by Diane Gaston
He covered her with his body, dipping down to kiss her as she parted her legs and prayed he would not delay in fulfilling her desire for him. When the male part of him touched her most sensitive place she thought she might cry out. She wanted more, much more.
But he stopped.
She wanted to weep. Not again!
He looked her directly in the eye. ‘Are you certain of this?’
‘Yes. Yes,’ she cried.
‘Do you know what to do to prevent a baby?’ he asked.
A baby could be prevented? She’d had no idea.
‘Of course I know,’ she lied.
Not even the risk of a baby would make her stop now.
She thought how glorious it would be if a baby grew inside her from this. His baby. This might be her only chance. Tomorrow she could ask Blanche what women did to prevent babies.
She stared into his eyes. ‘I am very certain of this.’
He stroked her skin until she felt like bursting with the pleasure of it. His hand closed on her breast and sensation shot straight to between her legs where the aching grew more intense. She gasped in delight.
He slid down her body and his tongue tasted her nipple, causing sensations she never could have imagined. She buried her hands in his hair and hoped he would not stop. Writhing beneath him, she heard sounds of pleasure escape her lips.
His hand flattened against her abdomen, and she remembered the magic his fingers created when he’d touched her most intimately. Part of her yearned for him to repeat that bliss, now—but even more she wanted to give him pleasure. Would a man find touching as thrilling as she did?
She decided to find out. ‘Lie on your back,’ she whispered.
He glanced at her in surprise, but complied.
‘Your turn,’ she murmured.
Her hand shook before she touched his skin and dared to explore him as he’d done to her. His skin was rough with the dark hair that peppered his chest and his arms and legs. She remembered how firm his muscles had felt beneath his skin and again savoured the strength they represented.
The light was dim in her bedchamber, coming only from the glow of coals in her fireplace and the flame of the sconce in the hall, but she could see what a beautiful man he was. She wanted to rejoice aloud that she was again feasting upon the sight of him, revelling in the feel of him, and that she was soon to be joined with him.
She felt giddy with excitement at what was to transpire between them. No longer afraid to be wanton, she relished each sensation. She was unafraid of offending him or seducing him. Let him prose on about duty this time; she would not listen to it.
She cared only that he said he wanted to make love with her. He said he’d hoped for it. He desired her, he said. She’d take him at his word, because she wanted this and wanted nothing to stop her from getting the pleasure he could bring.
She slipped her hand down the length of his chest to where his male member had grown large and hard for her. She clasped him in her palm and explored that most mysterious part of him.
He groaned. ‘That is torture.’
‘Oh!’ She released him. ‘I did not know it would hurt you.’
He took her hand and pressed her fingers around him again. ‘I did not say to stop.’
So she did not stop until he took her hand away and turned her on her back. ‘I cannot wait.’
‘Then do not,’ she murmured. Indeed, she was eager for what came next.
She parted her legs and his fingers slipped inside her and she began to understand what he’d meant about torture.
She, too, did not wish this torture to stop.
Suddenly he withdrew his fingers and was on top of her, ready to enter her. Her heart raced in panic or excitement, she didn’t know which, as he pushed into her, little by little, gentle strokes that she somehow knew she didn’t need or desire.
She lifted her hips and suddenly he pushed inside her, filling her completely.
Yes, she felt like saying. At last, but words were impossible in the moment.
He moved against her, and she marvelled at the new feeling, something else that had been beyond her imagination. She wanted it never to stop, this exquisite agony, this tormenting bliss.
Somehow she knew to move with him, and a rhythm formed between them, like a dance for which she’d never needed lessons. Their dance grew faster and faster and more and more frenzied, and her need grew as well, until it suddenly seemed unbearable.
She wanted to weep and wail that this almost-pain, almost-pleasure was too difficult to bear. She wanted it to stop, but was incapable of stopping.
Then, all of a sudden, there was an explosion of sensation, inconceivable waves of pleasure, leaving her gasping and writhing beneath him. He pushed into her even harder and she felt him shudder inside her, spilling his seed.
When his body relaxed he slid to her side, but still held her close. ‘Marian,’ he moaned.
She sat up on an elbow so she could look at him. ‘Was that how it was supposed to be?’
‘That was how it was supposed to be.’ He was still breathing hard. ‘But much, much better.’
She lay back with a satisfied sigh.
From the other room, Edwin’s snores again reached their ears. They both burst into laughter.
‘I dread him waking,’ she murmured.
‘I should resume my post before he does,’ he said.
‘No. Stay with me.’ She snuggled against him, and he held her close.
Marian felt a lassitude that was again new and unexpected. Her eyes grew heavy and she felt at peace, but she fought sleep. She did not want to miss a moment of being next to him.
‘Marian?’ His voice rumbled in his chest.
‘Mmm?’ she responded.
‘We must marry.’
She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘Not again.’
‘I can explain my reasoning.’
She sat up and gathered the linens around her. ‘I know your reasoning. You will say you have a duty to marry me because you made love to me, even though I freely chose to do so.’ Could he not merely savour the experience? Must he spoil it?
The captain sat behind her, tucking her close against him and enfolding her in his arms. ‘It is the right thing for us to do.’
‘No, Captain.’ Her voice cracked with emotion.
‘Why not?’ He nuzzled the sensitive skin of her neck.
She moved away and climbed out of bed. ‘Too many reasons.’ She groped for her nightdress and slipped it over her head.
‘Name one of them.’
She walked to the window. The main reason was one she could not tell him. She was planning an act of sedition and it was his job to hang her for it.
She searched for another explanation. ‘I have no wish to be the sort of conventional, society wife you will need if you wish to be an M.P.’
He was silent for a long moment and she knew he was forced to agree with her. ‘Perhaps that will not matter so much,’ he finally said.
She leaned her head against the cool glass of the window. This time there was no Edwin or Uncle Tranville to shatter their plans. This time it was Marian putting the sledgehammer to the glass.
‘It is hopeless, Captain,’ she whispered.
Allan embraced her from behind, treasuring the feel of her skin against his, even as he forced himself to listen to what she said. True, her unconventional, impulsive nature was not an asset in gaining a seat in Commons, but she was not a social pariah either. Voters would accept her. Perhaps they would even love her as he did.
She could not deny that they belonged together. Fate had brought them together because they completed each other, filled each other’s empty spaces. Whatever else threatened to separate them, they would simply have to conquer, because, even if a battle raged around them, even if flaming roofs caved in on them or farmers threatened them with axes, they were better together.
This time he refused to give up. ‘Allow me to court you, Marian. Let us see what happens.�
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Before she could answer him, footsteps sounded on the street below. He leaned forwards to see out the window.
Two men approached Yost’s door.
‘What is this?’ Why would men come to Yost’s door in the middle of the night?
‘I do not know,’ she replied breathlessly, although he’d not meant to direct the question to her.
Allan’s muscles tensed as he waited to see if the men would be admitted. He could only see the tops of their heads from this high vantage point, but he heard the door open and they seemed to converse with someone. They were admitted and, at the same time, a woman left the house.
‘It is Blanche!’ Marian whispered.
Allan moved away from the window and searched for his clothes. ‘I am more concerned about the men entering his house than Blanche leaving it. Do you know of any reason he should have callers in the middle of the night?’
‘Of course I do not know.’ Her voice was clipped. ‘He is merely a neighbour and dinner guest.’
Allan managed to don his trousers and shirt as he heard Blanche’s footsteps on the servants’ stairs. He stepped out into the hall to grab his boots.
Blanche appeared and froze when she saw him. ‘I—I could not sleep. I was below stairs for a while.’
‘You were at Yost’s,’ Allan said.
‘Yes, I visited Mr Yost.’ She averted her head.
Marian stood in the bedroom doorway.
‘Am I discharged?’ Blanche asked her.
Marian went to her. ‘Oh, Blanche, of course you are not discharged! What should I do without you? If you and Mr Yost are lovers, I am certain that is a fine thing.’
‘What do you know of his activities, Mrs Nunn?’ Allan asked. ‘Who were those men?’
She glanced at Marian before answering. ‘I do not know what you mean. I do not know those men or why they knocked on his door.’
The sconce’s candle illuminated her anxious expression.
He gave her an intent look. ‘If Yost is involved in something nefarious, I would not like for you to be caught up in it.’ This was true enough, just not his main motivation.
Blanche looked from him to Marian and back. ‘Did you see the men from up here?’
Her implication was clear. She knew he had been in Marian’s bedchamber, and, to judge by his present appearance, not entirely clothed at that.
The silence after her question was suddenly broken by the rattling of Edwin’s doorknob.
‘Hey, there,’ Edwin called from within. ‘Unlock this door.’
Chapter Fifteen
‘Do not open the door,’ Allan whispered. ‘Talk to him first. See if the drink is worn off.’
The doorknob rattled again, more violently this time. ‘Where am I?’ Edwin cried. ‘I heard voices. Open the door! Somebody open the door.’
Marian leaned against it. ‘It is Marian. And I am not opening the door unless I know you are in your right senses.’
‘Marian?’ He sounded surprised. ‘I’m sick, Marian. My head hurts like the devil.’ He rattled the knob. ‘Why is the door locked?’
She looked at Allan.
He shrugged. ‘He slept a long time, and sounds safe enough.’ He edged towards her room. ‘Best he not see me.’ Especially half undressed. ‘I’ll duck in here. I’m close enough to come to your aid, if need be.’
‘One moment, Edwin,’ she said through the door.
Allan stepped inside Marian’s room and kept out of sight while he searched for his coat and waistcoat.
He heard Marian turn the key in the lock.
Edwin’s voice became louder. ‘Why did you lock me in there, Marian?’
‘Because you came to my house out of your mind with drink, that’s why,’ Marian replied sharply. ‘That was very bad of you, Edwin.’
‘Stop yelling,’ he whined. ‘My head hurts. I need something to make it feel better. Do you have any brandy?’
‘I am most certainly not giving you brandy!’
Blanche spoke up. ‘Perhaps a little ale would do? A little watered-down ale used to help my husband the day after drinking. Shall I fetch some?’
Not too much, Allan thought. He found his neckcloth and just draped it around his neck. He donned his waistcoat and coat without bothering to button them.
‘Very well,’ Marian answered Blanche. Marian addressed Edwin again. ‘Go into the room and sit. I’ll be in as soon as I’ve put on a robe.’
‘Do not lock me in again,’ he demanded.
Allan stuffed his stockings inside his boots.
‘I won’t.’ Marian told him. ‘See? I’ll leave the door open a crack. Go inside and light some candles from the fire.’
A moment later she slipped into her bedchamber.
Allan caught her arm. ‘He seems controlled enough,’ he whispered. ‘I’m going to sneak out before he discovers I am here.’ He wrapped his arms around her. ‘I intend to court you, Marian. And marry you.’
‘Captain—’ she began in a warning tone.
‘No argument.’ He gave her a swift kiss.
Allan peered out of the door to make certain Edwin was not in the hallway, and gave Marian one more glance before slipping out of the room. Carrying his boots, he quickly made it to the servants’ stairs he’d seen Blanche use earlier.
When he entered the hall, he encountered Blanche carrying the ale and a candle. He liked the woman and certainly did not wish to see her be hurt if her lover was a saboteur.
He nodded to her.
‘Wait a moment, Mr Landon.’ She placed the ale on the stairs. ‘I will lock the door behind you.’
He lifted his boots to show her he needed time to put them on. He sat upon the stairs to do it.
She watched him silently.
He crossed the hall as quietly as he could and she opened the door for him.
‘Take care, Mrs Nunn,’ he said.
He started to leave, but she put a hand on his sleeve. ‘Mr Landon, I will tell no one about you being in Marian’s room.’
‘Thank you.’ He could at least promise not to tell Sidmouth she was Yost’s lover.
When she closed the door behind him, he took a few steps and stopped in front of Yost’s house. There was no sign from the front of a candle burning, no sign anyone was there. He decided to check the back. If he could get close enough, maybe he could see the faces of the men through a window.
He found the backs of the row of houses. Yost’s house was the third from the end, Marian’s, the second. All had walled gardens.
‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ he said to himself, climbing the first wall.
Allan made it to the top. The easiest way to reach Yost’s garden was to walk along the top of the walls. If anyone happened to be looking out their window at this hour, they’d easily see him.
He decided to try none the less.
Holding his arms out like a rope walker, he followed the narrow wall to the third garden and flattened himself on the top so he would be less visible. One window showed the glow of light.
He jumped down from the wall and a cat screeched. His heart nearly seized. Shrinking back into the shadows, he watched the lighted window to see if the curtains moved. They were still. Releasing a tense breath, he picked his way to the back of the house.
The window was too high and there was nothing he could climb on to peer in. He hated to turn back now. He sidled to the back door and tested the knob.
It was unlocked.
Before he thought too much about it, he slipped inside the house and found his way to the first floor. Finding the room where Yost and the two men were talking was not difficult. Its door was slightly ajar and the voices carried into the hallway.
Allan recognised Yost’s voice. ‘So, you will meet the other organisers at the appointed place in two nights. The date is set.’
He heard chairs scrape against the floor. They were leaving! Allan ducked into a room across from this one. Its darkness concealed him. Yost carried a candle into the ha
llway, and Allan caught a glimpse of the two men’s faces. They walked on to the stairway.
Allan waited as they descended. He could make out from the barest outline of a table and chairs that he stood in the dining room. Where Yost would take his meals. And serve invited guests.
Of which he was not one.
Allan had invaded another man’s house, just as Luddites had once invaded his father’s house. He felt sick.
Hearing Yost bid his guests farewell in the hall, Allan roused himself to make a dash for the back stairway, hurrying all the way to the ground floor and out the back door. He crept along the wall until finding a place to climb it. Then running, as if he were on the ground and not a surface the width of a brick, he retraced his steps. At the last house, he jumped down and brushed off his clothing.
At that moment, the two men turned the corner and Allan shrank into the shadows. They crossed Quebec Street and headed towards Oxford Street. Still feeling as if he ought to be hauled before a magistrate, Allan followed them.
They walked to a tavern in the North Bruton mews near Berkeley Square. Allan waited several minutes before following them inside. With luck he found a table nearby with a wooden barrier between so they could not see him. He ordered ale from the bar and carried it to his seat.
Much of the conversation between the two men was in tones so hushed Allan could not hear them. As they continued to drink, their voices became louder.
‘The day is near,’ one said. ‘Let us drink to our success.’
‘To our successful march!’
As he suspected: a march was planned.
They began to speculate as to who was the organising force behind the march, the real leader of it.
‘It is not Yost, that is certain,’ said one. ‘He always speaks of someone else.’
His companion responded. ‘Well, the leader is not Hunt. Hunt is staying out of it.’
‘Has to be Yost,’ the first man said firmly. ‘Even though he denies it, he is it. Who else could it be?’
Indeed. Who else? Allan cupped his tankard of ale and stared into its contents. He didn’t want to report Yost. He liked the man.
