The pleasure was excruciating. She could do nothing to stay the next wave of release as it crashed on her, decimating her. Bliss exploded. Or mayhap she did. She came so hard that her vision was peppered with little black stars.
The ripples of her spend were still rolling through her when he was on her. His hand was between them, his motions jerky as he parted his dressing robe and gripped his cock. Her hands settled on his broad shoulders. He thrust inside her to the hilt. The slick slide of him within her passage had her gasping.
It felt so right.
So good.
Like everything she had been waiting for. Like everything she should never have and all she had ever wanted. He was inside her. Moving. Thrusting in and out as she clutched at him. He was not making love to her with the gentleness he had shown before, what seemed a lifetime ago now. But so much had been different then. She had been different, and so, too, had he.
Regardless, she did not want gentle. She wanted his ferocity. She wanted him intense and fierce and making love to her with such intensity, she was slipping across the rug and he was chasing her, ramming into her again and again. She was so wet with desire and so awash in pleasure that it did not take her long to reach her crisis again. She clamped on him as a fresh release thundered through her.
And then he was following her into oblivion, thrusting one last time before collapsing against her, sealing his lips with hers as he filled her with the hot spurt of his seed.
Chapter 11
Last night, I dreamt I was back at Farnsworth Hall. It was summer, the sun golden and warm in the sky, and we were swimming together in the lake. My heart was overflowing with love, and the way he was looking at me—the way he always looked at me then. As if I were a miracle placed before him. The dream was so real, I reached for him. But I woke in the darkness of the night, hand outstretched toward nothing, and realized I was on the other side of the ocean, and he, or mayhap rather the man I thought he was, is forever lost to me. Our time at Farnsworth Hall haunts me. It was what shall forever be the best time of my life. Even knowing what came after, I would live those enchanted days again just for the way it felt to be in his arms.
~from the journal of Lady Julianna Somerset, 1883
Sidney woke from the same dream which had been inexplicably haunting him ever since Julianna had left for America. The dream where they were together, back in that charmed summer, walking on the path around the lake. But in the dream, just as they reached his grandmother’s roses, he turned to find himself alone. Julianna was gone.
He jolted awake, this time no different than any of the others.
Except that this morning, he woke to a thumping toe. And he woke to regret.
He had lost control last night.
And he could not blame his recklessness on drink, because he had not bloody well consumed a drop of the stuff. He could only blame it upon her and the way she made him feel. She brought out the beast in him, a beast he had been doing his utmost to leash ever since her return.
A losing battle, as it turned out. He had fucked her all over the goddamn Axminster, until the backs of her thighs and her delectable bottom had gone pink.
He rose from bed, scrubbing a hand over his face. Damnation, he felt more haggard this morning than on days when he had given the bottle a black eye the night before. Likely because after she had fled to her chamber following the aftermath of their mad passion, he had been unable to sleep. Between his aching toe and his smarting pride, he had done more pacing, then had lain awake in his empty bed, taunted by the thought of Julianna so near and yet so far away.
On a growl of self-disgust, he threw on his dressing gown and stalked to the bell pull, ringing for Grove. Thankfully, his trusted valet appeared before Sidney could carry on with the task of castigating himself for much longer.
“A panacea, my lord?” Grove queried.
Hell. What did everyone think of him?
He scowled. “Do I look as if I have spent the evening drowning in whisky and wine, Grove?”
Grove raised a brow, his silence speaking volumes.
“I did not,” he snapped. “No panacea today.”
“Of course.” Grove was magnanimous as ever.
Though their relationship was a friendly one, the valet was careful—as all excellent men in his capacity were—to maintain the unspoken, unwritten boundary between them. He pushed. But only to a point.
Still, Sidney was nettled by Grove’s reaction to his morning appearance. If he had not spent the night in dissolution and overindulgence, ought it not to show?
“Do I look that terrible?” he pressed, running his fingers through his sleep-tousled hair.
Grove flashed an encouraging smile. “Would your lordship care for a shave?”
“Curse you, Grove, you did not answer my bloody question.”
“Terrible?” His valet paused, considering him with a shrewd eye. “No. However, your lordship looks…weary this morning. Understandable since you celebrated your second marriage to her ladyship. My felicitations, sir.”
A sliver of guilt sliced him at the lie he had been forced to extend to his trusted manservant. Grove had traveled with him to New York City. And Grove was an incredibly intelligent fellow. He would not be fooled by the story Sidney had invented about his supposed secret marriage to Julianna, followed by a hasty and clandestine divorce, and then another marriage over a year later in London. But Grove was also loyal. He would never question a word Sidney told him.
The urge to admit the truth was strong; it was in his nature, for whilst Sidney possessed an untold number of faults, being a liar was not one of them. Or at least it had not been until he had been forced to somehow salvage his innocent daughter’s future and keep her safe from conjecture and scandal.
Thanks to Julianna, damn her to hell and back.
And damn him as well, for the mere thought of her had the fires of need sparking once more into uncontrollable flame. She was the mysteries of the moon and the glorious exuberance of the sun all at once. She was life and death, happiness and misery, desire and loathing, a precious dichotomy he had yet to decipher. He very much doubted he ever would.
“Thank you for the felicitations,” he managed, forcing all the heaviness of his thoughts aside for the moment. “Perhaps a shave this morning, Grove?”
“Of course, sir. A clean shave does show your well-defined jaw to advantage,” Grove said, smiling in agreement. “I am certain Lady Shelbourne will approve.”
Lady Shelbourne.
Julianna.
For a moment, he could not breathe. Realization hit him smack in the chest. She was his wife.
Oh, it was not as if he had not known that painfully unavoidable fact. A man could not escort a woman to a chapel, speak vows, and then shag her senseless on the floor after making a complete and utter cake of himself by tripping on a goddamned chair leg without his changed status being hideously obvious. But he had spent much of yesterday in a stupor, and not of the alcohol-induced variety, either.
No, indeed. It had been a life-induced stupor. Mayhap a woman-induced stupor. But that was rather giving Julianna a great deal of power he had no wish to acknowledge she possessed.
He realized he was standing about, hapless and hopeless, like an utter lovesick fool. Grove was watching him with an expression of suppressed concern.
“If Lady Shelbourne will approve, mayhap I shall forego the shave,” he said.
The urge to spite her, to forget her, to cast from his mind and his memory everything that had happened the night before was strong. He needed to protect himself. She had hurt him badly enough with her first defection. He could not afford to sustain another.
“Would your lordship not wish to please her ladyship?” Grove asked pointedly, a note of reproach entering his voice.
Under ordinary circumstances, yes. But this was bloody well not ordinary circumstances. This was desperate, foolish, terrible circumstances. It was a man who wanted his innocent daughter to be free from his s
ins and mistakes. Who wanted her to hold her head high one day. Who wanted her to have everything she deserved and nothing less.
He swallowed against a rush of emotion.
“Of course I seek to please her ladyship,” he lied. “A shave if you please, then.”
Grove nodded, looking pleased. “Lady Shelbourne’s lady’s maid tells me she has a full day ahead of her, so we had best make haste with our preparations.”
A full day?
What the bloody hell?
It was the second day of their marriage. If she intended to avoid him, she would soon discover how fruitless and impossible such an intention would be.
He feigned a smile. “Did Lady Shelbourne mention to her lady’s maid which engagements had filled her day?”
Grove’s enthusiasm dimmed like an oil lamp low on fuel. “Regretfully not, my lord. Shall I have a note sent to her ladyship on your behalf before we begin?”
Like some lovesick suitor? Like the man who had spent the entirety of their time apart writing her letters he had never posted?
Sidney cleared his throat. “That is unnecessary, Grove, but I do thank you for the recommendation. Let us commence with the shaving, shall we?”
Today, of all days, struck him as one he did not want to allow Julianna to gain the upper hand.
* * *
Julianna was in the nursery with Emily when Shelbourne abruptly crossed the threshold, stalking into the room with an air of seductive menace that was not lost on her. His jaw was perfectly clean shaven. Nary a hint of shadow.
He was beautiful, drat him.
The night before, that ridiculously handsome face had been between her legs. And then he had been inside her, rigid and hard and perfect. The delicious weight of his body pinning her to the carpet, the scent of him—bay and man—the abrasion of the Axminster on her sensitive skin…everything that had haunted her as she tried in vain to sleep after returning to her own chamber hit her now.
She had locked her chamber door last night. She had not done so to keep him from her. Rather, she had done it to keep herself from wandering back into his territory. Into his bed. She had no shame where this man was concerned. He was her greatest weakness.
Her most delicious sin.
“Papa!” Emily cried as she took note of her father.
Naturally, Shelbourne was upon them in an instant, bending low, arms outstretched to their daughter. Emily toddled to him, her balance getting surer with each day. She was growing so quickly. Too quickly.
Julianna pursed her lips and tamped down a surge of resentment as Shelbourne scooped their daughter into an embrace and proceeded to make silly faces at her until she erupted in a fit of giggles. Thank goodness Johnston was not about.
“How is my darling this morning?” he asked Emily softly, pressing a kiss to her full cheek.
“Bub!” she exclaimed, clasping his cheeks with her tiny hands and then lowering her face toward his, open-mouthed, to deliver a wet baby kiss to his chin.
To his credit, Shelbourne did not so much as wince, not even when Emily raised her head and promptly caught his nose in her tiny fist.
“Nose,” Shelbourne said gently. “Papa’s nose.”
“Papa! Bub!”
Julianna could not quite contain her smirk. Did he truly think he could waltz into Emily’s life and instantly teach her to speak fluent English? Surely he must realize Julianna had been teaching Emily to speak—or at least attempting to—all this time, without him?
“Nose,” he repeated.
“You must recall her age,” Julianna told Shelbourne coolly.
“Papa! No!” Emily tugged on Shelbourne’s aforementioned feature with enough force that he grimaced.
His pain was lost upon Julianna, however. All she took note of was that her daughter, whom she had devoted herself to raising in secret for the last year, had attempted to repeat a new word. A word Shelbourne had just taught her.
“Yes, poppet.” He beamed at Emily with so much raw, pure love that Julianna had to look away. “Papa’s nose!”
The sudden, irresistible urge to punch Papa’s handsome nose struck her. She was acutely aware that she was standing on the periphery once more, Shelbourne and their daughter bonding. And though she reminded herself that their bonding was necessary and important, she could not deny that feeling suddenly left out—cast aside—felt terrible.
Especially after she had been foolish enough to play the wanton for him last night. One day of marriage, and already she had been in the palm of his hand, willing and ready. How did she intend to escape him when giving herself to him as if she were no better than the treats delivered to her on a tray at his behest the evening before?
“No!” Emily clapped, proud.
Julianna bit her lip, hating herself.
“Have you breakfasted?” Shelbourne asked, startling her.
His tone was polite, almost as if they were strangers rather than two people who had shagged each other all over the Axminster the night before.
If he wanted to be polite, she would be polite.
“Not yet,” she admitted.
She should have done so without him; now it seemed she would be trapped into sharing the first meal of the day.
“We will breakfast together.” He turned his attention back to Emily, making more foolish expressions that caused her to burst into giggles.
Julianna’s heart ached. She loved the sound of her daughter’s laughter. Hated the tumult of her new life. She did not know her position in the household or in her marriage.
“Have I a choice in the matter?” she could not help asking.
His vibrant gaze flicked back to her. “You always have a choice, Julianna. However, you seem to frequently make the wrong one.”
His observation stung. “I agree. For instance, I trusted you.”
Shelbourne’s jaw tensed. “And I trusted you not to disappear with my daughter. Looks as if I was mistaken.”
Anger blazed through her, chasing some of the unwanted desire that had been her constant companion since she had so foolishly lowered her defenses and rolled about on the floor with him like a common strumpet.
“Not in front of Emily,” she snapped.
As the product of a bitterly contentious union herself, Julianna knew all too well the toll of growing up in the shadow of her parents’ acrimony. She had felt unwanted and unloved. Heavens, she still felt that way.
Because it was true.
“Do you intend to keep the truth from her when she is of an age to understand?” Shelbourne asked Julianna then, tearing her from the misery of her past.
“Papa,” Emily said, then released an excited stream of babble.
Drat him.
Julianna was determined that her relationship with her daughter would bear no resemblance to the one she shared with her mother.
“If you feel the need to relate the story when she is old enough to comprehend, I will not argue,” she told Shelbourne, gratified at the even tone of her voice. “I am confident when she hears my side of the tale, she will understand I made the best decision I could, given the circumstances.”
“Like hell you did,” he growled.
Emily said something that sounded suspiciously close to Shelbourne’s epithet and clapped her hands again.
“Language, Shelbourne,” Julianna chastised.
He inclined his head. “Forgive me. My wayward tongue cannot be trusted.”
Inexplicably, she thought about that tongue of his. And where it had been. How delicious it felt, gliding over her most intimate flesh. Her cheeks went hot. Their gazes met and held, his expression knowing.
“You are correct,” she said stiffly. “It cannot be trusted. Which is why I shall endeavor to keep my distance from it and all its bloody lies from this moment forward.”
“Hmm.” His eyes narrowed. “Language, Lady Shelbourne.”
It was the first time anyone had referred to her as her new title. Shock and disbelief mingled with something else, an em
otion she refused to examine.
“Forgive me, Lord Shelbourne,” she returned, echoing his words. “It would seem my tongue is little better than yours.”
“I shall be the judge of that, chérie.” The looked he gave her was molten.
And Julianna would have had to have been fashioned of stone not to feel something as her handsome husband stood before her with their daughter cradled in his arms, his eyes telling her everything his words did not. Reminding her of the tempest that had seized them in his chamber.
One which would not be repeated, she reminded herself sternly.
She frowned at him. “Never, Shelbourne.”
He raised a brow. “Is that a challenge, wife?”
Wife.
Lady Shelbourne.
So many changes. Was he reminding her of them intentionally? They stood in the nursery he had prepared for Emily, beneath his roof, in his townhome. She could not like it.
She maintained the connection of their gazes. “It is a promise.”
His countenance hardened. “We both know how easily those are broken.”
“Yes, we do.” The old anger she had harbored toward him for so long rose, roaring to life.
She would not give in. Her emotions were a jumbled, frayed mess.
Johnston returned to the nursery then, disrupting the verbal duel unfolding between Julianna and Shelbourne. The nurse dipped into a curtsy, her expression uncertain.
“Forgive me for intruding, my lord, my lady. Shall I go until you ring for me? It was not my intention to interrupt.”
“Stay,” Julianna said with a forced smile, for none of the tumult rioting inside her was the fault of Emily’s nurse. “You interrupted nothing.”
“Yes,” Shelbourne agreed smoothly, lowering Emily back to her feet with elegant ease. “Lady Shelbourne and I were just about to descend to the breakfast room.”
Emily had a ready smile for Johnston, and Julianna forced herself to tamp down a rampant surge of jealousy at the sight. The nurse was a newer addition in Emily’s life, having been hired in London. But it seemed even she could please Julianna’s daughter with more ease than Julianna herself could.
Lady Wicked: Notorious Ladies of London Book 4 Page 15
