And Beatrice awaited the judgement.
‘Clever girl,’ the Viscountess said. ‘It was the only way one could ever snag him. To catch him in such a fashion, particularly when he holds your brother in such esteem.’
And she had the feeling that she had been talked about, at length by this group of women, as she suddenly realised that the banter that went around the circle felt a bit rehearsed.
Still, she did not get the sense that they wished her ill, nor that they disliked her, only that they were fascinated by her.
‘Well, I... I have known Briggs for a very long time.’ She realised that she had referred to him by his rather familiar nickname, and that she ought not to have done so. Not in this group. ‘The Duke of Brigham,’ she said. ‘His Grace. I have known him for quite some time. And he is a man I hold in great regard.’
‘How can one not hold a man whose riding breeches fit him so in high regard?’ said Lady Smythe with a curve to her lips.
Beatrice felt a rash of possessiveness. She did not appreciate the lady leering over her husband.
Particularly as Beatrice herself had not seen him out of his breeches.
The idea sent a slam of indignation and something else through her, and it made her feel warm all over.
Still, she found a way to keep her smile pasted on her face, and then, mercifully, the topic of conversation turned to other gossip, and Beatrice found she quite enjoyed it. She felt very much a part of this group in a way she had never much felt a part of anything.
It was a strange sort of revelation. She had not realised how much she wanted this. An evening of feeling enchanted. Of feeling... Normal.
They did not know that her and Briggs’s marriage was not what it seemed.
They were treating her like a married woman. Like someone for whom the mysteries of the universe had been unveiled.
They were treating her like an equal, and not like a poor, sickly thing.
And then it was time for a waltz, and Briggs turned, his dark eyes connecting with hers as he closed the distance between them. ‘If you’ll excuse us,’ he said to her new friends. ‘I owe my wife a dance.’ His eyes never left hers. ‘More than one.’
A tremor went through her body, as he took her to the dance floor, and brought her into his arms. He had said he owed her a dance, but there was a promise beneath the words that felt heavy. That made her stomach go tight.
It was a lively dance, and she could not help but laugh, in part because she had forced him to partake.
And soon, he was laughing also. They spun and twirled across the floor, and she delighted in what a strong grip he had. And what a wonderful partner he was.
Oh, he was wonderful.
She studied the lines of his face, that square jaw, those dark eyes with long dark lashes.
And his mouth. She had tasted that mouth. Had shared intimacies with him only three days earlier that she had never even imagined, much less shared with anyone else.
And he’d felt hers.
But suddenly, she had the thought. That there were other women here who had tasted him. Who had perhaps experienced greater intimacies with him than she had done.
The very idea made her feel small. Ill. And terribly sad.
But she would not focus on that, not now. For that was fantasy. That was speculation. What was real was this moment. Where he held her in his arms. And the music wound itself around them.
A sweet, piercing melody that seemed made just for them.
It did not matter that there were other people here. None of that mattered. He had wanted her to focus on what it was like to be the envy of others, but she found she did not care. She did not care. She only cared what was. What was happening. And what was happening was that she was being held by Briggs. What was happening was that she was so close to him her air was made up almost entirely of that spicy masculine scent that was him, and only him.
She looked at the strong column of his throat, at his Adam’s apple there. And she became unbearably conscious of wanting to lick him.
They danced together for longer than was fashionable. She was grateful for it. Because there was no other man she wanted.
And that, she realised, was the real sadness. Not that the fantasy of meeting someone else was dashed forever. Had she ever truly wanted to meet someone else? No. The saddest thing was that she had married Briggs. And it was something that part of her... A small corner of herself that she would never have allowed voice... Had secretly dreamed could be true. Because from the first moment he had ever brought her sweets, she had found him to be special. And she had wanted him most of all.
And there was not a fantasy left, because he was her husband, and yet she could still never truly have him.
But tonight he’s dancing with you. Tonight you have this. You have lived in so many painful moments. Should you not fully live in this one?
And so she did. She allowed the music, and his arms, and the steps, to become the only thing there was.
* * *
Briggs was overwhelmed by her. She was beautiful, and when she had removed her pelisse upon entry, she had revealed the extent of the gown’s secrets. He had wanted to kill the men he was speaking to, friends from school, for that matter, over the way they had allowed themselves to hungrily take their fill of her gloriously rounded bosom.
He couldn’t blame them. He might’ve done the same had they possessed a wife of such great beauty. It was just that they did not. There was not a woman in the entire room that could hold a candle to Beatrice.
And the way that her face lit up as they danced... It ignited something inside him.
And he felt nothing but fury. At himself. At the world. But more than that, a fury at his own willingness to succumb to the helplessness of the situation. For he was not that man. It was certain he did not waste time railing at the world, but that did not mean giving in either.
He wanted her. He wanted her.
More than wanting to sink into her wet, willing body, though he did want that, he wanted her pleasure.
And he wanted her submission.
She had been made for him, as far as he could tell, nearly training herself in the art of pain all of her life.
She understood it. She understood it in the way that he did.
But there was an intense and rare gift to be found in the exchange of it.
And she was correct. It was her life. It was her life, and she had every right to decide what she wished it to be.
There would be nothing to stop her from taking her pleasure with other men, except that those men would not know how to satisfy her.
He did. They were perversely, innately made for each other.
And he wished to see just how far that went.
The only thing more unfashionable than dancing with one’s wife for the entire evening was to be seen sneaking out of the ballroom with her.
But when that dance ended, he realised that it was the path he had decided on.
‘Let us take a walk,’ he said.
‘A walk?’
He had this moment to turn back. But she was here, and she wanted to be his. He felt it. He knew it. She had said it with her mouth, had shown him with the way her body desired him and if he found her strong, and wild, and brilliant, ought he not also to believe her?
He knew there was a chance it was his weakness, his selfishness winning out. Remnants of the boy he’d once been, who had wanted nothing more than to meet a woman who might understand him.
That did not exist, that love he had once believed in. He was no longer naive enough to believe one person might accept all the ways in which he was different.
But Beatrice wanted this part of him. And so he would give it.
He was powerless to do anything else.
‘Into the garden.’
‘Is there a garden?’
‘There always is,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ she answered. ‘Why is that?’
‘Without a garden, there would be no garden path for rakes to lead innocent women down, would there?’
‘Hugh has warned Eleanor about such things.’
‘But never you?’
She laughed, hard. ‘I think Hugh would never have thought he would have to.’
‘He should have. Perhaps you would’ve stayed clear of me.’
‘I did not know it was you.’
‘Did you?’ he whispered.
She shivered beneath his hold. He had not meant to issue that challenge, but he had done so. ‘Walk with me.’
They walked out through the large double doors and into the dark of night. The moon was only a silver sliver, and the stars were all alike, but none of them were as compelling as the ones in Beatrice’s hair.
They had entranced him all evening. Beckoning him to unpin her curls and fill his hands with them. With all of her stardust and glory.
‘Briggs...’
‘Didn’t you want to live your fantasy tonight? Of going to a ball? Of having a man meet your eyes across the room and find you irresistible?’
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice a choked whisper.
‘I find you irresistible.’
She looked at him, her eyes wide, glittering, even in the moonlight.
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I do, Beatrice, or we would not be out here.’
‘I thought perhaps you just wanted to walk.’
‘As much as I want to walk, I could take one in Grosvenor Square whenever I wished. I don’t wish to walk with you.’
‘What do you wish for me?’ she asked, her voice hushed.
They walked deeper into the garden, and he knew that they had to be deeper there before he risked answering her question.
‘What do I want from you?’ he asked as soon as the hedgerows enshrouded them completely. ‘Everything. Nothing less. I should have you kneel before me, Your Grace. I should have you do whatever I ask. Beg me to take you in hand and punish you for being such a temptress.’
Her breathing had quickened, he could hear it. Feel her pulse moving through the two of them. ‘You are in bad need of a punishment for what you have done to us both, don’t you agree?’
‘I don’t... I don’t know.’
‘You don’t have to know. You must only answer, yes, Your Grace. That is the only answer that will do.’
The pause she took was only a breath. A twinkle of starlight and nothing more, but it felt like an eternity.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Your Grace.’
Flames licked at his veins. Arousal pulsing through him so dark and heavy he thought he might be drowned by it.
They turned the corner, and he found a bench, perfectly situated there in the garden, such a private spot. And it was a bit early yet for others to be making their way out here for trysts. At least he hoped so.
And even if not.
She was his wife.
‘But here we are in a garden,’ he said. ‘In all things I have in mind for you... Not here.’
‘Why are you teasing me?’ she asked, her voice breathless.
‘I am very, very serious,’ he said. ‘I can assure you.’
He gripped her chin, tilted her face up, and kissed her. He had kissed her before, but it had been nothing compared to this. This was... He was not being careful with her. For the way that she looked at him, the way that she acted as if he had done her harm by not finishing what they had started in his garden back at the town house...
Tonight would either inflame her desire for more or would cure her of her need for him altogether. Either way, it would be fun. The kiss was bruising. And she gasped as he licked deeper and deeper into her mouth, bit her lower lip, before sucking it hard.
She did not have any skill. But what she lacked there she made up for in enthusiasm. She was gasping, arching her body against his, trying to get closer. Trying to get everything.
‘Be still,’ he said.
And she responded. That note of authority in his voice made her entire body go limp against his.
‘I will give you what you need. I promise.’
She whimpered, and he bit her lip again. ‘Do not doubt me. Trust me.’
He moved his finger down to where the fabric of her dress met the plump flesh of her bosom. He pushed his finger beneath that gap, letting it drift around that curve, and he felt goose pimples break out over her skin.
He knew that her nipples would be tight beneath her undergarments. And he wanted deeply to pull the top of her dress down, reveal them and suck them again. But, not now. He would not risk exposing her so thoroughly here.
A light touch was not his preference, but he could tell that it tormented her, and that, he did enjoy.
‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please.’
‘You will not get more until I say. You will not get release until I allow it. You are mine. My wife.’ The words sent a lightning bolt of arousal through his body. ‘Your satisfaction is my responsibility. It is also your reward. And it will not be claimed before I allow it.
‘You know what I mean, don’t you? Your release. What you experienced when you shattered in my arms in the garden.’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I understand.’
‘Have you ever felt that before? When you are alone in your room, did you ever put your hand between your legs and stroke yourself?’
‘I...’
‘You’re a clever girl. You discovered that pain makes you feel powerful. That it thrills you. Did you discover how much touching yourself between your legs could thrill you?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘I see. And what is it you do? When you’re alone in your room? What is it you do when you cannot sleep?’
‘Sometimes... Sometimes I dig my fingernails into my palms. I do that when I am afraid. I was doing it the night of the ball, when I was trying to get up the courage to...’
‘I see. So you have given yourself pain, but never the pleasure to go with it.’
‘I like it,’ she said.
‘Good. So do I.’
‘Do you... Do you give yourself pain?’
He chuckled. ‘No. I like to give it.’
And he could see, in that veiled expression, there in the garden, that his answer terrified and thrilled her all at once.
‘But right now,’ he said. ‘There is something else. Something else I must do.’
He lowered his head and scraped his teeth along her collarbone, and he hoped, belatedly, that he had not left a mark. If so, she would have to retrieve her pelisse immediately.
He enjoyed residual marks on a woman’s skin from lovemaking, but he admitted that marking one’s own wife before having to go back into a ballroom was likely not the best thing.
He sat her down on the bench. And it was true, he preferred a woman on her knees before him, but, he had always known the power inherent in what he wished to do to her. So many men refused. Or were not skilled in the act.
And he had found that there was as much power to be had in branding a woman with pleasure, as guiding her in doing the same to him.
There was a tipping point, where pleasure could be used as torture, and this was one of the most effective ways he had found to do it.
They would not have infinite time here. But it would be enough.
He knelt before her and began to push her dress up over her knees. She locked them together.
‘What is the matter?’
‘I...’
‘So sweet,’ he said. ‘You really are an innocent, aren’t you?’
She nodded. ‘You know that I am. The only ways in which I am not innocent are ways I was marked by your hands.’
‘Briggs,’ she said, shivering.
‘Spread your legs for me.’
‘I...’
‘Spread them.’
She did so, and he pushed her skirts up the rest of the way, revealing that delightful triangle of pale curls at the apex of her thighs.
And his mouth watered.
‘You are beautiful,’ he said.
He pressed his thumb against that source of her pleasure that he knew was there, smoothed it in a circle, and listened as she cried out in pleasure.
She was wet.
Their kiss had done its job. Their conversation had done its job.
He shifted, pressing two fingers against her swollen lips down there, trapping that little bud there between them, rubbing his fingers back and forth, careful to avoid what she really wanted.
She was moving her hips back and forth, desperately seeking more.
And he loved it. Gloried and revelled in it.
Then he put one leg of hers up over his shoulder, and another, bringing his face down so it was a scant inch from the glorious, wet heart of her.
‘Briggs...’
But he did not allow her to speak. Did not allow her to say the next word. He fastened his mouth to her, moving his tongue in firm, rhythmic strokes across her flesh.
He knew what she wanted. And he would give it to her. Almost.
He feasted on her, deep, long. Until she was panting, her fingernails digging into his shoulders.
He found no particular pleasure in that, other than knowing that she was desperate for him. And for what only he could provide.
He took her close to the edge, then denied her. Pushing a finger inside her narrow, tight channel as he continued to feast on her. Took her to the edge, and then pulled back, pulled away.
She was mindless with need. Begging.
‘Soon,’ he said, working his finger in and out of her body. ‘Soon you can come.’
‘Please,’ she said.
‘Not yet.’
‘Please, Your Grace.’
Her words shot all the way to his sex, causing it to pulse.
Harlequin Historical September 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 35
