Baleful Godmother Historical Romance Series Volume One

by Emily Larkin

  He looked back at her, Letitia Trentham, England’s greatest heiress, sitting on his bed in a nightgown and shawl, discussing oral congress with him, and for a moment his incredulity was so great that he almost laughed from it. This isn’t happening.

  “Icarus? I see how it is selfish of me, but I don’t see how it is selfish of you.”

  His laughter quenched. It was happening—and if there was one thing he knew about Miss Trentham’s character, it was that she was persistent. She wasn’t going to stop asking her question until he’d answered it.

  “Icarus?”

  He looked away again, and tried to frame his reply. “It would be selfish because . . . because I would be taking pleasure from you and not giving any back, and that’s wrong—I couldn’t possibly allow it! Not unless—” Abruptly, he halted. A whole realm of possibilities suddenly opened out in front of him.

  “Unless what?”

  Icarus glanced at her. Letty Trentham. Her long braid was slightly disheveled and her nightgown wrinkled, and she looked tempting and approachable and quite extraordinarily attractive.

  His cock gave a strong pulse.

  But using his mouth on Miss Trentham would be almost as reprehensible as allowing her to use her mouth on him. The two acts wouldn’t cancel each other out; they’d compound the dishonor to her.

  “Unless what, Icarus?”

  He hesitated, and knew that she would keep asking until he answered. “Unless you allow me to reciprocate.”

  Miss Trentham’s expression grew wary. “You’ll have to explain what you mean by that.”

  “I mean that I could only allow you to kiss me that way if you allowed me to return the favor.”

  She recoiled slightly. He saw her shock, saw her instinctive grimace of distaste. “You mean . . . kiss me down there?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence stretched for several seconds.

  “Would you want to?” Miss Trentham asked, in an extremely dubious tone.

  Icarus imagined tasting her intimately, and felt his cock stir. “Yes.”

  Miss Trentham wasn’t going to let him. He could see it clearly on her face: the embarrassment, the reluctance. She was going to refuse and he should be relieved—he was relieved—because oral congress between them would be utterly inexcusable.

  “All right,” Miss Trentham said, and while Icarus was still gaping at her, she picked up Herodotus and found her marker. “When the Persian commanders and crews—”

  “You agree?”

  She glanced up, and nodded.

  Heat suddenly flared between them. Icarus stared into her sea-colored eyes and heard his heartbeat hammering in his ears. I should turn her from my bedroom. But he knew he wasn’t going to.

  He reached out and took the book from her and closed it. “Forget Herodotus.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  A vivid blush mounted in Miss Trentham’s cheeks. She looked shy and self-conscious and awkward and apprehensive and embarrassed, all at the same time.

  Icarus was abruptly ashamed of himself. He looked away from her. “Letty, we can’t do this. You should go.”

  “But you agreed!”

  He glanced back at her.

  “Don’t change your mind,” Miss Trentham said urgently, laying her hand on his. “Please, Icarus.”

  Icarus hesitated. Was it wrong to give her what she wanted? Or wrong not to? Or was this one of those times when every choice was wrong?

  I would consider it a gift, Miss Trentham had said.

  It wasn’t a gift an honorable man would give her. But they both knew he wasn’t honorable.

  “Please, Icarus.”

  He looked at her, and heard the plea in her voice—and knew that he was lost. He was going to do it. Because Letty Trentham wanted it, and because he wanted it, and because this could be the last night they ever spent together.

  “You need some brandy. Where’s that bottle?” Icarus climbed out of bed and splashed brandy into the bottom of the vase. He didn’t want Miss Trentham self-conscious and awkward; he wanted her relaxed. He wanted her to enjoy what he was about to do to her. He gave her the vase. “It’s not enough to make you drunk, I promise.”

  The first sip made Miss Trentham cough and choke. Her eyes watered. “You like this?”

  “It has its time and place.”

  Miss Trentham drank the brandy stoically. Icarus sat on the bed alongside her, and listened to the hard, fast beating of his heart, and felt heat gather in his groin, and knew that he had no honor. No honor at all.

  “Do you feel a little more relaxed?” he asked, when she’d finished.

  Miss Trentham bit her lip, and glanced at him shyly, and nodded.

  He put an arm around her shoulders and drew her close. I’m going to miss you, Letty Trentham. He kissed her gently. After a faint hesitation, she kissed him back.

  Icarus kissed Miss Trentham until all trace of her shyness had gone and she was warm and breathless in his arms, then he stretched out and patted the bed alongside him. “Lie here.”

  She blushed, and did as he bid.

  Icarus kissed her again, lingering on her lower lip, licking, nibbling, sucking lightly, making her gasp and tremble, and then he reached down and tugged her nightgown up to her knees.

  Miss Trentham tensed slightly. “Relax,” Icarus whispered against her mouth. He kissed her again, and eased her nightgown up another inch.

  He kissed her a dozen times, and each time he drew the nightgown higher, until her thighs were almost fully bared. One more tug, and her groin would be exposed to his gaze.

  Hot blood hummed eagerly in his cock, but Miss Trentham was tense again. Icarus kissed her. “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”

  “I’m not afraid. I’m embarrassed.”

  “Don’t be. You have a beautiful body.” And she did. Her bare legs were long and slender. He could easily imagine them wrapped around his hips, a fantasy that made his cock twitch strongly.

  Icarus laid a hand lightly on her knee. “Relax.” Miss Trentham resisted for a fraction of a second, and then allowed him to part her legs and slowly stroke up her inner thigh. Her skin was impossibly smooth. Smoother than silk.

  His cock stirred again.

  Icarus let his hand slide all the way to the top of her leg. Was that the tickle of hair against his fingertips, or was he imagining that, too? He looked at his hand, brown against the creamy paleness of her skin, and at the bunched-up nightgown hiding her groin. It’s time.

  He tore his gaze from Letty Trentham’s legs, and looked at her face. Her lips were rosy from his kisses. “You can return to your bedchamber if you wish. At any moment, if you want to stop, just say so.”

  “If I stop, you won’t let me reciprocate. Will you?”

  “No.”

  “Then I shan’t ask you to stop.” And then she bit her lip and said anxiously, “You don’t have to do this, you know. Honestly! I won’t think you’re selfish if you don’t—”

  “I want to,” Icarus said.

  His need must have been audible in his voice, because her gaze dropped and she blushed.

  “I want to,” Icarus said again, more softly, almost a whisper, and he pushed her nightgown up to her waist. His cock gave an eager twitch at the sight of that little thatch of hair. He almost groaned. God, how he wanted this.

  Icarus bent his head and inhaled her scent. It went straight to his loins. His cock didn’t just twitch this time, it surged. If it had a voice, it would have barked an order: Hurry up! Do it!

  Icarus settled himself between Letty Trentham’s long, slender legs, and bent to the business of reciprocation. He laid a trail of tickling kisses up her inner thighs, then let his fingers wander through that thatch of hair—surprisingly silky, silkier than any woman he’d lain with—and parted her inner lips, stroking and teasing with his fingertips, finding her hot and damp and responsive—and dipped his head to let his warm breath tickle over her sensitive flesh—Lord, but she smelled amazing—and then
tasted her.

  Letty Trentham tasted just as good as she smelled. Icarus closed his eyes for a moment, a silent hum resonating in his throat, savoring her scent, savoring her taste. His cock was rock-hard, furnace-hot. I might climax just from this. Then he opened his eyes and set to work, teasing her with his fingers, with his mouth, with his teeth and tongue. He didn’t need to look at her face to know that she liked it; her body told him—the tiny moans, the helpless shifting of her hips. She was hot and juicy and throbbing and absolutely ready to be bedded. Icarus felt a little spasm of pleasure ripple through her. He slid a finger inside her, licked—

  Her body convulsed.

  Icarus kept licking, kept stroking his finger inside her, until the convulsions died to mere tremors, then he sat up and drew her nightgown down and looked at her face. She wasn’t Miss Trentham, cool and aloof. She wasn’t Tish, lively and attractive. She was Letty, flushed and dark-eyed and indescribably tempting.

  Icarus stared at her. His cock pulsed, pushing against his nightshirt, hot and aching. He wanted to mount her, wanted to sink himself to the hilt in her heat and ride her until they both cried out with pleasure.

  Letty blinked, and moistened her lips. “Is that what it feels like for you?”

  Icarus nodded.

  “I understand why so many men have mistresses.” She sat up. “My turn.”

  They both looked at his lap, where his cock tented his nightshirt. It looked as if he had a dueling pistol growing there. Icarus felt his face become scarlet with embarrassment.

  “Lie down,” she said.

  He obeyed, clumsy with anticipation and arousal and need and shame, resting awkwardly back on the pillows. Letty drew his nightshirt up—and there was his cock, thick and ruddy, straining to attention like a soldier on parade.

  Icarus couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

  “Do you consent to this, Icarus?”

  He dragged his gaze from his cock, and stared at her. His breath was coming short and fast, and his heartbeat thundered in his ears. Oh, God, yes.

  Letty Trentham took his silence for assent. She bent her head and licked that smooth, crimson head.

  Icarus’s breath strangled in his throat. Oh, God, oh, God.

  She licked a second time. Every bone in his body turned to liquid. Icarus squeezed his eyes shut. This isn’t happening.

  But it definitely was happening. He felt her soft lips, felt her warm, tickling breath, felt her tongue, supple and hot and velvety. Oh, God, her tongue.

  Letty Trentham seemed to know exactly where to lick. Icarus heard himself panting, heard himself groaning. There was no space in his head for embarrassment or self-consciousness or shame. Every part of him was drowning in pleasure. Oh, God, oh, God. She drew him into her soft, hot mouth. His hips flexed helplessly. His toes curled in ecstasy. He heard himself whimper. Oh, God, oh, God.

  Icarus managed one coherent thought—I must stop her before I climax—but then Letty Trentham sucked his cock lightly, and again more strongly, and he stopped being able to think at all. Time distorted, twisting in on itself, each second excruciatingly long, and then his climax burst through him like a thunderstorm, lightning bolts of pleasure burning through every vein in his body, illuminating him until he must glow like a bonfire.

  Icarus didn’t notice Letty Trentham pulling down his nightshirt, nor did he notice her rearranging the bedclothes, tucking the blankets up to his chin. He felt as if he was floating several feet above the mattress.

  “You are not dead, Icarus Reid,” she whispered in his ear as he plummeted towards sleep. “Do you hear me? You’re not dead.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  November 28th, 1808

  Devonshire

  Letty watched Reid and Houghton plow their way through breakfast. Reid was embarrassed by memory of last night—she’d seen it in the way his cheeks had colored faintly when he’d first entered the room—but at least he was able to meet her eyes this morning. His manner became easier as the minutes passed. By the time breakfast was over, it was as if the intimacies in his bedchamber had never happened.

  But they had happened. She could remember what he’d done to her, what she’d done to him. Those latter memories were the ones she dwelled on, the ones she returned to time and time again: Reid’s taste and his scent, the shape of him in her mouth, the heat and the smooth hardness, the helpless noises he’d uttered. And most precious of all—the memory she hugged to herself—was the expression of dazed bliss on his face afterwards.

  Reid pushed away his plate. “The carriages are ordered for twelve thirty. Sergeant Houghton and I have a little business to attend to. We’ll be back by twelve fifteen at the latest. Will you be all right here?”

  Letty nodded, and sipped her tea.

  Houghton pushed his chair back. “I’ll just fetch my hat, sir.”

  Reid stayed seated. When the door had closed, he said, “I want to buy him a pocket watch. I think he’ll refuse it. He’s touchy about charity.”

  Letty folded her napkin. “If you make it a gift?”

  “That’s what I was intending, but I don’t think he’ll be comfortable with it.” He sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.

  “Buy him a watch from a pawn shop. Something cheap, but functional.”

  “A pawn shop?” Reid frowned thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s an idea.” The frown cleared. “An excellent idea! And then I’ll leave him my watch in my will. He can’t object to that!”

  Letty almost choked on her tea.

  Reid didn’t notice. He was pushing back his chair. “Is there anything I can get for you in town?”

  Letty managed a stiff smile. “No, thank you.” She stood and walked to the window and looked blindly out. Reid still intends to die? Hot tears rushed to her eyes. What should she do? Yell at him? Grab his coat lapels and shake him? Slap him? Or sit on the floor at his feet and cry?

  Outside, a coach-and-four pulled up with a faint clatter of wheels and jingle of harnesses. A liveried footman jumped down from the rumble seat and hurried to let down the steps.

  If she told him it would break her heart if he died, would Reid change his mind?

  Perhaps. But what a terrible burden to place on him; Reid had burdens enough. And what does my heart mean to him anyway? He didn’t want her love. All he wanted from her was her ability to hear lies.

  The coach had a team of matched blacks and a nobleman’s crest on the door. A lady stepped down from the carriage. Letty blinked back her tears. The lady was elegant, notably pregnant, and wore spectacles. A second lady descended the steps, also pregnant, but of diminutive stature and pretty rather than elegant—and then two men. Letty stiffened, and stared.

  “What?” Reid said, coming to stand beside her.

  “Lord Cosgrove and Sir Barnaby Ware.”

  “Suitors of yours?”

  “No.” Letty peered down at the two men. They stood talking to one another. As she watched, Cosgrove said something, grinning, that made Sir Barnaby throw back his head and laugh. “They’re friends again.”

  “Friends?”

  “They always were friends—best of friends!—and then Cosgrove’s first wife died and there was a dreadful scandal, and they fell out, and I was so sorry, because I liked them both very much.” She examined the two ladies. “Those must be their wives.” Who was married to whom? Sir Barnaby answered her question, giving his arm to the petite blonde, smiling down at her, laying his hand on top of hers.

  Letty turned away from the window. “I must fetch my veil. If they’re staying here . . .”

  She hurried from the private parlor.

  Her desire to indulge in a bout of tears was thwarted by Eliza’s presence in her bedchamber. “I’ve laid out your traveling cloak, ma’am, and your hat,” she said cheerfully. “And the packing’s almost done.”

  “Thank you.” Letty placed the hat on her head, arranged the veil over it, and retreated back to the private parlor. It was empty, but even so, she dared no
t cry. A servant might walk in at any moment.

  She sat by the window, rigidly tense, rigidly miserable. Damn you, Icarus Reid. How could he not see that he had every reason to live?

  He can’t see it, because he’s a soldier. Breath, blood and bones, a soldier.

  It didn’t matter that Reid had endured more than any man could be expected to endure. It didn’t matter that his confession hadn’t cost General Wellesley the battle, that no Englishmen had died because of it. What mattered was his betrayal.

  Reid was a soldier, and he’d betrayed his own side, and his life had stopped at that point.

  Letty sat with clasped hands and bowed head. What do I say to him? How do I make him see that he deserves to live?

  Everything that she could think of saying, she’d already said.

  A distant clock struck twelve sonorous notes. Letty sighed, and stood, and crossed to the door. The corridor was empty, but a voice floated to her ears. An agitated voice. “But I didn’t, ma’am! I’m no thief!”

  “You may tell that to the constable,” a woman grimly replied.

  Letty headed in the direction of the voices, and found herself looking up a staircase. The landlord’s wife and a chambermaid were descending. The chambermaid’s face was flushed and swollen from crying.

  “Excuse me, madam,” Letty said, raising her veil. “May I ask what’s the matter?”

  The landlady halted, and looked her up and down. With obvious effort, her mouth found a smile. “Mrs. Reid. Nothing’s the matter. Just a little misunderstanding with one of the maids. I apologize if we disturbed you.”

  “You didn’t disturb me. But I shall be very disturbed if you take this young woman to the constable.”

  The landlady lost her smile.

  “I have an ear for the truth and I can tell you that your servant is speaking truthfully. Whatever has been lost, she didn’t take.”

  The landlady eyed Letty. “Lady Shipley said she did.”

  “Then Lady Shipley is mistaken. May I ask what’s missing?”