by Stacy Reid
She laughed, the sweet, yet sensual sound burrowing deep into his heart.
“Have you forgotten already that it was you who taught me to swim?”
It was only last night she had arrived at Vanguard Manor and had promptly gone to bed after the tiring journey. This morning he had woken her at dawn to go fishing. At first, she had slapped him with a cushion before anticipation had livened her eyes. She had always loved fishing, and they had often indulged in that pastime in the country to her father’s distress.
She sat down and folded her arms across her waist. Such a very pretty picture she painted, even if she had dressed in boy’s trousers and a flowing white shirt. One of his beaver hats almost swallowed her head, but he recalled that she burnt easily under the sun.
“It is so very beautiful and peaceful out here,” she murmured, gazing across the wide picturesque lake. “Do you still row daily...I remember this exercise to be one of your favorite pastimes?”
“Whenever I am here, and the weather permits.”
She plucked the hat off her head and held it in her lap. There was a hint of shyness in her demeanor. The sun peeked through the clouds, splashing a warm golden glow over her rosy cheeks. He pictured the way she had stared at him earlier as they had strolled across the lawns and toward the lake. Her stare had been filled with curious anticipation and a bit of nervousness. Once again it hovered on his lips to confess, he’d never taken a woman to his bed before.
Do not be a blathering idiot, he reminded himself with a scowl. A gentleman need not go around telling his lover of his varied experiences or lack of. It should only matter that he pleased her. And he had read over his book last night, a bit astonished to think about all that advice and information had apparently come from his mind.
“You are frowning so fiercely,” she said, humor bright in her gaze. “Pray tell what you are thinking?”
“I should shock you should I reveal it?”
“I am intrigued. Please confess.”
He smiled at her bird like look of enquiry. Instead of revealing that he stupidly wondered how and when to start the physical aspect of their affair, he directed his thoughts to a matter which had troubled his mind.
“How are your parents, Amalie? Is your father...is he well? And your mother?”
She glanced away from him, but he noted her fingers were fiercely clenched in his hat. “We have not spoken much over the years.”
“Why?”
“Does it matter?”
“Only if you wish to speak on it.”
She bit into her lower lip then said, “They are very much alike with society’s thinking. I am shameless and my actions were unforgivable. I... mamma requested I do not visit them and cast doubt on their reputations. I have learned to live with her request, I owe them that much I think.”
“I am sorry,” he said, anger filling his heart. “I will speak to them and—”
Her head snapped around and her eyes flashed with ire. “Pray do not! It is not your place to fight any of my battles.”
He stopped rowing. “To hell it is not!”
She stared at him, her eyes round with astonishment. “Only my husband would dare to invoke that privilege. A lover storming to my defense would only confirm to my parents that I have fallen so low I am unable to recover.”
“And can I not speak to them as a friend?” he said gently, reaching for her.
The boat rocked precariously when she came to him and allowed him to guide her onto his knee.
She slipped her hands around his neck and lifted her face to his. “Is that what we are, friends?”
His heart started a slow thud, and he lifted a hand to push a loose wisp of hair behind her ears. “Yes.”
She smiled and he rested his forehead against hers for long silent moments.
“You are not alone anymore,” he said gruffly. “Allow me to fight some of your battles.”
“An honorable offer, but it is not needed. I told mother and father the truth surrounding my scandal and ruin. Not everything about the viscount but that Lord Spencer had attacked me and that was the reason I ran.”
He stiffened. “And you were still berated for it?”
“Mother wept and Papa was angry. And they hugged me and consoled me. When I came back into society, and wrote to say I would visit, they replied encouraging me to remain in Brighton instead of travelling home where the scandal might resurface.”
He smoothed a thumb over the bit of flesh she had been worrying with her teeth. “The first time I saw you, Amalie, you played with rabbits and I thought you oddly sweet and charming. The second time you were chasing a dog in your fine dress and bonnet with a stick in your hand.”
Her eyes widened. “You saw that!”
“Yes.”
“And you never revealed it?” she demanded incredulously, her cheeks pinkening.
“I cannot imagine what the dog had done to deserve your wrath, but I thought there goes a very brave young lady indeed.”
“It bit me,” she said with a small smile around her mouth. “A small scratch really, but I was deathly afraid of that dog, and had been for a while. Its owner was the pompous Squire McKinley, and he would not teach his pet manners. That dog scared me for days, and I wanted to stroll about town freely, so I walked with a stick, determined to chase it away the next time I encountered it to prove I was not afraid.”
“My instincts were right...it was a matter of honor and bravery you chased that pitiful thing. And did it ever try to bite you again?”
“No,” she said with a wistful smile. “We actually became friends, that bulldog and I. Dear friends.”
“Ah, and my dear Amalie, you chased after your fear, the very thing which had hurt you before, to face it and conquer it. If I am not allowed to defend you to your parents, chase them until they relent as well. I recall how much you loved your papa. He would take you on early morning rides with him, and even out onto the lake to keep his company while he fished. You would go with your mother to church and to call upon your neighbors. Your delightful heads were normally tilted close together as I assume you indulged in the local gossips. How it must hurt you to know there is this distance between you. I urge you to do everything to see that divide close even if it is no fault of your own.”
She cupped his cheek tenderly, and her eyes glistened with tears. “I never knew you had watched me that closely.”
“I did.” Because God, how I had wanted you with every breath in my body.
“The chasm with my parents has cleaved my heart in two. They have not been to town these last two years, and I am certain it is because I am here. I do not resent them much for it, but it hurts that they are so much more concerned with society’s opinion than my feelings. But I am also quite aware that they might find it difficult to withstand the worst of the censure society has shown me, so I have happily communicated via letters.”
Her breath hitched when he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers. Max had only meant to comfort, because he could still see the pain in her eyes and could only imagine how alone she must have felt these few years. How admirably she had not been worn down by despair.
He smoothed a thumb along the curve of her lower lip. She pressed her mouth more to his, and with a muffled groan he deepened the kiss. Amalie trembled in his embrace, and the arousal that rushed through Max’s body almost rendered him insensible. He framed her face with his hands and ravished her mouth with exquisite thoroughness. The taste, scent, and sweet whimpers she made against his mouth undid him. Everything about her felt trapped under his skin.
With frantic need beating in his blood he dragged his hands over her body, feeling every swell and dip of her curves. She strained to get closer to him, rocking the boat, but they were too gone in passion to care. He caressed the sensual dip of her waist, absurdly tiny compared to her breasts and the lush flare of her hips. With hurried motions and trembling fingers, he reached for the front fall of her trousers desperate to touch her.
&nb
sp; “Open up for me,” he coaxed.
Though she blushed, she widened her knees, inviting his illicit touch. He slipped two of his fingers inside the slit of her drawers, pressing firmly over her most tender flesh, stroking, drawing forth her body’s response. Delightful wetness greeted him, and her soft whimpers turned into a long passion filled moan. A pounding ache went through his cock which hardened and strained against his trousers.
She turned her face into his throat, clutching at his shoulders. “Max?”
She sounded breathless and a bit frightened. “Look at me,” he murmured.
Amalie lifted her face from his throat. Her eyes were heavy-lidded with arousal, her lips red and swollen, her cheeks flushed.
“Do you want me to stop?”
“Never,” she said with such intensity his heart trembled. “I ache, Max, let it go away. I want you to touch me... where you are touching me.”
She was blushing now, profusely. Holding her stare, he slid his fingers down over the wet folds of her soft sex. They both stilled, and his throat worked on a swallow. His chest lifted heavily with each breath he took. Max couldn’t believe he was touching his Amalie in such an intimate and carnal manner.
“Do not look away from me,” he ordered softly.
She bit into her lower lips, her fingers digging into his shoulders when he started to caress along her sex. She quivered beneath him with restless hunger. It was her turn to breathe erratically as he stroked her over and over. She stared up at him, her eyes dazed, unfocused, her face flushed with passion. Still holding his shoulders like a lifeline, she leaned forward and took his mouth in a hungry kiss.
The wild flavor of her need felt like a wicked assault on his senses as he kissed her with all the pent-up longing he’d held over the years. Their tongues tangled, and he ran his fingers up to her nub and pressed. Her hips jerked, but he did not let up on that stroke. She cried out into his kiss as he rubbed her clitoris until she trembled.
His lust rose to a fever pitch, and his body screamed for a release that it had been denied for so awfully long. He glided his fingers over her petal soft sex to the heart of her sex and slid a finger deep.
Her cries became more frantic, and her hands kneaded his shoulder. A scream exploded from her as she unraveled around him, clenching so tightly he was unable to withdraw his finger from the heat of her quim. A dark heady feeling rushed through him as he imagined his cock sinking into the tight heat of her.
Their lips parted, and she said raggedly, “I want to touch you.”
Everything in this moment told him she had read his book thoroughly and had paid keen attention to the chapter that spoke on how mutual touching enhanced the pleasure of coupling.
“Yes.”
She reached her hand between them, and with badly shaking fingers opened the front fall of his trousers. His cock sprang out, and she closed her fingers around his length. Max groaned.
“You are so thick... my fingers can barely go around you.”
Then she ran the tip of her finger from his base to the flared mushroom head of his cock. He had never before felt the incredible sensation that arched up his spine and bowed his back. Everything in Max went tight, his heart pounded, and his balls ached.
He hugged her to him, his hip surging upward as if his body had a will of its own, desperate to feel her hands everywhere. “Fuck... I need to be in you!”
Her face flushed at his crudeness. “Max!” And then she squeezed his cock.
Shock tore through him as his release ripped from his body. The boat rocked hard, and though he tried to steady them, it turned over and dumped them into the lake. He held onto her, though he knew she could swim for he had been the one to teach her. Max kicked to the surface; his ardor completely doused. They quickly rebuttoned their trousers, not looking at each other. The entire situation was laughable.
She pushed her wet strands from off her forehead and peered at him. He had spent like an untried lad. Max could feel the tip of his ears burning and it had nothing to do with the sun which had risen high in the sky. “I... fuck!”
“I gather that was not supposed to have happened?”
“No,” he admitted through gritted teeth. “I... hell!”
She giggled. “Oh, if you could only see your face, Max!”
He grinned and couldn’t help chuckling too. Their combined laugh rang across the lake, dissipating all the tension and need which had gripped them earlier.
“We are not far from the bank,” she said, “Let’s race! The loser will...” her nose wrinkled as she thought about it. “The loser will spend the night rubbing the feet of the winner, read any story the winner demands, perhaps play the pianoforte.” She tossed her head in a challenge. “I submit the loser must submit to all of the winner’s desires.”
“Are you confident you will win?”
Humor danced in her expressive eyes. “I do recall how astonishingly fast you were at swimming and that I was never able to beat you, so I do thank you my lord for the advantage of a start.”
Then she dipped into the water, her hands stroking as fast as she could. Max watched her impeccable form, an ache rising inside his chest. The things she had laid out were desires of her heart, very ordinary to his way of thinking, how a lord and his lady would spend a quiet evening at home. Were these the things you’ve hungered for over the years, my Amalie?
Realizing that there was no splashing beside her she paused and gracefully twisted in the water. “Are you not racing me?” she demanded, laughing.
At his silence, the smile disappeared from her lips as awareness dawned in her eyes.
“You want to be the loser?” she asked softly, her gaze searching his face with quiet intensity.
He waded a bit closer. “I daresay I do.”
Why? her stare demanded but her lips asked, “You want to rub my feet?”
He nodded, watching each nuance of her face. How puzzled and hopeful she appeared. He turned that hope over into his thoughts, wondering what was it that she craved...and could he give it to her without breaking the trust and friendship reforming between them?
An unexpected hunger clawed through him and Max admitted he wanted back everything he’d had with her, the friendship and easy comraderie...and more, for now he wanted her in his arms and underneath him on the bed, the sofa, and the carpet by the fire.
“You want to read to me,” this was said with a deep sigh of pleasure.
“Yes.”
“You want me to be curled into your side by the fireplace.”
“Yes.”
They stared at each other for long moments, then with a soft smile hovering above her lips, she turned around and swam toward the boardwalk.
Chapter 8
Amalie laughed until a tear leaked from the corner of her eyes. She reposed on a plush sofa with a glass of wine in her hand in the smaller drawing room. The fire crackled merrily, and Max stood in the center of the room, scowling at her. That sign of displeasure did not detract from his handsomeness. They were both scandalously casual with feet bare of shoes and stockings, his shirt sleeve had been rolled to above his elbows and his cravat had long been discarded. She wore a dark blue high waisted day dress without a shift or stays underneath. Amalie felt at once free and naughty.
“That fierce glare will not change my opinion of your skills,” she said, still laughing. “They are atrociously nonexistence. Have you not been to the theater and seen the efforts of the craft?”
“This situation is not remotely humorous,” Max drawled. “It was your idea to play a game of charades after dinner.”
It had been suggested from sheer nervousness. Amalie had supposed the joviality of the game would have lessened the tense anticipation of being bedded by such a skilled lover. Would she please him? Or would his varied exploits with his other lovers overshadow her inexperience.
Worry had beset her most abominably, and in desperation she had suggested playing charades, though the game really required more players. They h
ad adjusted the rules of the game, so each wrote their own words on pieces of paper, then enact those words for the other to guess. This was a variation from how the game was famously played in many parlors, where normally dramatic expressions and artful poems were used to describe their actual words. Max had been quite indulgent in adjusting to the rules until now.
“I should also point out that you, madam, cheated,” he groused, going over to the mantle to refill his glass with brandy.
“You impugned my honor! I did not cheat,” she said with mock severity.
“We were to write artful words and phrases and then act them out to entertain each other. All your words were terribly simple. Cat, rose, house, dog!” With each listed word his scowl got blacker
She took a large sip of her wine, feeling pleasantly warm and languid. “I did not tell you to write such words as Prinny, Bonaparte, Ship mast!”
“I guessed your words with little acting effort on your part. You were able to maintain your dignity during this game. I was just on my knees and hands twitching my damn arse in the air.”
A peal of laughter erupted from her and the wine in the glass sloshed precariously. “My dear, Max, your performance was rather dramatic, but I still cannot guess what you could possibly be acting! Now, there is a definite twinkle in your eyes, and why have you stopped acting?”
“Do you think I want to continue making an arse out of myself?”
“But such a fine, wonderful arse you are!” she cried, sipping on her sherry, before leaning forward and setting the glass on the small walnut table between the sofas. “Would you like us to revert to using rhymes to guess our words?”
“I think I would prefer to punish you for putting me through this game.”
And before she could react, he was on the sofa coming down over her. His large body blanketed hers, and a wave of heat shimmered between their bodies. It kissed over her skin, igniting a thrum of need within her. Amalie squeaked, then spluttered into laughter when he started to tickle her sides.
“Max, please, stop!”
His efforts intensified and she writhed beneath him, trying to escape the torment of his teasing fingers. His eyes glinted with devilish determination, and she realized he truly would not stop. Amalie wrapped her hands around his neck and kissed him firmly on the mouth. She swallowed his muffled grunt of surprise and coaxed him to open his mouth with soft kisses. Their playful mood vanished when he threaded his finger through her hair, tilted her head, and ravished her mouth with exquisite thoroughness.
