by Cheryl Holt
"My goodness, Winnie," he pondered, "what's happening to us?"
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"I don't know, Edward."
"If I perished this very instant, my whole life would have been worth it."
"Well, cease your morbid reflection," she laughed. "I'm not about to allow you to expire. At least not until I've dabbled with this delicious cock of yours."
With her carnal remark, she'd rendered him speechless, and she slid off, blazing a trail down his chest, to his navel, to the bristly hair on his lower abdomen.
Nuzzling through it, she laved and rooted, and he shifted uncomfortably, anxious for what she was promising.
It had been so very, very long since she had romped so indecently. Her entire being cried out with joy at unleashing her scandalous character. She leaned down and licked him, licked him again.
"Winnie," he cautioned, "I'm so aroused. If you take me in your mouth, I don't think I can restrain myself."
"I don't want you to restrain yourself," she insisted. Her pleading eyes linked with his. "Let me do this for you."
She didn't wait for his reply, knowing that as she proceeded, he would be in no condition to complain. She flickered over the crown, then opened wide and let him thrust. He tasted sublime, all heat and salt and male, and there was a musky flavor to him that seemed to have been created for her and her alone.
"Oh, God," he groaned, and he applied himself with a renewed stamina, then he froze, his torso stiff. He lunged. Once. Twice. Thrice. Then he spewed himself into her throat. She accepted all he had to give and more, reveling in every brazen, crude aspect of the wicked maneuver.
She kept him there, buried deep, until he exhaled. The urgency dissipated, his weight dropped into the mattress, his erection began to wane. Only then did she
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kiss up his stomach, his chest, needing to be snug in his arms.
No doubt, there were a thousand questions cascading through his mind: What type of spinster was she? Why wasn't she a virgin? What was the cause of her disgraceful level of morality? How could she tumble into his bed, with no comments being exchanged to lure her there?
She prayed that he was too much of a gentleman to pose any of them. She had few answers, and she imagined that, come the morn, she'd suffer shame and regret, but for now, she was elated, and perhaps a tad smug over the fact that she had reduced him to such a drastic situation.
Though she'd tried to deny this side of herself, her efforts had been in vain. While she was here with him, she wouldn't disavow what they'd just shared, wouldn't attempt to explain or rationalize it. She'd wanted the boisterous coupling, and she also wanted what would transpire now that it was over. The quiet companionship, the suggestive teasing, the serene contentment, was even more special to her.
As she wasn't ready to hear whatever he might say, she initiated a kiss so that he wouldn't speak. He joined in, his tongue toying with hers. When their lips separated, he declared, "I adore having the tang of my sex in your mouth."
Blushing, she was unsure of how to respond, and he saved her by scooting off the bed, walking to a table by the window and retrieving a glass of wine he'd been drinking. He brought it to her, rested a hip on the mattress and held it while she took several lengthy draughts.
"The storm woke me," he divulged, "and I saw you outside." He ruffled her hair. It was mussed and wet. "Are you cold?"
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"No." She shook her head, but he covered her with a blanket anyway, then he stood and removed his trousers, and she perused every detail as he tugged them down.
Slim and tall, handsome and fit, he was a fine specimen. He was slightly cocked, as though their frenzied frolicking hadn't allayed his lust, and he wasn't shy about prancing naked in front of her.
He pulled at the blanket and climbed under it, snuggling next to her and stretching out so that they were tangled together. She quivered with pleasure at the taut play of his muscles, the scratch of his coarse bodily hair on her smooth skin, and she cuddled him nearer, her hand on his buttocks, guiding their loins into closer contact.
"If you keep that up"—he flashed a salacious grin— "we won't have much of a chance to chat."
"So who said I want to chat?”
"Wildcat." For a protracted interval, he studied her, assessing her features as though trying to guess what made her tick, and he indelicately mentioned, "You're not a virgin."
"No, I'm not."
"Lucky for you." He chuckled, making the awkwardness of his statement easier to bear. "You bring out the beast in me, Miss Stewart. If you'd possessed a modicum of chastity, I'd likely have rent you in half."
"You couldn't have, milord. I'm hale and hearty."
"Edward," he chided. "Remember?"
"Yes, I remember," though she didn't want to use his given name, didn't want any excuses to further the emotional intimacy that was blooming at an alarming rate.
Nestling into the pillows, he slipped an arm around her shoulders. "How do you account for our attraction? I'm randy as an adolescent boy."
She reached down and stroked his phallus, and it leapt
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to attention. "There's not much of the lad in you. If asked, I would be forced to describe you as a vigorous, manly fellow."
"Stop that, you minx." Merrily, he slapped her hand away. "I must catch my breath. I'm forty-five, for God's sake. You can't expect me to fornicate like a rabbit."
She laughed, and relocated her naughty fingers to his bottom, which was an excellent spot to linger. "Considering your decrepit circumstance, I'll grant you a respite, but you shan't be permitted to dawdle too long."
"Yes, Your Majesty." He stole a quick kiss, then grew serious. "Tell me about the chap to whom you gifted your virginity. Is he still a part of your life?"
Evidently, he couldn't abide the thought of her being with another, and he was determined to have her confide that she had no beau.
What an hilarious notion.' That she—dull, dreary Winnie Stewart—could have a clandestine swain! The only way her existence could be more tedious was if she died!
"No." She blushed again. "It was many, many years ago."
"Did you love him?"
"Yes, I did. Madly and passionately. I was very young and foolish."
"But he never married you?"
"He couldn't."
The allusion to her old flame—the lord's son, Gerald, for whom she'd surrendered everything—disturbed her, and she was inundated with tears that she couldn't conceal.
How mortifying to have him witness her dolor!
"I don't want to talk about that time."
"I shouldn't have been so frank," he maintained. "I'm sorry."
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"Don't be. It's an old wound, but it has the power to hurt me more than it should."
"I can see that."
Some of her tears had overflowed, and he used the blanket to wipe them away, then he cradled her face and kissed each of her eyelids.
The gesture was so precious and so poignant that it was all she could do to keep from bursting into a prolonged bout of weeping.
She needed to inject some levity, to change the subject to a less traumatic topic. Reasserting her composure, she smiled. "And how about you? Have you ever been in love?"
He reflected on her inquiry. "I believed I was, once, when I was a youth, but no. I never have been."
"Not even with your wife?"
"We were very good friends."
It was a dismal admission. Men of his station married for many reasons, none of which ever involved affection, but how bleak for him that he'd never experienced the satisfaction love could render!
"If you marry Olivia," she broached, "do you suppose you'll develop strong feelings for her?"
He scoffed. "I can't guess how. She and I have nothing in common."
"How sad for you both."
Though her relationship with Gerald had broken her heart, and wrecked her life, she wouldn't have traded that period for anything. She'd kn
own rapture and bliss to an extent few ever encountered. It had been the sole time she'd felt truly alive.
"Do you regret not having had children?"
"Very much. I was eager to have a few jolly urchins running around this drafty mansion." He lay on his back and pressed her cheek to his chest. "May I confess a
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secret? But you must swear that you won't inform Olivia or Margaret."
"Of course, Edward."
"I have two children."
"Really?" Stunned by the news, she rose up on an elbow so that she could look at him.
"I've shocked you."
"No," she lied. "I'd just never heard any rumors." And she couldn't fathom that Margaret hadn't unearthed the tidings. The woman liked to wax on over how she'd discovered every aspect to be gleaned.
"It happened before I was married. They're adults now."
"Who was their mother?"
"A girl who was employed as a housemaid. She was so vivacious, and we were crazy for each other." He frowned, as if unable to credit the past. "She's been dead for many a year."
"Are they here at the estate?"
"My son is. He's my stablemaster. His name is Phillip."
"Will you introduce him to me?"
He seemed surprised that she would be interested. "I would like that."
"And the other child is a daughter?"
"Yes. Anne."
"Where is she?"
"She lives near Bath. She's quite a modern, independent woman, or so I'm told."
"You're not certain?"
"I haven't seen her since she was three." It was his turn to blush. "I behaved very badly toward them. They left the estate shortly before I wed, and they fended for themselves, without my assistance. I don't presume Anne likes me very much—if she thinks of me at all. I've never sought her out."
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She couldn't conceive of having a daughter, but having no connection with her. Her decision to relinquish Rebecca was a constant thorn that pricked at her, and if she knew where the girl was, she would venture any hazard, overcome any obstacle, to be with her.
"What is preventing you?"
"I'm a coward. I have no other excuse."
"If I were you, I would mount my horse tomorrow, and I wouldn't stop until I was in her yard and down on my knees, apologizing for all the damage I'd done."
"You would, wouldn't you?" He grinned. "I wish I had your mettle."
"I wish / had your children."
Their conversation pained her, for it goaded her maternal and womanly instincts to guide and counsel, to soothe and advise, making her yearn to be his wife.
The longing was so potent, it was almost a tangible object between them. It spurred her to want to be dear to him. For all his wealth and rank, his fame and notoriety, he was lonely and so was she, and with their exceptional camaraderie, and their sizzling physical affinity, they were infinitely compatible.
She could love him so easily, and the idea terrified her.
The most ludicrous flight of fancy came over her; she imagined them together, rapt and content, in their golden years. The vision was so vivid, and so distinct, that it was frightening. It had her anxious to determine if she could bring that cheery future to fruition, which made it the most pathetic example of sentimental whimsy she'd ever contemplated.
Once prior, she had frivolously cavorted, and she'd deluded herself into assuming that the impossible could occur. From the outset, she'd understood that Gerald could never marry her, but she'd forged onward, her zeal and fantasies nullifying her discretion.
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Her irrational ambitions had destroyed any number of lives, and she'd thought that she'd acquired a smidgen of wisdom from her idiocy, but apparently she hadn't, for she was lying in Edward's arms and conjuring up all manner of outrageous, impractical scenarios.
Would she never learn from her mistakes?
Not only had she philandered with Edward, but she'd flaunted her licentious nature, leaving him with no doubts as to her character. She'd cuckolded Olivia, had perhaps jeopardized Olivia's chances to make the match. After all, why would Edward marry into a family one of whose members was so loose?
And if he did choose Olivia, where would Winnie go? What would she do?
She couldn't remain at Salisbury, as she'd hoped. She would never be able to face Olivia or Margaret. She'd be too embarrassed to join them at the supper table or for holiday festivities. Always, always, always, the memories of this incident would cloud her interactions with them.
Would her lustful tendencies forever rule her? She could no longer blame her inclinations on youth or naïveté, so what pretext could she use to justify what she'd done?
She sighed. It was so difficult to chastise herself when she treasured every second of what was transpiring.
First thing in the morning, she scolded. The personal reproachment could begin at dawn. For now, she would flirt and trifle, would cuddle and pretend that he was hers. Daybreak would arrive soon enough.
"Are you sufficiently rested, you old roué?"
He barked out a laugh.
"Yes, you bawdy wench." His gaze was alight with mirth. "I'll show you what we aging libertines can accomplish, when we set our minds to it."
Covering her, he spread her thighs so that his newly
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aroused member could find its way, and with scant effort, he slid into her. She raised her legs and locked her feet behind.
Placing her hands on either side of her head, he linked their fingers, then he started to move. It was breathtaking, sweet, exquisite, the most tender union of heart and soul that two people could ever have achieved.
Their ardor spiraled at the same rate, though on this occasion—with their initial passion sated—the pace was gradual, leisurely, allowing them to enjoy each step of the climb to gratification. But as Edward's corporeal tension mounted, her fear crested.
During their earlier sexual interlude, she'd pleasured him with her mouth, but she couldn't risk his finishing between her legs.
"Edward, promise me something." "My dearest Winnie, you may have whatever is within my ability to bestow."
"Don't spill yourself in me. I would have your vow before we go any further."
He halted his deliberate thrusting, peering at her with fondness and another emotion—love, she wondered?—shining in his eyes. "I won't. I swear it to you."
His hips resumed their methodical work, and when her orgasm overwhelmed her, he withdrew and emptied himself on her stomach. The smells of sweat and sex permeated the air, and he held her till their skin cooled, then he slipped away and went into the next room. When he emerged, he was carrying a water pitcher and a bowl. He set them on a dresser, dipped a cloth and came to her, wiping away the stain of his seed.
Once more, he nestled with her, dragging the blankets over them both. She was spooned with him, his front curled around her so that she was encompassed by his warmth.
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He yawned, and behind her ear, she could sense him smiling.
"I'm happy," he murmured.
"I'm glad."
"Stay with me."
"For as long as I'm able."
His respirations slowed, and he slept. She lay very still, cherishing the moment, memorizing each and every detail so that she would never forget.
What about tomorrow?
Try as she might to shove the question aside, it wouldn't go away.
Where he was concerned, she had no willpower, and she'd be burning to consort with him whenever she had the opportunity. Theirs was an irrevocable, unavoidable attraction, and she'd betrayed Olivia this terrible, remarkable time, but she couldn't do so again.
He'd made no mention of any tryst beyond this one, nor would she have expected him to, but she couldn't bear to think of running into him while she was strolling the grounds or loitering on the verandah.
She had to travel on to London, as abruptly and quietly as a trip could be arranged. As she had no money wi
th which to pay for the journey, she would have to confer with Margaret, which meant devising a subterfuge that would encourage her cousin to send her home.
She didn't know what prevarication she would utilize, but she had the balance of the evening to reflect upon it.
Carefully, she crept off the bed and donned her robe. Her torn negligee was on the floor, and Satan himself must have been perched on her shoulder, for she wadded it up and tucked it next to him, partly hidden by
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the pillows, but with enough sticking out so that he would notice it as soon as he awoke.
"A souvenir, my darling man," she whispered with a last, yearning look. "Thank you for what you gave me this night."
She tiptoed to the door, peeked out, and sneaked away.
Chapter Ten
Freddy Blaine sat at his desk and browsed through the stack of bills that had been delivered from London.
He hadn't realized he'd spent so much during his visit to the city. He recalled purchasing a few sets of clothes, had bought a new horse, but the rest of it...
Well.
Cash disappeared so fast, and he had a deuce of a time holding on to it While he didn't feel he had extravagant tastes, it was so difficult to get by on the meager allowance granted by his oldest brother, Henry. Not that he could complain. In light of his sibling's penny-pinching ways, it was a miracle he received any stipend at all, so he was in no position to gripe or protest.
If Henry were to have an inkling that Freddy wasn't grateful, he was petty enough to cut off funding, so Freddy trod a fine line. He had to be fawning and obsequious to the whiny miser, feigning affection and goodwill, while privately he seethed and plotted.
Image mattered above all else, so he liked to be viewed as a gentleman of substance. He couldn't have others looking down on him, gossiping, or thumbing their noses over his penury.
How he hated poverty!
It was the devil being the sixth son of a baronet. The ancestral estate was small and insignificant, and his irresponsible father had sired twelve children, nine of whom were boys. The three girls had succeeded in marrying,
