Lord Holt Takes a Bride

by Vivienne Lorret

  Devouring her impatient, needy whimpers with his probing kiss, his hand slipped beneath her hem to follow the line of her borrowed stockings, up to those black garter ribbons, and higher, skimming over the bare flesh of her thigh. He groaned. “So soft on the outside. So strong beneath.”

  “And you like that, yes?” she asked on a sigh as his lips skimmed down her neck, laving the rain from her skin with the heat of his tongue.

  He murmured against the swells of her breasts, just above the edge of her bodice as his hand roamed higher, over her hip and under to cup her bottom, kneading her flesh. “My mind is filled with wicked thoughts, Winn. These thighs, your stamina, bareback rides at dawn . . . for hours.”

  She had a sense that he wasn’t talking about horseback riding when she felt a tremor course through him, quivering into her. A picture formed in her mind, but it dissolved away when she felt his hand coast over her hip again to her inner thigh, chasing tingles all the way to that throbbing pulse. She knew he was going to touch her. She wanted him to. But that didn’t stop her shy gasp at the first tender cupping over her sex.

  “Shh . . . let me touch you,” he whispered against her lips and she acquiesced with a nod, seeking the pressure of his mouth, the taste of him.

  He gave it to her, his tongue entering her mouth as his fingers skimmed through tawny curls, finding the seam of her sex, where she felt swollen and tender and wet. He growled, a deep, possessive sound that told her he liked this, too. And that she was his.

  Her body agreed, hips slanting toward the heat of his hand, needing pressure against the insistent throb of her pulse. There were no maidenly fears that made her cautious, that wanted to demur. “Please.”

  “So impatient. So stubborn.” He grinned against her mouth, chiding her with a nip. Yet even with this tender reprimand, he gave in to her demands, nudging closer, coasting over the furled flesh. “So wet.”

  She bucked against the slide of his finger and she turned her head, seeking his lips, taking his tongue inside her mouth as his finger centered in tight swirls, chasing the pulse. Then he entered her. A slow glide of his finger into the damp heat. A choked, desperate sound tore from his throat and he rocked against the curve of her hip.

  Winnifred felt the hardness of him, the heat through his breeches. She wanted to touch him, take his flesh in her grasp while his finger plunged with sure, authoritative strokes, his palm pressing against that pulse.

  She groped between them blindly as her body clenched around him, her kisses frantic.

  Then he turned her at once. Now she was straddling him, hem riding high. One of his hands lifted to her nape, fusing their mouths, and the other tore at the fall front fastenings beneath her fumbling fingers. And then she felt the heat of him.

  The thick, heavy jut of flesh was in her untutored, though eager, grip with him guiding her motions. Up and down. Down and up to the slick droplet resting on the full mushroomed tip like a bead of dew. Fascinated, she ran her thumb over the slickness and his breath fractured on her downward stroke.

  His hands moved to her hips, to her breasts, and he tugged at her bodice, revealing her to the night, to the rain that now seemed to fall warmly on her skin. She arched back on a gasp as he took her nipples simultaneously, one in a slow roll between his thumb and forefinger and the other in his mouth, suckling and swirling.

  The throbbing of her sex demanded attention, urging her to roll her hips against the broad shaft. She found the answer to ease this ache. All she had to do was this—yes, like that—and grind against him. Her body drew taut all over, like a corset about to erupt.

  Asher lifted her and her hands flew to his shoulders for purchase. He pressed his cheek against hers, his breath hot in her ear. “Winn, put your feet on the ground. I want you in control. I don’t want to hurt you. Damn. I’m bloody shaking again.”

  When she did, she felt the hard, insistent head poised at the entrance of her sex, his voice crooning, “Slowly now. Yes. Let me inside.”

  Now she felt a nudge, the stretch, the heat, the burn of her flesh as she sank inch by inch, encouraged by the helpless, guttural sounds he made, the almost desperate grip on her hips.

  “So bloody tight, Winn.” He arched his neck on a hiss, jaw clenched as he lifted her again. And on a low oath, he drove her down onto him, his hips thrusting up into the wet constriction, impaling her.

  She cried out from the swift invasion, the terrible fullness, the unbearable grip of her flesh pulsing around his. And she was ready to thrash him, but it was Asher who admonished her instead. Resting his damp forehead against hers, eyes screwed shut as if in pain, he let out a series of staggered, panting breaths, and told her that she felt too good and it wasn’t fair that he was so close already.

  Close to what?

  But he kissed her again before she could ask, his lips easing over hers in a tender caress. He was speaking to her again without words, his monologue promising love and patience. And after a moment, when she sighed and melted against him, his tongue delved into her mouth and promised rapture to her body as he began languid rotations of his hips beneath her, slick and slow.

  The ache faded, but the clenching remained. Only now she welcomed the sensation, the grip, the slide. The friction brought back her throbbing pulse, more potent than before. Deep and insistent. Her body yielded to his, her hips seeking to match his gentle rocking canter.

  The frenzy quickly came over her again as she clung to him, her nails biting through his shirtsleeves to his shoulders, the pebbled peaks of her breasts brushing against his waistcoat. She wanted this to go on forever. Tingles spread out beneath her skin like an unexpected storm brewing inside her.

  She tugged his lip into her mouth, raking it with her teeth, and his rhythm broke on a hungry growl, his thrust driving deeper, a bump that made her gasp on a sweet lightning bolt of sensation.

  He grinned against her lips on a hmm, then angled her hips to nudge that spot again and again, sending fierce jolts of pleasure through her. They seemed to build into one massive thundercloud. Then her breath came out on a keening cry, her fingers rending the seams of his shirt. The storm broke on an endless rain shower of warm, cascading tremors.

  She hunched against him, quaking, head bowed, scalp tight, toes curling in her slippers. And then he jerked inside her and lifted her suddenly.

  Taking her hand, he guided her to grip the slick heat of him, his flesh surging beneath her palm as he pumped and shuddered, silken ribbons pulsing from his body in arcs toward the grass.

  He fell back onto the bench on a final, spent breath, tugging her down to drape across him. He pressed a kiss to her head, his hands roving over her back, her arms, her sides, as they listened to the birdsong fall around them.

  * * *

  Asher and Winn entered the house through the back doors, holding hands and laughing at how they never spent a dry day together. When they passed the dining room, it was dark, the dishes cleared away. Even so, Myrtle Humphries was not too far, the shuffle and punctuated step of her cane echoing in the corridor.

  At their approach, the sound paused and she turned her keen gaze on their wrinkled and rain-speckled clothes.

  “You were right about the gate,” Winn said with a nervous laugh and a shrug.

  Her aunt pinioned him in place with a knowing arch of her brows. “I trust every matter has been settled, Lord Holt?”

  Absolutely and irrevocably, he thought, pressing Winn’s hand closer against his palm. He’d decided with the first touch of her lips that he could never endure months, or even years, apart from her. And though he didn’t yet know how he’d manage it, he was going to take her with him on that ship and marry her.

  When he inclined his head, Myrtle nodded and turned again to walk away. But she called over her shoulder, “And I was right about the rain, too.”

  Chapter 23

  Later that evening a maid brought Winnifred a clean nightdress and helped to plait her hair. Shortly after her departure, Asher rapped on her door fo
r a final kiss goodnight and to bid her sweet dreams.

  And that was all. He’d even proved his intentions were perfectly innocent by leaving her room. Her intentions, on the other hand, hadn’t been quite as pure.

  She’d followed him into the corridor, dragged him back to her room—though with little resistance from her captive—and then kissed him senseless against the door.

  This morning, Winnifred awakened to the press of his lips on her bare shoulder, the apricot light of approaching dawn sifting in through the open window. She smiled and rolled sleepily onto her back, thinking that their night together had been nothing like traveling in a crowded coach. At least, not one she’d ever hired.

  Asher stole around her waist and drew her flush against the heat and hardness of him. While he nuzzled her neck, his hand drifted upward to cup her breast.

  “The servants will be awake soon,” she said with a giggle.

  He pressed a kiss to her nose, to the place where he’d professed—last night by lamplight—to having a favorite freckle. His lips brushed hers before browsing his way down to the exposed nipple he spurred to a ripe peak. “All the more reason to make haste.”

  She arched back on a gasp as he drew her flesh into his mouth, the gentle suction sending a quickening straight to her womb. “Haven’t you had enough of me?”

  “Not possible. I need to hear you say my name once more before I start my day.”

  “Asher,” she offered, pretending that she misunderstood. The truth was, she hadn’t had enough of him either.

  He shook his head, his eyes meltingly dark with sinful promise. “You have to say it properly.”

  “We barely slept at all and I’m”—she hesitated, blushing even after all their shared intimacies—“a little sore.”

  “I know,” he crooned, trailing kisses over the soft rise of her middle, scandalously dipping his tongue into the hollow of her navel. “And I’m aiming to make amends straightaway. You see, there’s really only one way to soothe such tender flesh. Now, just close your eyes and rest a bit, while I feast on you.”

  He slipped smoothly beneath the coverlet like a dark seal in water, and she felt the rasp of his morning whiskers against her inner thigh as he nudged her legs apart. She wanted him to touch her again. Her body was already taut with eager tension, like a spear of whalebone nearly bent to breaking. But what she felt over her sex was not his hand or his fingers.

  It was his mouth.

  She gasped, her knees jolting upward, her hands in his hair, tugging him. “You can’t.”

  “Mmm . . .” he murmured against her with a slow lick. He wasn’t budging. In fact, he splayed his hands over her bottom, cinching her higher as if she were a wedge of ripe fruit.

  She was wide open to him as his tongue fanned out over her, bathing the entire length of her sex. Then he nipped her gently and narrowed his focus to the willing throb, circling with clear intent. And her fingers threaded into his hair, holding him there—yes, there—and he chuckled knowingly against her. The wicked man.

  Winnifred never knew anything could feel like this. The warmth of his mouth. The deep, searching kiss. The slow, languid lick . . . a swirl . . . a flick . . .

  Oh. Her hips hitched, a spiral of sensation rippling over her in the quickening of approaching cataclysm. And then it broke over her, her back bowing off the mattress, neck arching on his name. And she no longer cared about the servants, or the clock ticking, or even if the world were about to end. She just needed this.

  She just needed him. Always.

  * * *

  Before the servants could catch them together, Asher slipped back into his chamber. He tried to sleep, but his thoughts were too restless, still too uncertain. The only things stopping him from marrying Winn were his father and hers. And the only way to escape his own was to be completely free of her dowry.

  He needed to ensure that Waldenfield would rescind it.

  Dressing for the day, Asher went downstairs to write a letter. The open windows he passed carried in a cool, damp breeze of early morning and dew. From far off, he could hear the plod of horse hooves and the jangle of rigging, likely a farmer bringing milk to the abbey at this hour. And down the hall, he could hear the swish of a broom and the soft murmur of servants’ voices as they began their duties.

  Otherwise, all was quiet and he was glad to have a few moments more to gather his thoughts. But when he crossed the threshold of the paneled study, he stopped short.

  Myrtle was waiting for him.

  In the soft glow of the sunrise sifting in through the window, the older woman sitting behind the desk didn’t appear menacing. Yet, there was shrewd certainty in her gaze and in the hand resting on the cane across the blotter.

  “I thought I’d find you in need of ink and paper, Lord Holt. The early morning hours often bring clarity that is easier to spill onto a page, rather than speak face-to-face.”

  Understanding her meaning, he straightened. “I’m not here to write a letter to Winn and then leave her behind. I would not do that to her. She holds my heart and every last shred of my soul.”

  Myrtle sniffed, unconvinced. “A genuine love is proved by honorable actions.”

  Her matter-of-fact statement reminded him of Mr. Champion, and Asher wondered if she, too, had experienced a love that had not been reciprocated.

  “I have every intention of marrying your niece,” he assured, his words punctuated by the distant rapping of the door knocker.

  “Then why is there marked hesitation in your gaze that I did not see last night after the two of you came in from the rain, hmm?”

  He shifted from one foot to the other, uncomfortable with having this conversation when he’d just left Winn’s bed. Before everything was settled between them. “It has to do with her dowry.”

  In that instant, Myrtle’s eyes flashed and she stood, her hand gripping the hilt of the cane.

  “You misunderstand my meaning,” Asher continued with haste. “The reason I came downstairs this morning is to ensure that she has absolutely no dowry to speak of. She must be fully free from the burden of her fortune. The letter I plan to write is to your brother, Lord Walden—”

  A hand clamped down on his shoulder from behind and he whirled around with a start.

  And there stood Lord Waldenfield in the flesh.

  Chapter 24

  Winnifred was still in a place of pure contentment when she drifted down the stairs later that morning, her hair tied in a queue with Asher’s black cravat ribbon. Hearing his voice, she hurried her step.

  The last thing she expected to find was Asher standing in the hall with her aunt and her father and mother.

  Even from this distance, she could see thunder in her father’s expression, hear raised voices.

  “It wasn’t my intention to deceive you—” Asher began, but Father cut him off.

  “Don’t take me for a fool! You’ve already proven your intent.”

  Aunt Myrtle tapped the tip of her cane on the floor. “You’re not giving the boy a chance to explain.”

  “There is nothing to explain. I made a bargain with Viscount Holt to deliver my daughter back to me if she did, indeed, flee from her wedding. Instead this insolent, disreputable knave took her away. His reasons are patently clear.”

  Winnifred’s steps slowed as she looked from her father’s high color to Asher’s sudden pallor the instant he glimpsed her approach.

  “What do you mean, you made a bargain with him?” she asked.

  Mother gasped and rushed forward to embrace her. “Oh, my dear, you had us so worried. And that note you sent . . .” She pulled back just enough to put Winnifred’s face in her hands, her own eyes tired, drawn and glistening with unshed tears. “I never want to read a letter like that again. And what have you done with your hair? You look positively wild.”

  “I’ve lost most of the pins,” she said absently, looking beyond her mother’s shoulder. “Father?”

  “Lord Holt came to me the day before your weddi
ng to tell me about a plan he’d overheard when your friends . . .”

  A cold chill sank deep into her bones as he spoke. She recalled conversations with Asher about his need to escape his own father, and of him telling her that he was ashamed of the things he’d done.

  I always find myself sinking to a new low.

  “. . . and I trusted,” her father continued darkly, “that we’d struck a gentleman’s agreement. Though, in the case that I was wrong, I had an investigator close at hand. Not close enough, however.”

  Hands shaking, Winnifred looked to Asher. “Tell me it’s not true.”

  But she read the answer in his hesitation, in the guilty exhale that followed.

  “Winn, I didn’t know you then. I only wanted to get my money back and to start a new life. I told you this much.”

  This much . . .

  Those two words instantly made her wonder about the rest that he hadn’t told her. “And what about taking me to the jeweler?”

  “After hearing your story about the necklace, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to help you a little.”

  So he’d felt sorry for her? Strangely, his pity didn’t make her feel any better.

  “Mother, please, not now,” she said as she felt the tug of her hair being plaited. Looking at Asher, she asked, “And were you still planning to deliver me to my father, then, too?”

  “I was,” he admitted gravely, and with a look of contrition she’d seen him employ when they’d been in the back of Mr. Champion’s cart, like a mask he wore whenever the occasion suited him. “At least, until those henchmen arrived. And later, after I heard them talking at the Spotted Hen, I knew I couldn’t take you home without putting you in danger.”

  “Which is, I presume, the moment you sent this missive,” her father said as he reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a water-stained letter.

  She stepped forward and took it from his grasp, skimming the contents with dismay.