Total Surrender

by Cheryl Holt

  Already, he'd grown bored with the proceedings that Pamela had instituted and the situations she'd convinced him to try. The available lovers were as jaded as himself, and surprisingly, he missed the closeness and spark that should have come with making love, so he'd readily consented to indoctrinate this novice but, in light of the manifest level of her upset, he had to admit that something was seriously awry.

  She hardly resembled a reticent, demure paramour. Instead of a lonely female awaiting a bit of subdued loveplay, she appeared overwrought, shocked, outraged, and—if the murderous gleam in her eye was any indication—ready to kill.

  Typically, he disdained the bored, unhappy aristocratic noblewomen who had filled Pamela's country house to overflowing. He detested their loose morals and their lewd, lascivious lifestyles. They were pathetic in the lengths to which they would go to find diversion from their tedium.

  With no conscience and no integrity, they would commit any contemptible act. They saw nothing wrong with cuckolding their husbands, with carrying on indiscreet liaisons, or fornicating with little concern as to whether they bred children not fathered by their spouses.

  His aversion to them was only surpassed by his disgust for their husbands, those lazy, impotent peers of the realm who drank and wagered and debauched without regard to the consequences. They assumed they had a God-given right to inflict themselves on the rest of the world.

  In London, he and his brother, James, owned a gaming j

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  club where they pandered to and coddled the slothful lords. Those earls and barons couldn't keep their blunt in their wallets or their cocks in their trousers, and he and James catered to their base whims, which was undeniably the reason their business was so popular.

  If he'd been in town at the moment, he'd have been hard at work, ensuring that there was adequate liquor and food available, so that the exalted gentlemen would be comfortable while they complacently gambled away their estates and their children's inheritances.

  How he despised them all!

  They were men of no principles or ethics, who would spout their accursed code of honor until they choked on it, but deep down, they were blackguards and cads with nary a scruple, so he was more than happy to have sexual relations with their willing wives, which was why he'd traveled to Bedford.

  Whenever one of their spouses beckoned, he was entirely agreeable. In any manner, in any fashion, as Often and savagely as they could bear it, he'd dabble with them, heedless as to the damage he might leave in his wake, because in his opinion, they deserved every bit of misery he was able to mete out.

  So he wasn't exactly sure what had gone wrong this time. He'd been invited to the damned room. Asked to watch. Asked to fondle. Asked to fuck. And all he'd gotten for it was a cockstand so excruciating he could barely walk, and a crack on the skull that had nearly put him out. As it was, he'd probably end up with a stitch or two in his cheek before the night was through.

  Bloody, wretched woman! Didn't she know better than to trifle with a precariously aroused man?

  Though he'd never been the sort to raise a hand to a female, he had half a mind to take her over his knee. In his present mood, the chance to deliver a good thrashing— especially to someone as reckless and idiotic as she appeared to be—sounded like a fabulous idea.

  22 Cheryl Holt

  He stepped into the room. "Would you please lower your voice before someone hears you?"

  "Stay back!" she commanded again, wielding her makeshift weapon, and she lifted one of her dainty feet as if she might actually wade into the sea of broken glass surrounding her.

  Marvelous! Just what he needed, both of them cut and bleeding! Perhaps he should send down to the kitchens for a physician and the thread to sew them up!

  "Are you mad?" he barked, but softly. Taking into account his dubious position with these illustrious personages, he never made a public scene, and he wasn't about to start, yet she didn't seem overly concerned about the opinion of others.

  Not inclined to make matters worse, he threw aside the cloth he'd pressed to his wound, then he stormed toward her until they were toe to toe. A piece of glass pierced his heel, but he was so angry that the pain barely registered. "Give me that!"

  He reached for the fractured decanter and yanked it away, hurling it into the nearby hearth where it clanked undramatically against the bricks. She squealed in protest and twirled to run, but he grabbed her from behind, slipping an arm around her waist and lifting her up. As he swung her out of the pool of shards and slivers, she struggled to escape, administering a swift kick to his shin that had him wincing, but, for the most part, her efforts were ineffectual.

  The only true damage was to his abused, overinflated phallus, but it wasn't physical injury he was suffering. Their awkward position had deposited her shapely ass directly against his groin, and his cock swelled further and cried out for an excuse to finish what they'd started.

  God, but he wanted her!

  The woman possessed no secrets. From the beginning, when she'd entered the dressing room and tested the temperature of the bathwater, he'd been spying on her through the tiny hole affixed to me wall between their rooms.

  The antiquated mansion was notorious in its design, a

  Total Surrender 23

  veritable lecher's treasure trove of concealed rooms, secluded hallways, and peepholes so that when she'd pulled off her chemise, he'd seen all: the graceful legs, the curved hips, the crimson hair shielding her pussy, the pert breasts with their beaded nipples.

  She was a ravishing woman, with that spectacular hair, those cheekbones, that cute nose with its upturned tip. And that mouth! With its wicked tongue! How he longed to learn how adept it could be when she wasn't busy using it to spew sass and issue orders.

  As she'd deliberately and languidly stripped herself bare then knelt in the tub, seductively scrubbing her private places, she'd seemed an intriguing mix of innocence and experience, wholesome yet tantalizing. Knowing he was watching—or so he'd believed—she'd presented a sensual, galvanizing exhibition that could only have been designed to titillate and inflame. The interlude had been the most erotic he'd ever witnessed in a lifetime that had been filled with naughty sexual activity.

  Remarkably, the most intriguing segment had been when she'd lain back in the water with her head tipped against the rim and her eyelids had fluttered closed.

  While she'd slept, she'd appeared young, ingenuous, and removed from the worries that had marred her face when she'd first arrived. She snored, and he couldn't help chuckling at the memory, or speculating as to how indiscreet she'd deem him to be if he mentioned it.

  Unwonted emotion had tugged at his heartstrings as she'd slumbered so serenely. What had brought her to Bedford and Pamela's indecent party? What horrid episode had transpired that would make hef presume the gathering would rectify her woes?

  She doesn 't belong here.

  The conviction had spiraled through his mind over and over again, and he'd been overwhelmed by the perception that he understood more about her than he properly ought, that he could sense things about her he had no reason to distinguish. Absurdly, he was desperate to keep her safe

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  from harm, and he'd nearly persuaded himself that he'd be doing her an enormous favor if he spirited her away.

  Eventually, he'd shaken off the ludicrous notion. Spurred by unfathomable motives, the woman had summoned him upstairs, which meant she was a pampered, amoral member of the ton who had come to Pamela's abode of sin and vice of her own accord, and who was downright eager to enjoy the licentious amusements the lady rendered to her guests.

  Pamela habitually catered to the male libertines and roués of High Society, as well as to their degenerate women, so he was inordinately familiar with this termagant's type of debased disposition, and he'd relished the idea of having her.

  There was a deceptive air about her that fascinated him; she was natural yet beguiling, and he'd calculated that
copulation with her would be a refreshing development, that she would bring something to his sexual intercourse that had been lacking for a long while. By doing nothing at all, she fomented a diverse jumble of sentiment that had him craving more than a heedless carnal encounter.

  Perhaps his heart had not turned to stone, after all.

  With a great deal of excitement and anticipation, he'd approached her, enthusiastic to dispense the sensual attention she'd requested, while anxious to obtain a nebulous, but undeniable, benefit in return. He'd silently observed as she'd awakened and dried herself, scrupulously evaluating her saucy breasts, her rounded ass, and ultimately determining that she would be a perfect partner for the ribald sorts of libidinous recreation he enjoyed.

  Initially, with her exclamations of shock and insult at his appearance, he'd thought she was playacting. So many of them did, feeling the need to blunt their depravity by feigning umbrage. As they'd studied their joint reflections in the mirror, she'd been so curious, so responsive and receptive, but as he'd moved to the next level, as he'd suckled at her supple breast, he'd received the distinct impression

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  that she was unprepared for what she'd initiated, which left him totally bewildered.

  Unceremoniously, he dumped her on the bed and tossed her towel after her.

  "Cover yourself."

  She hastily complied, but the towel wasn't wide enough to suit her purposes, and trembling, she cowered beneath it He glanced about until he located a green robe draped over a chair; he retrieved it, and pitched it to her.

  "Put this on," he dictated, then he showed her his back while searching the walls for peepholes. Behind him, he noted her hesitation, then she hurriedly moved about on the bed. When the mattress shifted and her feet hit the floor, he spun around.

  Mercy, but she was an erotic sight, with that splendid hair curling across her shoulders. She'd cinched the robe's belt at her waist, and the fabric flawlessly outlined her magnificent body, her graceful hips, her pouty breasts with those tempting nipples. Their discord had elevated her pulse and flushed her cheeks to a flattering rose color.

  Their gazes linked and held. Though she was shaking like a skittish colt, she meant to stand her ground.

  "Who is your husband?" he quietly demanded.

  "I'm not married."

  "You're a widow?"

  "No. I've never wed."

  "You're single?"

  "Yes."

  Tersely, he bit out, "Then why did you ask me here?"

  "Me? Ask you?"

  "If you didn't plan an assignation, why invite me to your room? Are you so naive that you don't appreciate how dangerous it is to dabble with a man when you've no intention of following through?"

  "You believe that I'm the kind of woman who would..." Aghast, she sputtered. "That I... that I..."

  Apparently, she couldn't utter the words that would describe the type of person he suspected her of being. A nig-

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  gling wave of doubt swamped him, "You fancied me. You specifically propositioned me."

  "You wretched bounder!" Thoroughly insulted, her stunning emerald eyes glimmered heatedly. She clutched at the lapels of her robe. "How dare you concoct such a wild story!"

  Taking her measure, he carefully scrutinized her affront. He was a good judge of character and always had been. In his line of employment, he had to regularly assess veracity and temperament, and he was convinced she was telling the truth. She had neither solicited him nor procured his services.

  So,,who was the blond emissary who had lured him to her? And why? Clearly, someone hoped to set a carnal trap. But for him? Or for her? And to what end?

  Abruptly and gravely apprehensive, he raced to the door and locked it.

  "What are you doing?" she queried, but he ignored her.

  A painting hung on the wall, and he lifted it off its hook. Sure enough, there was a partially hidden peephole that would have allowed a voyeur to lurk in the hall and peek inside. He flipped the artwork upside down, and the opening was effectively shielded.

  After a meticulous search of that wall and another, he discovered no more holes. The third wall faced the exterior of the house and the fourth, the inner dressing room, so they couldn't possibly contain any. The only other entrance—the door to his adjoining bedchamber—was barred from within. For now, they were relatively secure. No one could fortuitously stumble upon them in a compromising situation.

  Wary and determined, he confronted her, once again. "Who are you?”

  "I don't wish to say, and if we should ever have the misfortune to meet a second time, I insist that you pretend you don't know who I am."

  "Not bloody likely."

  He stomped over to her, and she straightened, distressed

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  yet striving to appear brave. Angrily, he stared her down until it gradually dawned on him that a strange energy was sparking between them, their bodies extending out to one another, and he grimaced with dismay. He didn't want to be attracted to her!

  As a man vastly experienced with women, he readily recognized that they shared an acute physical affinity. Whether she emitted a covert signal or radiated a particular chemistry, he couldn't explain the phenomenon, but she aroused him as no other could, and he hastily squelched the bizarre erotic realization. At present, he had bigger problems to mull than an asinine, unwarranted amorous bond.

  "Do you have any idea"—his hushed tone was scathing—"what would have happened if we'd been discovered just now?"

  The question startled her. Evidently, she'd been so overwhelmed that she hadn't had the opportunity to reflect upon the momentous consequences. "What do you mean? Are you suggesting that someone aimed to catch us?"

  "Your name, madam. If you please." Mutinously, she returned his glare but didn't reply. "Fine. Then tell me this: Who is a blond woman in attendance? She's about your age, petite but shapely, with big blue eyes." And fabulous breasts, he nearly appended, but he wouldn't describe her by such a crass method.

  After a lengthy hesitation while she weighed all the angles, she retorted, "Probably my cousin. Why?"

  So ... she had a family member on the premises who proposed personal mischief. Interesting and terrifying! He was an expert at ferreting out suspicious facts and histories; he did it systematically at the club where he frequently unearthed the sordid details of their customers' lives. There were many ways to untangle this debacle.

  "No reason," he responded enigmatically, which caused her to bristle.

  "Why did you inquire?" she decreed authoritatively as

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  though she spent her days expounding proclamations that were instantly obeyed.

  "I shan't confess, milady." Menacingly, he towered over her. He was purposely trying to intimidate with his size, but k wasn't working. "And might I recommend mat you refrain from ordering me about? I'm not one of the lowly minions in your orbit who will leap to do your bidding."

  "What is your name?"

  "Michael Stevens."

  He braced for the predictable sign of recognition ... but

  none followed. Because of his gaming establishment, and

  the notoriety of his parentage, he was so infamous in her

  circles that he was inevitably identified and gossiped about

  wherever he went. The fact that she was clueless as to his

  renown was definitely a puzzle.

  His mother was the celebrated actress Angela Ford, and his ass of a father, the wealthy and illustrious Earl of Spencer, Edward Stevens. Michael and his brother had to be the two most conspicuous bastard sons ever conceived. How could she not know? Had she been raised in a cave?

  "Why are you here at Lady Carrington's party?" he snapped.

  "I'm on holiday." Churlishly, she added, "Not that my schedule is any of your concern."

  "Madam, I just mistakenly had my mouth on your breast, and my hand up your twat. I'd say that makes everything a
bout you my business."

  "How utterly crude of you to mention what transpired!"

  Irritated, and tired of whatever plot someone was hatching, he harshly retorted, "I didn't hear you complaining."

  "Are you implying that I instigated this fiasco? You despicable cad!" Steam was literally shooting out of her ears as she jabbed a finger in the center of his chest. "I didn't! I told you to leave! I advised you from the first, but you wouldn't listen! How dare you insinuate otherwise!"

  Although he was loam to admit it, she was correct, and he burned with chagrin. He'd thought her introductory, tepid denials had been an eccentric version of lovemaking,

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  and despite how much he'd like to lash out, the debacle was scarcely her fault.

  "You're right, of course. My apologies."

  "Thank you." At her acceptance of his olive branch, her gaze united with his as she entreated, "What do we do now?"

  “Now... I get the hell out of here." But he instantly atoned for his rough language. "Beggin' your pardon, milady."

  "You won't discuss this with anyone, will you?"

  "No."

  "Swear it."

  "I swear."

  Her eyes were open wide, analyzing, delving far inside to the spot where his black heart beat its steady rhythm. "How can I trust you?"

  "My word is my bond."

  "But you said yourself that you're no gentleman."

  "Nevertheless, I never make a vow unless I mean to honor it."

  Gad, but when she looked at him like that, she was so exceptional. Fetching, impressionable, defenseless, she inspired a myriad of masculine instincts to protect and shelter, and he yearned to wrap his arms around her, to hold her close while whispering that everything would be all right. The urge to safeguard her was so overpowering that be was frightened by the strength of it.