What Ales the Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  She closed her eyes and gave a little hum of pleasure—and his cock twitched again.

  “Yes. That night we were”—she smiled—“playing in the bathhouse pool.”

  He pulled out the next pin.

  They had indeed been playing, naked in the water, the bathhouse lit only by moonlight. They hadn’t wanted to light a candle for fear someone from the house would see it and come investigate.

  “You were chasing me,” she said, “and bumped your hip against that statue of a water nymph.”

  Yes, his hip. It had almost been a much more sensitive body part.

  Her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips. Lord! With any other woman, he’d know the gesture was carefully calculated to scramble his wits, but with Pen, it was completely natural.

  “And I kissed it better, didn’t I?”

  She’d done more than that. Her mouth had slid easily from his hip to his cock, her clever fingers stroking and petting. She’d had a wonderful instinct for pleasure.

  He pulled out the last pin, and Pen’s lovely, rich brown hair tumbled free.

  “You did.” His fingers combed through the silky strands. He leaned closer, so only a breath separated their mouths. “Much, much better.”

  And then he closed the gap.

  Her skin was so soft, and she smelled so good. His lips teased a corner of her mouth, brushed her temple, nuzzled the sensitive spot on her neck just below her ear—and were rewarded with a breathy moan that shot straight to his groin.

  She tilted her head, inviting him to explore further, while her hands moved, sliding up to his shoulders and then down again, stopping on his buttocks, tugging him closer even as she arched her hips to meet him.

  “Harry. Oh, God, Harry.”

  This time he was the one who moaned. “Pen.” He needed her in a way he’d never needed any other woman.

  He stepped back and reached for her buttons, but her fingers moved faster. In a blink, her dress dropped to the floor, and she stepped out of it.

  His face must have given away his surprise, because she smiled a little tightly. “I’m not a Society miss, Harry. I don’t have a maid to dress and undress me like a doll.” She loosened her stays just as quickly. “Don’t you remember?”

  He did remember. They’d never made a performance out of shedding their clothes—they’d always been too eager, or too desperate, to draw out that part of the mating ritual.

  Her stays joined her dress on the floor, leaving her in just her shoes and stockings.

  Ah! Her body was so familiar—and yet different, too. It was fuller, softer than it had been, and there were faint, pearly lines where her skin had stretched with her pregnancy.

  She lifted her chin. “I can put my clothes back on, and we can pretend this never happened.”

  He heard the slight waver in her voice. “Pen.” He touched one of the lines, tracing it gently down to where it disappeared into the curly thatch that hid her entrance—and the path Harriet had taken into the world. “Each mark is beautiful.”

  “Beautiful?” Her laugh was a little high and thin. “You should have seen me. I was as big as a house at the end.”

  “Yes, I should have seen you. I wish I had. I wish I’d been there to see you grow big and heavy with our daughter. I wish I’d been with you as you struggled to push her into the world and when you held her for the first time.” He moved his finger to her breast, circling her nipple. “And I wish I’d been there to watch her suckle.”

  Her eyes were wide and . . . wet? His eyes felt damp.

  She blinked, and the tears, if there had been any, were gone, but her voice quavered. “I wish you’d been there, too, Harry.”

  But he hadn’t been. He hadn’t even known they’d made a child. What a shallow, irresponsible boy he’d been. He wished . . .

  Regret was pointless. There was no going back, only forward. He would be responsible now. He would move her to the Darrow house where he could take care of her and Harriet and any other children they might have. She would never have to worry again.

  Words crowded his throat, but his body was done with words. Actions spoke louder, and lust and need and some other deep emotion he couldn’t identify urged him to action. He would show her with his body how he would care for her.

  “Pen.” He brushed his lips over hers as his fingers stroked the sides of her breasts. “Let’s go to bed.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Yes.” And just like that, she went from melancholy to desire—desperate, consuming, urgent desire. Her body had waited nine long years for a man’s touch—for this man’s touch. It could not wait one moment longer.

  She wrapped her arms around his back, flattening her breasts against his warm, naked chest.

  That wasn’t enough. She slid her hands down to pull his arse—unfortunately still cloth-covered—against her. Oh! The long ridge of his cock, trapped behind his fall, pressed into her belly.

  “To bed, Pen.”

  Yes!

  She was delighted to hear the lust in his voice.

  Fortunately, the room was so tiny, the bed was only half a step away. She collapsed onto it and reached for him. “Hurry.”

  He did not hurry. Instead, he stood there and looked at her.

  “God, Pen, you are so beautiful.”

  She hadn’t thought she could feel any more desperate, but she did. “Harry, I’m going to die. I need you now.”

  He smiled, though his expression was a bit strained. He must be feeling at least some of the need she felt.

  “Soon.” He pulled off one of her shoes and then carefully untied her garter.

  She arched up, wanting his fingers higher, but he laughed and slid his hands away, pulling her stocking down over her knee and calf and ankle and off her foot.

  She was panting, her body open to him, begging him to come inside. “Harry, you’re torturing me.”

  He grinned. “Yes, but it’s a good sort of torture.” He blew on her damp nether curls as he untied her other garter.

  “Nooo.” She moaned and arched up again, but again he moved back, his hands sliding the other stocking off.

  “I promise the reward will be worth it.” He carefully laid her second stocking next to her first.

  “I’ll be dead by then.”

  “No, you won’t.” He sat on the edge of the bed. He still had his breeches on.

  All right, she would help him. She reached for his fall—and he caught her hands before they could touch the fabric.

  “Harry!” She pulled back, but he wouldn’t release her.

  “Patience, Pen.”

  How could he talk of patience?

  Ha! He hadn’t spent all these years alone. He’d likely had any number of lovers.

  “You don’t understand. It’s been Nine. Long. Years.” Not that she’d thought much about carnal relations during that time. She’d had no interest in such matters when she was pregnant and a new mother, and then later she’d been too busy—and tired and worried—to care about bed play.

  She closed her eyes briefly. No, that wasn’t it. The painful truth was no man had ever moved her to passion the way Harry did. When he’d left Darrow, he’d taken her desire with him.

  Now that he was here, it came flooding back, threatening to drown her.

  “I’m begging you, Harry. I need you. Now.” She tried to lean closer to him, but he wouldn’t let her. “Hard and fast.”

  Ah, she saw the heat spark in his eyes. He was going to—

  No, he wasn’t.

  “Trust me, Pen.”

  She wasn’t good at trust. Trust meant giving someone else control. That was too risky. It was better to rely only on herself.

  She’d never been able to rely on anyone else. Not her father. Not Harry, though that hadn’t been Harry’s fault. She’d known from the moment she decided to seduce him that he was leaving.

  Just as he’ll leave this time . . .

  Stop! This is only a bit of bed sport. Nothing more. It might even cure me
so I can find happiness with the new vicar.

  Ugh! She didn’t want to think about any other man when she was with Harry.

  “Trust me,” Harry said again, and then he leaned forward so his mouth just brushed hers. “It will be good, I promise.”

  And just like that, she surrendered. She would trust him—or at least she would try. She had no other choice.

  “All right.”

  The intensity in his eyes grew, and he leaned forward again. This time his mouth was open when it came down on hers.

  Oh! Yes. It felt so good, so very, very good to be kissed like this again, deep and hot and wet.

  He pressed her back into the mattress as he slowly explored her mouth and then moved to her jaw, her throat, her collarbone.

  “Oh. Oh, Harry.” She was panting and whimpering, her hips twisting on the bed, her legs spread wide in the hopes that the air would cool her and keep her from going up in flames.

  Harry’s lips moved slowly up the slope of her breast. Too slowly. She threaded her fingers through his hair and pulled, hoping to get him to move faster.

  “Stop trying to be in charge,” he murmured against her skin.

  “Stop trying to drive me m-mad. Oh!” His lips brushed against her, so very, very close to—

  And then she felt the wet rasp of his tongue on her nipple. Lightning shot through her to lodge between her legs. “Oh! Oh, oh, ohhh.”

  His tongue and mouth kept teasing, circling, stroking, while his fingers played with her other nipple.

  “Harry. Please.” He should take off his breeches, but at this point, she’d not complain if he just opened his fall. As long as his lovely coc—

  His mouth moved lower, kissing the undersides of her breasts, her ribs, her belly.

  “H-Harry?” What was he doing? She flushed, squirming—but with embarrassment this time. He shouldn’t be looking at—

  “Trust me,” he said yet again. His tongue traced one of the pearly lines from her pregnancy. His breath stirred her nether curls. He was so close he must be able to smell her desire.

  She no longer cared. Need so intense it obliterated all embarrassment, all sense of decorum, even all rational thought, was building in her again.

  “Please, Harry. Please.” She didn’t know what she was asking for, but she knew whatever it was he could give it to her.

  She felt his fingers part her folds, felt the tip of his tongue lightly trace her opening.

  “Harry!” She grabbed the bedclothes so she wouldn’t fly apart.

  “You’re beautiful, Pen.”

  “Uh. Um.”

  And then his tongue touched her small, hard nub, slid around it, over it—

  “Harry!”

  Exquisite, almost painful pleasure exploded through her. She half sat up, and then collapsed back onto the mattress.

  He kissed her inner thigh before lifting himself over her, grinning, clearly pleased with himself. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

  “Y-yes.” It had been good, but it hadn’t been . . . complete. “But now I want—need—you in me.” She reached for his fall.

  His face tightened, his eyes turning hot as she worked the first button loose. Then he sat up, jerked off his shoes and stockings, and tore off his breeches.

  Oh! He was so beautiful. He’d been handsome at eighteen, but the years had chiseled away any trace of youth’s softness, leaving him leaner, more muscled. She let her eyes travel slowly from his shoulders across his chest and belly down to the nest of curls above his thighs where his long, swollen cock stood out.

  Her inner muscles shivered in anticipation.

  This time when she reached for him, he came into her arms at once.

  She buried her face in his neck and breathed in his scent. She loved having his weight on her.

  “Oh, Harry.”

  “This time it will be hard and fast,” he said.

  “Mmm.” She ran her hands down his back to his lovely, naked arse. “Mmm.”

  It wasn’t hard and fast, but it was perfect.

  He teased her at first, pushing in just a little and then almost pulling out. She closed her eyes to concentrate on the sensation. In and out, shallow and deeper, stretching and filling, stoking her need again. “Harry. Oh. Harry. Yes.”

  And then he was sliding into her, deeper and deeper, his weight pushing her into the mattress. This was what she had missed. Not the excitement or the physical satisfaction—or not just those things. She’d missed this connection, this closeness.

  She’d been so alone for so long. She wrapped her arms around him to hold him even closer.

  For nine years she’d been a mother. A farmer. A business-woman. But not a woman, not like this.

  It’s not love, she cautioned herself. It’s only lust. Only physical.

  But it felt like love.

  And then pleasure washed through her once more, but this time Harry’s body anchored hers—both inside and out.

  And as her pleasure ebbed, she felt the warm pulse of his seed.

  Have I conceived again?

  She should feel panic, but all she felt was a deep contentment.

  Harry collapsed onto her. She could barely breathe—and it was wonderful. She slid her hands down his back to his arse, holding him, trying to keep him with her a moment longer.

  And then he lifted himself away, leaving her damp flesh chilled and her arms empty, bereft—until he stretched out next to her, gathered her close, and pulled the coverlet over them.

  She buried her face in his chest, too drugged by their lovemaking to feel anything but a lazy, bone-deep happiness.

  “I should have pulled out, Pen.” He smoothed her hair back from her face. “I meant to do it, but then . . .” He kissed her forehead. “You overwhelmed me just as you always did when we were young.”

  “It’s all right.” She should be worried, but she still couldn’t manage it, not when she was skin to skin in a warm bed with Harry. “It’s not the right time.”

  She hoped. Her courses were still irregular, so it was hard to say when the right and the wrong times were. Still, it had taken three months of almost constant tupping to get Harriet and she’d been years younger then.

  “I’ll be more careful next time.” He grinned. “Or, at least I’ll try to be more careful.”

  “Mmm.” All she cared about was that there would be a next time.

  I should ask Avis how to avoid getting pregnant. She must know. She’s been coupling with the boy from the butcher shop for months.

  Harry’s hand was stroking her arse. “What did you want to discuss?” he asked.

  It felt so good, she wanted to purr like one of Harriet’s barn cats. “Hmm?”

  He laughed and slapped her lightly on her rump. “Focus, Pen. Why did you come down here? You said you had a matter to discuss, remember? It wasn’t just to go over my letter to Grainger.”

  “Oh.” Yes. The new vicar. She shifted position. She was not going to list the attributes she’d like a potential husband to have when she was lying naked in Harry’s arms. “It’s nothing. We can talk about it some other time.”

  Harry frowned at her. “It must have been something to bring you down to the cottage.”

  The lie—well, no, it was also the truth, now that she thought about it—came easily. “Someone.” She leaned up on her elbow to press her mouth to his. “I’ve missed you.”

  He kissed her back, slowly and thoroughly. “And I’ve missed you, too, as I believe I’ve just demonstrated—and will be happy to demonstrate again once I recover.”

  She sighed. She wished she could stay here that long, but she couldn’t.

  For once it was a very good thing she was a mother.

  “I’m afraid I have to get back. I’ve moved Harriet into my room.” She untangled herself from Harry, got up, and started dressing. “I don’t want her to wake up and wonder where I am.”

  Worse, she didn’t want Harriet to imagine . . . Well, she hoped Harriet was still too young to imagine wh
at precisely had occurred here, but she wasn’t too young to start building happily-ever-after air castles.

  Harry pulled on his breeches and shirt. “I’ll walk you back.”

  “No need.” She put on her shoes. “I know my way, and there’s a full moon.”

  “That may be, but I’m still coming with you. I wish to discuss a few matters”—he grinned—“that for some reason slipped my mind earlier.”

  Her heart turned over at his smile, but she resisted the pull he exerted on her. Well, she tried to resist. She knew it would be better—at least wiser—to nip this . . . whatever it was, in the bud now. If she kept visiting his bed, she would be no better than a whore, just as Godfrey had labeled her.

  No, if she kept visiting his bed, she’d lose her heart to him.

  Ha! It’s already lost.

  She followed Harry down the narrow stairs and out into the cloudless night. The full moon had risen above the trees, lighting the path through the woods enough that they could pick their way without stumbling. He offered her his arm, but she ignored it. The temptation to lean on him—in all things—was too great at the moment. She needed to rebuild her wall of independence.

  An owl hooted off in the distance and another owl answered.

  “You really don’t have to come with me.”

  He ignored her. “I’d meant to raise the subject of Harriet’s future, before I got”—he grinned at her—“distracted.”

  “Oh.” It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him not to concern himself, that she had things well in hand, but she swallowed the words. She did not wish to be Harry’s charity case, but this wasn’t just about her. She had to consider Harriet’s welfare. If Harry took a personal interest in their daughter, it could only improve Harriet’s prospects.

  “I want to see more of her, Pen.”

  Her silly heart leaped. If Harry came to Little Puddledon to see Harriet, he’d see her, too. She could have many more wonderfully thorough tuppings.

  Her womb shivered in anticipation, but her heart stilled. Each time she welcomed him into her body, she’d lose another piece of herself.

  Was that too high a price to pay for Harriet’s future?