Perilous Risk
©Copyright Natasha Blackthorne 2014
Edited by Jon Rauch
Kindle Edition
Cover Art by Erin Dameron-Hill Graphics Copyright July 2104
Photo: The Killion Group, Inc.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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WARNING:
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This e-book contains explicit erotic scenes and graphic sexual language. Some readers may consider such content offensive. It is intended for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country and/or state where this e-book was purchased. Please store your files where minors cannot access them.
DISCLAIMER: Natasha Blackthorne writes romantic fiction for entertainment purposes only. Please do not attempt to use this book as a “how-to” book for any topic. Her works are not meant to be guides or representations of modern BDSM practices or lifestyles. Please seek the guidance of an experienced practitioner and/or your personal physician before trying any new sexual practice. The author, Natasha Blackthorne, will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of her titles.
Perilous Risk is published with British spelling.
Books by Natasha Blackthorne
Waltz of Seduction ( a short novella, light bondage)
Her Mystery Duke (Light BDSM)
His Harlot: A Midsummer’s Sin (A novella)
Regency Risks Series (Erotic Regency Romance, Light BDSM)
A Measured Risk
Trust Me
Perilous Risk
The Wild, Wicked and Wanton Series (American Regency Era Erotic Romance)
Grey’s Lady (A novella & prequel)
White Lace and Promises
Alex’s Angel
Emily’s Seduction
Dedication
Thank you to all of my readers who purchase my works and enable me to keep on writing. Thank you to my friends on Facebook who offer me daily, generous emotional support.
Thank you to Carol and Deanna for beta reading Perilous Risk.
Thank you to my editor, Jon Rauch.
Special thanks to Alvania Scarborough.
All my love and gratitude to my husband, the first person who truly believed in my writing.
Dear Readers,
Perilous Risk is a romance that contains elements of light BDSM. This book contains anal sex, spanking, light bondage, D/s themes.
This is a work of historical fiction, it contains arcane beliefs, especially those concerning relations between men and women, marriage and medicine. As a work of historical erotic romance, it is also not intended to portray modern BDSM or D/s lifestyles.
Regency Risks, Book Three
Perilous Risk
by
Natasha Blackthorne
Prologue
August 1818
(One year before the Earl of Ruel met Lady Cranfield)
The sound of boots on the garden stones sent a jolt through her heart. Panting, she picked up her skirts and ran faster.
“Rebecca!” The deep, slightly hoarse voice echoed in the garden.
She came to the garden wall and stopped and turned to face her pursuer. He had cornered her, just moments before, on the terrace. Oh, she had run deeper into the garden to escape.
But there was no escape from her own feelings. The scent of rain and wet earth still hung in the air. Her kid leather soles slipped and she was forced to slow her pace.
He closed the distance between them quickly. “Rebecca.”
She put her hands up. ”No, no.”
“No?” Just the right amount of annoyed authority in his voice sent a swooning sensation through her. She drank in the sight of his visage.
With strong cheekbones balanced by a square jaw, his face was a portrait of simple masculine elegance. A thick forelock fell over his brow, straight and glossy as polished ebony.
Her knees weakening, she backed up until she could go no further. Cool dampness from the stone wall seeped through the thin fabric of her gown. “You must promise to behave yourself this time.”
“No promises.” His soft, slightly hoarse tone was underlain by pure steel.
“Ha!” she gasped, her heart fluttering wildly. She should run.
She really should.
“Rebecca.” He leant in close. His eyes were dark blue as midnight and they burnt into hers. He seemed so familiar, their connection felt oddly more intimate than any she’d ever known. And yet he was now as much a stranger as though they had just met. She’d known a shy, quiet boy. The man was a mystery.
A very determined mysterious man.
Her heart began to beat harder and harder. She stared at his mouth, full, sensual yet firm. Intense longing swept through her and her legs went so limp she would have collapsed, she was sure, if not for the wall at her back holding her up. Her arms went slack and her hands dropped from his chest.
He swooped down closer.
She turned away just in time.
His lips brushed her ear. “Come away with me.”
She laughed nervously. Tingles erupted in her belly. “Stop jesting.”
“I am not jesting.”
The tingles intensified. “Don’t be silly. W-we barely know each other.”
“I know you.” His breath blew warmly over her ear. Her nipples tightened and she suppressed a shiver. “That was years ago, Stephen.”
“I know how you make me feel.” He spoke softly. Calmly. Yet the passion underneath the calm seemed to vibrate inside her belly.
“Oh don’t—”
“I want you. Only you.”
“Please don’t.”
“Come away with me, tonight. I’ll be good to you.”
That sense of his passion vibrating increased. An answering quickening in her blood sent a quiver of fear tingling down her spine into her toes. She had never known temptation like this. Her mouth grew dry at that realization. “Please…stop.”
“I am perfectly serious.”
“I am beginning to fear you are.” She struggled to keep her tone light but it echoed breathlessly in her ears.
He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers, the smooth coolness of his kid glove unbearably sensual. “Was I not supposed to be serious? Was I supposed to engage in a light flirtation and leave it at that?”
“Yes!”
“Really?”
“I have a protector. I told you that.” She spoke firmly, as much to herself as to him. It was becoming increasing hard to think clearly. To remember why she should resist Stephen’s ardour. “Rebecca,” he groaned and the feel of his breath blowing on her neck grew warmer as he bent closer.
Longing like she’d never known beat through her. If she stayed even a fraction of a second more, she’d be pressing herself to that tall, lean body. And then she’d prove herself nothing more than the faithless woman others had accused her of being before. And she’d risk losing the regard and trust of the dearest friend, the best protector in the whole wide world. Real terror at the depth of her conflicted emotions pounded in her heart. She cried out and push
ed Stephen away.
And ran.
* * * *
“Imagine what it was like, the moment the horse broke through that carriage wall and he knew death was close.” Mr David Kean’s eyes shone with a certain salacious pleasure.
Rebecca Howland swallowed against a small wave of nausea. Yes, the Earl of Cranfield had recently been slain in a ghastly accident. All of Society was agog with the talk of how the carriage horse had crushed his skull. The matter was putting a dreadful pall over the whole hunting season. Cranfield had been a cheerful, charming and, yes, quite handsome young man. Rebecca shivered. It didn’t bear thinking about.
Yet it wasn’t only the image of young Cranfield, dying all alone in the cold and dark and rain, that first put her nerves on edge this evening.
I want you. Only you. Come away with me, tonight. I’ll be good to you.
Though hours had passed since the interlude in the garden, she could still feel his mouth, hot and impassioned, brushing her ear as she had turned away, just at the last moment before his lips had touched hers. Come away with me, tonight. I’ll be good to you.
Now not even the low rumble of masculine voices in the large parlour being used as a card room couldn’t dispel the lingering sense of intimate connection. She knew those mysterious dark eyes were still staring at her, the feeling was as strong as a physical touch. Her knees were yet quite weak and she was grateful for the wall that held her up. Goodness. It wasn’t as though a man had never made overtures to her. Why was she acting like such a ninny over this particular incident?
“Imagine how it must have felt, trapped there, listening to the screams of the horse.” Kean’s voice quavered with exaggerated horror.
She hugged her shoulders and suppressed a shiver. Devil take her! This conversation was doing nothing for her already jagged-edged nerves.
“Oh please.” She smiled in an attempt to soften her words, but her voice trembled. “Can we please speak of anything else but that poor boy?”
“Well, I am sorry, Rebecca.” Kean sat up straighter on the settee then crossed one leg over the other and laced his hands over his knee. “It’s just so horrifically fascinating.”
“That’s enough.” The command held an undertone of irritation. Jonathon Lloyd, the Earl of Ruel, sat back in his wingchair and the tip of his cigar glowed as he drew on it.
He had just arrived at Eastwood Place, having come from Cranfield’s funeral. With his pale ash-blond hair contrasting against his black suit, he looked magnificent. Rebecca attempted to focus on his masculine beauty, but even that couldn’t bring her ease. Couldn’t clear the guilty feeling from her heart.
“I can’t get the images out of my mind.” Kean shook his head. “They said his skull was shattered. His brains must hav—”
“Shut your mouth.” Jon’s tone was harsh as ground glass. “Before I plant my fist in it.”
Kean gaped at him and spread a hand over his frothy white jabot. “Pardon me?”
“There’s a woman present and she’s asked you to stop recounting each and every ghastly detail.” Jon flicked the ashes from the tip of his cigar. “God knows we’ve all heard enough. People seem incapable of speaking of anything else.”
Kean blinked a few times and then he grinned. “Was the widow pretty, at least?”
“I don’t know.” Jon frowned as he drew on the cigar. “I didn’t see her.”
Rebecca’s skin prickled with the sense of his rising irritation.
Kean chuckled. “You passed having a first chance at a new widow?”
Jon flashed Kean a censuring look. “She’s quite young, not even twenty-five yet.” Jon adamantly avoided pursing any woman more than three years younger than himself. “And I literally did not see her. I am told she has taken to her bed, prostrate with grief.”
“Has she really?” Kean’s voice rang with pleasurable anticipation. “Do tell more.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” Jon said.
Kean frowned with exaggerated frustration. “Damn, I had hoped to learn something of her. No one seems to know much about her except that her mother was the daughter of a Spanish merchant.”
Jon held up a forestalling hand. “I have just spent three dreary days at Whitecross Hall, for Richard’s sake, and I’ve had enough morbid speculation.”
Jon had a way of injecting finality into his tone, as though he were utterly weary of a person and had mentally dismissed them. He had just done so.
Icy indignation settled over Kean’s handsome features. “I’ll leave the two of you then. I have a party to attend to in any case, and I vow others will prove more cheerful company.”
Holding himself rather stiffly, he walked away.
Jon turned to face Rebecca, his vivid blue eyes terribly distant. Wintry.
He studied her. Probing.
Her heart began to pound. Could he see?
“What are you doing over there hugging the wall like a step-child?” He reached out a hand. “Come here.”
Rebecca immediately dropped her eyes and focused on her wineglass. She lifted it to her lips and downed the remaining half-glass. Her heart was jumping frantically against her chest wall. But God help her, she still felt the pull. The urge to look over towards the other side of the card room.
No, don’t.
Her palms began to sweat, soaking her silk gloves.
“Becky.”
Jon’s sharp tone shook her from her thoughts. She raised her eyes to his.
“I said to come here.”
Her belly quivered. She turned to the tea table nearby and set her empty glass on it. Then she smoothed her hands over her silk skirts. She began walking towards her protector, forcing a smile. Her heart remained guilty.
He continued to stare at her with wintry blue eyes.
She stopped and stood in front of his chair. Her gloves were so damp they stuck to her like a second skin. She peeled them off, partly because she couldn’t bear the clammy texture and partly just as a further delay.
Jon reached to the ashtray sitting on the arm of the wingchair and snuffed his cigar. He took her hand and brought it to his cheek. She felt the roughness of stubble. He hadn’t shaved since very early morning. He was usually fastidious about shaving in the evenings before any social engagements. It said much about his intentions to meet her here that he hadn’t taken the time to do so before leaving Whitecross Hall.
“I wasn’t sure I’d see you before you left,” she said.
In the morning, he would set out for London and from there embark on a voyage to America, where he planned to spend a couple of months.
“Would I leave England without seeing my best laundress?”
She had to smile a little at that. Indeed, she had been his laundress through his long service in the Dragoons. But she had also been a lot more.
He moved her hand from his cheek and pulled it down, indicating that she ought to sit in his lap.
But she couldn’t. She was so nervous, she felt about to leap from her skin. She sought another excuse for delay. “Was Cranfield’s wife really prostrate with grief?”
Gossip held that Lady Cranfield was a cold young woman. In truth, Rebecca wasn’t all that curious about such details. But she could think of nothing else to say.
“So they said.” He scowled. “Grief for Cranfield—can you imagine?” His voice rang with incredulous disgust. “Good God, she must have loved his worthless arse.”
“You despised him so much.”
“Yes, I did. He was weak, unprincipled, uncaring. Just another fine son of the aristocracy.”
Jon was different now from how he’d been when she’d first known him as a young Dragoon officer. He had been both a leader and mentor of the men who served beneath him. He had understood their human weaknesses and sought to inspire and drive them to be brave, dutiful soldiers.
However, he had loathed his grandfather, the former earl, and been rejected by his noble family. Even bastard sons had been loved better in other noble famili
es. Yet Jon had worked hard to prove himself capable of succeeding on his own. Proving himself different from his origins. He’d had some difficulty with authority and couldn’t stop clashing with his commanding officer. But he was not afraid to labour or to get his hands dirty. Since he had inherited the earldom and come home, he had become so hard, so cold, so cynical.
She wished she could somehow inspire him to see his unexpected inheritance as an opportunity to do things his way, not as an unwanted burden. However, she hadn’t been able to do so thus far.
She frowned. “Cranfield was a kind, gentle boy. How can you despise him?”
“Charming? Yes, that he was. Kind? No, he was not kind.”
“How can you say that?”
“Ah, you saw him only as a beautiful boy.” He reached up and traced his fingertip over her lower lip. “You saw only his green eyes and the sprinkling of freckles across his chubby cheeks.”
Her cheeks began to burn. Oh, sometimes Jon just didn’t know when not to prod! When something was too close to the bone for teasing. “That’s not so! He was a very kind, gracious person. At least he was the few times I spoke with him.”
“He left his wife alone in the country. As I said, a very young wife. And meanwhile he played lackey to every other woman he met. That doesn’t speak of a very thoughtful nature, does it?”
She shook her head. But she didn’t want to spend their last evening together before his trip discussing the unfortunate Cranfield and his funeral. She touched Jon’s gloved hand and traced his knuckles through the kid leather, enjoying the texture. “Shouldn’t we go into the main chamber?”
The main chamber was where everyone else was already engaged in an orgy of carnal excess.
He liked to watch other people make love.
She’d rather act than watch. Well, her time would come later, when he took her upstairs. Until then, she would sit at his feet and rest her cheek against his leg whilst he fondled her and watched other people. That was why they had met here. Maybe once they had reconnected physically, she would lose this sense of increasing foreboding.
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