthew woke to the scent of lilacs and a soft arse nestled against his morning erection.

His wife’s soft arse.

That was a new experience—and a new thought. This woman was his—to care for and to keep.

He opened his eyes and looked at her.

Hippolyta slept with her curtain of mahogany hair thrown half over her face and a palm cupped under her cheek like a little girl. Her lips were parted and stained that deep cinnabar. One nipple peeked from under the covers, innocent and lax. He bowed his head over her and licked that nipple, feeling it tighten under his tongue.

When he raised his head again, she was watching him with sleepy eyes.

“Good morning,” he said, brushing the hair from her face.

The color was high in her cheeks, but that might’ve been from sleeping.

Or not.

“Good morning,” she replied, her voice husky from sleep.

He hadn’t moved his hips away from hers. She must feel his cock still pressed against her soft flesh. But she’d been an innocent last night—and he’d hurt her. She’d be sore this morning.

He bent and kissed her lips. “Shall I have a maid bring up some tea and bread?”

Her eyes widened. “To eat here?”

He climbed from the bed and stood, glancing at her. “Yes.”

“But I can rise,” she said, and now he was sure.
That
was definitely a blush.

He arched an eyebrow. “We’re newly married. I believe we can lie abed for one morning, don’t you?”

“Oh, but…”

He strode to the door without bothering to dress, cracking it to find a footman waiting in the hall outside. He made the order and then stirred the fire before returning to the bed.

“This seems decadent,” his bride said, sounding disapproving.

Matthew was a bit disappointed to see that she’d donned her chemise and wrapper again.

“Yes, it is,” he replied.

There was a trill and then Tommy poked his head over the edge of the bed as he streamed up the side.

“Good morning to you, sir,” Hippolyta murmured softly to the little animal, and Matthew had to look away because he was
not
jealous of a mongoose.

Fortunately two maids arrived at that moment bearing trays with tea and breakfast. They set them on the tables beside the bed, opened the curtains, asked if there was anything else, and being given a negative reply, left.

Hippolyta poured the tea and passed both it and the pile of mail that had come with breakfast.

Matthew settled back against the pillows, idly rifling through the letters as he sipped the tea. He preferred the beer they’d had in the carriage. At least the tray held eggs and a gammon steak. He was taking a bite of one of the excellent buns when Hippolyta made a stifled exclamation.

He looked at her.

She was staring at an opened letter in her lap and her face had gone white.

His brows snapped together. “What is it?”

“I…” She glanced up at him and he saw devastation on her face.

He snatched the letter from her and read it.

It was simple and it was crude.

It was a blackmail letter. If Hippolyta didn’t hand over nearly her entire dowry money the letter writer would reveal to the world that her mother had been a native Indian.

The bun turned to ashes in his mouth.