Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  “No, thank you.” Her voice was as polite as his had been. “They fasten at the side.”

  Marcus nodded. He removed his breeches, his stockings. He kept his gaze on the table and the growing pile of his clothes, yet he was intensely aware of her—each quiet, rustling movement, each item of clothing she removed. She’d taken off her stays and her stockings. All she wore now was her chemise.

  When he was naked except for his drawers, he halted and turned to her. Miss Brown hadn’t removed her chemise—but she had let down her hair. It fell in soft waves over her shoulders and down her back. In the candlelight her skin was pale and luminous, her eyes dark. She looked mysterious, almost beautiful. The chemise hung loosely on her, concealing her figure. He saw the rise and fall of her breasts with each breath that she took. Beneath the hem, he glimpsed slim ankles and bare feet.

  It was surreal to be standing in this shadowy, candlelit room: two strangers, almost naked, with the bed waiting behind them. I don’t even know her real name.

  Miss Brown’s hands were clasped together, the fingers interlocked, nervously twisting. “I did bathe before you arrived.”

  For the first time, he noticed the hip bath half-hidden behind a screen. “Uh . . . thank you.”

  Lavinia had been apprehensive on their wedding night, but he’d soothed her fears with kisses and endearments. He didn’t feel like doing either of those things with Miss Brown.

  Marcus walked across and took her hands, stilling their twisting. “Relax.”

  For a moment she stood unmoving, unbreathing, as if his touch had turned her into a statue, then she uttered a faint, nervous laugh. “That is easier said than done, Lord Cosgrove.”

  Marcus gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He pulled her gently towards the bed. “Sit.”

  Miss Brown sat obediently on the edge of the bed, still tense, still resolute, still with the air that she was about to undergo an ordeal.

  “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “If you don’t want to.”

  “Yes, I do.” Her expression became even more resolute. “I can’t tell you why, but it’s important. Very important.”

  Marcus stared at her, baffled, and then shrugged. He sat beside her on the bed. “Then, if we’re going to do this, let’s make it as . . . as enjoyable as possible.”

  She swallowed nervously. “How?”

  “The tenser you are, the more difficult it will be.” Experimentally, he stroked two fingers up the inside of her forearm. Her skin was warm and soft and smooth. Marcus’s pulse began to beat slightly faster. This was what he enjoyed most about women’s bodies: the warmth and the softness, the smoothness.

  Miss Brown looked at him, her eyes wide and filled with trepidation.

  Marcus smiled and offered her a compliment. “You have lovely hair.”

  Her expression changed for a fleeting moment, a twitch of her eyebrows, a twitch of her lips. She didn’t say anything, but he heard her thoughts as clearly as if she’d spoken them aloud: You don’t need to lie to me.

  “It’s true,” Marcus said, stung into defending himself, and he raised a hand to stroke her hair and discovered that it was true. Her hair was soft, falling in loose waves. He let one long lock slide between his fingers. His imagination took off, telling him what her hair would feel like against his skin—tickling, teasing, pleasurable.

  His arousal hitched up a notch. He wanted to tumble her back on the bed and strip off her chemise.

  But not while she was so tense.

  Marcus stroked the delicate skin inside her wrist, a feather-light caress. No other man had ever touched her. It was an oddly exciting thought. He trailed his fingers lightly up her arm until he reached the small, capped sleeve of the chemise. Did it make her skin tingle? Did it give her pleasure? He thought it did; a faint flush had risen in her cheeks.

  He widened his exploration, stroking her throat, the nape of her neck. Minutes passed, while the flush in Miss Brown’s cheeks deepened and his erection pressed insistently against his drawers.

  It was time. Time to bare her body. Time to bed her.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I’m going to take this off now,” Marcus said, fingering the worn linen chemise.

  Miss Brown tensed.

  Was it fear or self-consciousness that drained the color from her cheeks?

  “Would it make you feel better if I, er . . . took off my drawers first?”

  The color flooded back into her face. She nodded shyly, a tiny movement of her head.

  “Very well.” Marcus stood and untied his drawers, stepping out of them to stand in front of her, entirely naked.

  Miss Brown’s eyes widened. She glanced at his cock, and then up at his face, as if asking for reassurance.

  “It may hurt a bit,” he admitted. “First times generally do.” Uttering the words, hearing them in his ears, made him hesitate. Should I be doing this?

  Miss Brown nodded and stole another glance at his erection. Was that apprehension or curiosity he saw on her face, or both? She stood, her jaw resolutely set, and undid the ribbons at the neck of her chemise and pulled the garment over her head.

  Her figure wasn’t lush, but neither was it as delicate as Lavinia’s had been. Marcus’s gaze rested on her breasts, on the curve of her waist and swell of her hips, on the dark triangle of hair at the junction of her thighs. The muscles in his groin tightened.

  He cleared his throat, but could think of nothing to say; arousal had blanked his mind. Her skin was creamy in the candlelight, smooth and enticing. He wanted to touch it and learn its texture. He wanted to feel the weight of her breasts in his hands, wanted to slide his hands around her waist and cup her buttocks and pull her against him.

  Remember she’s a virgin. Take it slowly. Make this as pleasurable for her as possible.

  Marcus cleared his throat again. This time he managed to speak: “Let me take that.” He removed the chemise from her grip and draped it over a chair.

  He turned to the bed and pulled the counterpane back, exposing the sheets. “Let’s sit again.” He matched movement to words, sitting, holding out his hand to her.

  Miss Brown swallowed and gave him her hand and let him draw her down to sit beside him. She was tense, her breath coming shallowly.

  Marcus touched her as he had before, stroking the inside of her wrist, trailing his fingers lightly up her arm. He was burningly aware of her exposed skin, the roundness of her breasts, the pink nipples.

  Wrist and arm, throat and nape of neck, the same exploration as earlier, only this time they were naked . . . Then the line of her collarbone. Then lower, skimming across the slope of first one breast, then the other.

  He felt Miss Brown tremble, watched color rise in her cheeks. She kept her gaze averted.

  “Look at me,” he said softly.

  She did, her eyes wide and dark in the candlelight.

  Marcus held her gaze, and let his hand slide down her hip, along her leg, and then up the inside of her thigh. Such soft skin, smoother than silk.

  “I think it’s time, don’t you?”

  She gave a tiny nod.

  He patted the middle of the bed and gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “After you.”

  Miss Brown scrambled backwards on the bed and lay down, her movements awkward and self-conscious. Marcus lay down alongside her. He didn’t feel self-conscious; it was months since he’d been so aware of his body, so aware of the blood rushing in his veins, the beating of his heart, the thrumming urgency of arousal.

  Candlelight played across Miss Brown’s skin, creating shadows between her legs, burnishing the smooth curves of her breasts. He’d not thought he’d want to touch her with his mouth, but he found himself kissing her throat, found himself tasting the pulse in the hollow of her collarbone with his tongue. She wore no perfume. Her delicate female scent acted on him like an aphrodisiac, heightening his arousal.

  Marcus dipped his head lower and pressed his lips to one breast, so deliciously round
, so deliciously warm. He closed his eyes and swallowed a groan of pleasure. It had been too long. Far too long.

  He gently nipped one taut, pink nipple and felt Miss Brown tremble, heard her catch her breath. He nipped a second time. Was it his imagination, or was a frisson of anticipation building between them?

  He slid his hand down her waist and over the curve of one hip. Her skin was impossibly soft, impossibly smooth. He felt her tremble again when he found the curls at the junction of her thighs.

  Miss Brown flinched slightly as he slid one finger inside her.

  Marcus lifted his mouth from her breast. “Relax,” he whispered in her ear. He eased a second finger inside her, trying to gauge her readiness. She was warm, sleek, damp—and tighter than Lavinia had been. Much tighter.

  He withdrew his fingers, slightly daunted. “This will likely cause you some pain.”

  “I know.”

  Her words should have made him feel better; they didn’t. Should I stop?

  This was what Miss Brown wanted, what she’d asked for. Sex, in exchange for information. But he wanted to give her pleasure, too . . . and he was uneasily aware that he might not be able to.

  Marcus settled himself between her legs. Arousal rode him—and tempering the arousal was apprehension. She was so damned tight.

  Miss Brown’s eyes were wide, watching him. He could almost read her thoughts: How much will this hurt? Temptation flickered for a moment—temptation to kiss her soft mouth, to whisper tender reassurances. Marcus hesitated, and then pressed a light kiss to her temple. “I’ll try to make it quick.”

  He took a deep breath, released it slowly, and entered her in one long thrust.

  Miss Brown stiffened, every muscle in her body tensing. She uttered a strangled gasp of pain.

  Marcus held himself still, his eyes squeezed shut in an effort to maintain control. “I’m sorry.” His voice was a hoarse whisper. “I’ll stop.”

  He began to withdraw, to push away from her, but Miss Brown halted him, her fingers digging into his arm. “No.”

  Marcus opened his eyes and stared down at her. “I’m hurting you.” Far more than he’d hurt Lavinia.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  It did. Even though she was a stranger, even though she’d asked for this—it mattered. It mattered a lot.

  “Don’t stop. Please.”

  Marcus inhaled a shaky breath.

  “Please.”

  He surrendered to the entreaty, sliding his arms around her, gathering her to him, letting himself sink deeply into her again. He heard the breath catch in her throat, felt her tense, but she didn’t try to stop him, didn’t try to push him away.

  Make this fast.

  His body fell into an instinctive rhythm, rocking into her, withdrawing. Marcus bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut. His breath came in gasps. Arousal spiraled inside him, becoming tighter, more urgent, until it almost felt like pain.

  His control snapped in a moment that hovered between agony and ecstasy. A groan came from his throat as his seed spilled inside her. The contractions went on for a long, blissful moment. Marcus exhaled a deep, shuddering breath. The sensation of release, of fulfillment, was one he hadn’t felt for a long time. Every inch of his skin tingled. His body felt sated, the sense of relaxation bone-deep.

  Gradually his awareness expanded beyond himself. He became aware of Miss Brown again, lying soft and warm beneath him. He felt her heartbeat, heard each low breath that she took. She lay quietly, not pushing him away, letting him rest on her.

  The sense of fulfillment vanished abruptly. Shame flooded him. I gave her pain, not pleasure.

  Marcus rolled off her and sat up. “I’m sorry,” he said, not meeting her eyes. Mortification was hot in his face. “I didn’t mean to hurt you so much.”

  “Don’t apologize, sir.” Miss Brown sat up.

  He glanced at her, and found his eyes caught by hers.

  “You did precisely what I asked for.”

  He swallowed, his throat tight. “I hurt you.”

  She smiled suddenly. “I don’t mind.”

  I do. “Are you bleeding?”

  She blinked. “Should I be?”

  Marcus got off the bed and found his handkerchief. He handed it to her.

  He didn’t watch as she wiped between her thighs. He began to dress. He’d not felt self-conscious while he was bedding her; he did now. I hurt her. His fingers fumbled as he pulled on his drawers, as he fastened his breeches. It wasn’t the sweat of exertion that stuck his shirt to his skin, it was the sweat of shame.

  Miss Brown had her chemise on by the time he’d buttoned his waistcoat and pulled on his boots. Marcus crossed to the mirror and tied his neckcloth. The knot was as lopsided and crooked as one of Albin’s attempts. He watched Miss Brown’s reflection as she laced her stays and pulled on her petticoat. When she reached for her gown he turned away from the mirror. “Let me help you.”

  Miss Brown gathered her hair and pulled it over her shoulder, out of the way. She was more relaxed than when he’d undressed her; the resoluteness, the tension, were gone. It’s I who feel awkward now. He fumbled with the buttons. I had sex with this woman. I took her virginity. I hurt her.

  “Their names are Jeremiah and Abel Smith,” Miss Brown said.

  “What?” For a moment Marcus had no idea what she was talking about—then understanding came. His fingers stilled at their task. “The men who burned down my conservatory?”

  “I believe so, yes.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that.”

  Marcus resumed the buttoning. Jeremiah and Abel Smith. It was useful information. With it, he might be able to find them—

  “It’s possible the Smiths will agree to meet with you this week.”

  His head jerked up. “What?”

  “I left a message indicating the possibility of employment. If they agree to a meeting, I’ll let you know. You do wish to speak with them, do you not?”

  Marcus uttered a laugh. “Oh, yes.” His teeth closed in a predatory smile. Most definitely.

  “I hope to receive their answer tomorrow. I’ll wait on your secretary in Chandlers Street, if you’ll release him from his tasks between two and four o’clock.”

  “You don’t wish to come to Grosvenor Square?”

  “No.”

  Her answer made him certain she was employed in a household in the square. Whose?

  Marcus silently fastened the rest of the buttons. Tendrils of soft hair brushed over his fingers when he reached the nape of her neck. Memories swept over him: the warm smoothness of her skin, the delicious curves of her breasts, and—indelibly—the memory of her body tensing in pain. He slowly fastened the last button. “Does it still hurt?”

  “A little.”

  Marcus glanced at the bed, at the rumpled sheets, the crumpled handkerchief. Shame swamped him again. It sat in his belly, filled his lungs, clogged his throat.

  He stepped away from Miss Brown, turning to the table, reaching for his gloves. “Mr. Albin will be at his lodgings between two and four tomorrow afternoon,” he said, pulling on the gloves. He couldn’t look at her; the shame was too intense.

  He walked to the door, his hat clenched in his hands.

  Miss Brown followed on stockinged feet. “Lord Cosgrove?”

  Marcus swallowed, turned back to face her, forced himself to meet her eyes. “Yes?”

  She looked younger than when he’d arrived, and far more attractive. Her eyes were dark, her skin creamy in the candlelight. Her hair hung down her back in soft waves.

  He opened his mouth to apologize once more, but Miss Brown stood on tiptoe and lightly kissed his cheek. “Thank you. I’m more grateful than you can imagine.”

  “Uh . . . you’re welcome,” Marcus managed to say. He groped for the door handle and escaped into the corridor and fled down the stairs, cramming his hat on his head. But he couldn’t outrun shame; it followed at his heels.


  Outside, on the street, he halted and touched his cheek where Miss Brown had kissed him. It burned, as if she’d branded him.

  * * *

  Marcus walked back to Grosvenor Square, his feet blindly following the familiar route. The encounter with Miss Brown played in his head, awkward, erotic, shameful.

  He kept coming back to her tightness, to the way every muscle in her body had clenched with pain when he’d entered her. Miss Brown had definitely been a virgin. No one could fake a response like that.

  Marcus’s thoughts slid even further back, to his wedding night. He remembered how anxious he’d been not to hurt Lavinia, remembered entering her for the first time, remembered how she’d stiffened and cried out. And then he placed that memory alongside the memory of tonight. The tension in Lavinia’s muscles had been superficial, not deep and involuntary.

  Marcus halted on the flagway. Lavinia wasn’t a virgin?

  He replayed his wedding night in his head, and came to the same conclusion: his penetration had been no painful invasion. Despite the blood on the handkerchief—her own handkerchief, that she’d displayed to him afterwards—Lavinia hadn’t been a virgin.

  “Sir?”

  Marcus blinked, and focused on his surroundings: tall buildings with shuttered windows, torches burning in brackets, shadowy street, and a crossing-sweeper looking at him expectantly.

  He fumbled a coin from his pocket, tossed it to the man, and crossed the street, striding grimly.

  He’d learned a lot more than the Smiths’ names from Miss Brown tonight.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  October 23rd, 1805

  Grosvenor Square, London

  Charlotte was tallying a column in the Somerset ledger when she heard the earl’s footsteps. Her shoulders tensed.

  Breathe. Act as if you don’t know what happened last night.

  But she did know. She knew what Lord Cosgrove looked like naked and aroused, knew what it felt like to be bedded by him. Surely he’d see the knowledge on her face? He’d look at her and instantly know.