The Earl I Ruined

by Scarlett Peckham

  But now that they’d started, he realized he’d worried about the wrong thing.

  Emotion did not diminish the power of his favorite games. It only raised the stakes.

  He spoke to Constance in the voice he had perfected over years of such scenes. A bit amused, a bit arctic, a bit dangerous. “I suspect you’re just corrupt enough to have dreamt of this. You think of me, don’t you? That’s why you wanted to kiss me.”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I think of you coming to my room late at night when I’m alone. I imagine that the hands touching me are yours. That you are desperate to make love to me.”

  “Oh, I do wish to make love to you, Lady Constance,” he drawled, walking closer. Her eyes followed him in a hungry way. “But since you have been such a very naughty girl, first you must receive your punishment. Stand up.”

  She came and stood before him, looking shy and aroused and uncertain and very like the younger version of herself who had once imagined such a scene.

  “Give me your hands.”

  She closed her eyes as he bound them together with the scarf. He cinched it tighter and she gasped.

  He took in her hard nipples, her parted mouth, the pulse point pounding at her throat. “Bend over.”

  He sat on the bed and laid her out over his knees, lifting up her skirts. He jutted forth his hips so she would feel the pressure of his erection nudging just below her thighs.

  “Look at you, you wicked girl,” he said, running his hand over her lovely rounded arse. He traced the contours of her bum, the cleft of it, letting his hands graze just close enough to her quim to make her squirm.

  “Say you’re sorry, Constance,” he instructed. “Or I shall have to spank you.”

  “But I’m not sorry,” she whispered. “Not at all.”

  He slapped her arse, quick and light, enough for it to smart.

  “Perhaps you’re sorry now.”

  “No,” she said in a clearer voice. “Not even slightly.”

  He spanked her again. Harder. She gasped.

  He waited for her to give him the sign she wished to end the game, but she only wriggled on his lap.

  “I don’t think you’re very angry, my lord. I think you rather wanted me to read your journals. I think you wanted a chance to kiss me.”

  He smiled, grateful she could not see his grin, and spanked her three times, hard and quick. A lovely pink flush blossomed on her pale white arse.

  She let out a little moan.

  “I think you like this, you wicked girl,” he growled, putting a finger in her quim.

  “Yes, I’ve been very bad and I’m not sorry in the slightest,” she said breathily. “I’m not penitent at all.”

  She was wet. Very wet. Despicably, immoderately wet.

  “Spread your thighs for me,” he growled.

  She did, welcoming his fingers deep inside her. First one, then two.

  He smacked her arse as he gave her what she wanted.

  “You can apologize at any time,” he taunted.

  She spread her legs wider, inviting him to plunge deeper as she rocked against him. She was so wet it soaked his breeches. Which was fair as he could feel his cock pulsing in sympathy at the feeling of her wriggling up and down.

  He heard her gasp. She was close.

  He stilled his fingers and slapped her flat with the palm of his hand, so forcefully it left a bright red mark. She groaned and bore down on him, desperate now to come, but unable to, he knew, unless he gave her more.

  Instead, he slapped her arse again.

  She writhed against him as he struck her, absolutely flagrant and not caring. Her skin smarted deliciously and her quim rubbed against the coarse fabric of his breeches and she felt absolutely wanton and she loved it.

  “Oh yes. You want this very badly, don’t you, you wicked creature?” he murmured as she bore down on his fingers and edged her thigh against his cock, because she liked the feel of it when it was so hard and straining for her.

  Wicked creature. The words inflamed her. All her life she’d been thought a wicked creature, and had been judged for it. But the way he said it, in that sultry tone rich with appreciation, made her feel vain. He saw her for the slightly wicked girl she was, and it aroused him.

  She could be as wicked as she bloody wanted while he watched.

  And she wasn’t sorry.

  And there was nothing she wished to fix except her desperate need to come.

  She shifted her hips to grant him greater access as he caressed her.

  “You like that,” he murmured. “My hand is absolutely dripping with how much you like that.”

  Said hand, slick with her want, reached up to her breasts, coating her nipples in her own desire until they puckered in the cool air.

  “But it’s not nearly enough, is it, Lady Constance? You want more, inside.”

  “Yes, my lord. Make love to me. Please.”

  “Poor darling,” he said. “I did warn you I wouldn’t make it easy. I haven’t quite forgiven you for spying on me.”

  The bastard chuckled.

  “You’re cruel,” she said.

  “Oh, Lady Constance. You have no idea.”

  He lifted her off his lap and carried her to the bed, laying her out on top of the counterpane like she was his doll.

  “Open your legs.”

  He moved his lips down to her thighs and nipped and teased at them, drawing near her quim but not near enough to give her satisfaction. “Ah, how ready you are. It would be so easy to make you come.”

  She was indeed so near the point of death that just the feeling of him grazing her belly with his lips sent a tremor through her core. Just a little more and she would—

  “I’m not entirely without mercy, my wicked girl,” he said in sympathy, watching her shudder. “What would you say to a bit of my cock?”

  “Yes,” she gasped, angling up her hips so he could enter her.

  He chuckled once again. “Not there, I’m afraid. I meant in your mouth.”

  She whimpered as he moved up to straddle her chest, enjoying the sight of his prick against her pretty lips.

  She licked the tip and smiled. “Why, you do want to fuck me, Lord Apthorp. You’re so hard. And you’re leaking.”

  Her sultry tone, her lovely voice purring out those filthy words, did something to his bollocks. He had to inhale sharply to maintain his composure.

  “I am indeed,” he concurred, his voice smoother than he felt. “And I will fuck you good and well. But first I want to watch you pleasure me.”

  She opened her mouth and took him inside. He was careful not to give her too much, but she was eager, drawing back to take him deep into her throat.

  “Good girl,” he breathed. “Deep as you can.”

  She took more, and he groaned and flexed his fingers in her hair, tugging at it until she moaned. “Fuck yes. Moan a bit around my prick. I like that.”

  She sucked him deeper, making the kind of noises that one can make only when one has no thoughts other than desire.

  “I’m going to corrupt you in so many ways, Lady Constance,” he informed her. “I’m going to visit you every night, while the house is sleeping, and we’re going to do things you’ve never even imagined.”

  She cried out, swiveling her hips as though the air itself might rub against her and bring her to relief. Her naked desperation nearly brought him past the edge of composure, so he pulled gently out of her mouth.

  He slid back down her body, dragging his wet cock between her breasts, over her stomach, and down to her quim.

  She wrapped her legs around his thighs. “Please, I want you so much,” she murmured. “I’ve always wanted you. Always.”

  “Don’t worry, Lady Constance,” he said, placing himself at her entrance. “I know just what you need.”

  He was as good as his word.

  When he finally slid into her, the room faded out.

  She was only aware of her body. And his.

  He arched his stro
kes to hit a place deep inside her that made lightning crack behind her eyes. He gripped her by her buttocks and spread her, slowly edging a finger into her arse, making her feel full and tight, like her entire body was a rod of pleasure as he fucked her.

  When they were both shuddering and panting and neither of them could fully speak a sentence, he paused, still inside of her.

  “Have you had enough torment, my darling?”

  If he did not bring her satisfaction soon, she might simply die from wanting him. “Please, Lord Apthorp. Fuck me,” she panted.

  “Christ, I love it when you speak filth to me.”

  He spread her taut and drove inside of her.

  And then it hit, and she really did cry out his name. Not Lord Apthorp. Not Master Damian. But Julian.

  Because this was not a fantasy.

  It was the realest thing she’d ever felt.

  He drove into her, raw and moaning. She broke open, soaking his cock and their legs and the sheet, keening with her pleasure, her desperation, her love for him.

  “I’m coming too,” he gasped, and the violence of his shudders triggered another wave of pleasure.

  When, finally, the last of the tremors rippled through her, she buried her face against him, tears falling from her eyes.

  “Oh no, my darling girl,” he murmured, moving quickly to take her in his arms. He scooped her up and held her against his chest, wrapping his whole body around hers so that she was engulfed in him. She curled up against his warmth and sobbed.

  She hated crying and had done so much of it this past month that she was sick of it. But it felt good and right to do it now. Because her fantasy had been that he would punish her for being naughty, and instead he had made her feel treasured and adored and able to be exactly who and what she was.

  “Come back, sweet Constance. I’m sorry. It was too intense.”

  “No,” she gasped. “No, that’s not why I’m crying. I’m crying because I loved it. It felt like being free.”

  As the carriage drew closer to Apthorp’s family holding a week later, Constance was not impressed by the beauty of the countryside. Cheshire did not boast the verdant glories of her family’s land in Wiltshire, nor the Provençal bounty of the French farmland where she had spent her youth, nor the striking white-cliffed vistas of the Dover seaside, from which they’d traveled.

  But if the land was undistinguished, it was in better repair than her husband’s house, with its tar-covered timber beams and daub-thatched siding.

  Apthorp Manor was not a grand establishment. In fact, it appeared to be listing to one side.

  “Welcome to your kingdom, Lady Apthorp,” Julian said ruefully as he carried her over the doorstep.

  She smiled. For this place did not suit her husband at all.

  Her husband was as spectacular a specimen of masculinity as had ever been carved from stone by the most optimistic minds in all antiquity. One expected him to hail from a land equally formidable. A golden sandy beach with aquamarine waters, or fields of flaxen wheat undulating beneath a pale blue sky.

  “I love it,” she whispered at this pitiful domain. “It’s perfect.”

  And it was. For it looked very fragile, like it would collapse in a strong wind. Like it would be waterlogged in the slightest drizzle. Like it would instantly burn to the ground if one dared to light a fire in its hearth.

  And by God, together, they would fix it.

  Epilogue

  One year later

  The Stonewell Theatre, London

  “Are you nervous, my love?” the Earl of Apthorp whispered into the ear of his countess as they stood in their box on the opening night of her theater, surveying the crowd awaiting the premiere of Lord Harlot by Princess Cosima Ballade.

  “No, my darling. I know I shall only receive raves. After all, I have bribed half of Grub Street, the other half owes me a favor, and I took the liberty of penning three favorable reviews myself just in case.”

  He scanned out over the crowd, nodding at their friends. The Rosecrofts and the Westmeads, who had helped finance Constance’s theater, sat near the Marquess of Avondale, who was flanked by not one but two mistresses. Cornish Lane Day, still aglow with his recent marriage, sat beside Lady Margaret, who had discovered a new taste for town now that Lord Harlan Stoke had retreated to his wife’s family home in Pennsylvania. Valeria Parc, who had designed all the costumes for Constance’s production, glowered forbiddingly beside Elena Brearley, who had taken a rare evening away from a certain club on Charlotte Street to see her most infamous former courtesan immortalized on stage.

  He caught Elena’s eye and winked at her. She gave him her signature smile: nearly imperceptible about the mouth, but disarmingly warm about the eyes.

  Behind her, a formidably tall man with a striking head of ginger hair caught his eye and inclined his head affably.

  Apthorp snorted in disbelief. “Henry Evesham is here.”

  “I know,” Constance said with a smile. “I invited him. He made excuses but I insisted the risk to his mortal soul in attending the theater would be worth it for the chance to study vice in its natural climate. He relented for the sake of being better educated on moral laxitude.”

  “And because he adores you, moral laxitude notwithstanding” Julian sighed, though not without a smile. In the past year Evesham had become a regular presence at Constance’s salons at their home on the Strand. Such a regular presence that he himself had offered Evesham counsel on ways he might address prostitution to prevent abuse and disease in his role as Lord Lieutenant. He was becoming, however unlikely, a friend.

  And he had kept his word. Elena’s club, for now, was safe.

  “You know,” Constance said, waving at Evesham across the crowd, “if he were to dress less somberly and smile more, he would be extremely handsome. Perhaps I shall set about finding him a wife who might bulwark him against his sinful inclinations.”

  “Don’t you dare. And how do you know he has sinful inclinations?”

  She raised a brow. “He’s here, is he not? Besides, he is so serious and solemn. Just like you before I corrupted you, Lord Bore.”

  “I did the corrupting, Lady Apthorp,” he said, wrapping his arm around her waist.

  “Indeed, you did,” she said sweetly. “And I am so grateful you finally got around to it.”

  The dramatic velvet curtains parted and the narrator of Constance’s play, dressed as a news-rag hawker, appeared amidst a snowstorm of papers falling from the rafters.

  They took their seats, and Constance rested her head in its customary place on his shoulder.

  Once in our fair town of London, the narrator began,

  Where the knaves and the bounders abounded,

  Lived a beautiful lady named Constance

  And the rake by whom she was hounded

  Two lovers appeared on stage, a woman in a pink gown as fat as a carriage with a tower of shocking silver hair dressed in jewels, chased by a man of uncommon good looks, wearing a very respectable wig.

  His lordship seemed prim and proper

  Lady C. found him rather boring

  Few clever types disagreed

  That his conversation was best met with snoring

  The actress emphasized this point by pretending to fall asleep at the sight of her compatriot.

  All of town was shocked when they fell in love

  For the pair was so oddly matched

  People had trouble believing

  That Lady C. could be truly attached.

  “I’m beginning to sense a bias in favor of the heroine,” Julian observed as the hero performed the part of the adoring swain at the feet of the actress, who was thronged by a chorus of other admirers. “Almost as if the playwright is more sympathetic to her than to him.”

  “Someone has to look out for the ladies,” Constance replied. “Just wait until my play on the Hardwicke Act debuts in 1756. Besides, I think you’ll like the rest.”

  But Lady C. had discovered his secret

/>   A talent the gent had kept hidden

  That he was a first-order harlot

  Who left no lass gently ridden

  Onstage, the actress pulled off the hero’s dashing parliamentary robes to reveal him dressed up as a highwayman, complete with a whip.

  Around them, their dearest friends—who peopled their house on the Strand and generally served as their family in town when the Rosecrofts retreated to the country and the Westmeads busied themselves with botany and commerce—doubled over with laughter.

  Now the vicarish types were unhappy

  For this behavior was most ungodly

  But Lady C. enjoyed scandal immensely

  And was soon observed to walk oddly

  Julian groaned. The crowd began to stomp their feet.

  “My dear, are you going to be tried for obscenity?” he whispered into his wife’s ear.

  “I can only hope so. It will do marvelous things for ticket sales.”

  She glanced up at him impishly and laughed when she saw his face. “Why Lord Bore, you’ve gone positively vermilion. Have I thoroughly humiliated you?”

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek, inhaling the jasmine and smoke of her skin in that way he could never stop doing, no matter whether they were in public or private.

  “No, my sweet, wicked girl. I am thoroughly proud of you.”

  Lady Constance Stonewell had always intended to fall wildly, extravagantly in love.

  Eventually.

  And now that she had, she realized that it did not feel at all like she’d once imagined.

  It did not feel like being swept off one’s feet by a man who had appeared suddenly in one’s life as though he’d fallen from the sky, designed by God himself to adore your every breath and thought.

  It felt more like being, finally, at home.

  Except home was not a place, but a person.

  A person who grumbled at you when you were irritating, and who laughed when you were outrageous, and who admired you when you lived up to your best qualities, and who swooned on those very rare occasions when you were sweet.