by Rose Lerner
“I like arms generally,” she corrected him. “Your arms, I adore passionately.” She nipped her way up the soft skin on the underside of his forearm. “So large and perfectly proportioned. Like your…” She paused mischievously, shifting her attention to his other arm. It put her breasts inches from his face. He wrapped the cravat on his right wrist around his hand and struggled upwards. She stilled. “You really do like these.”
“Ladies,” he told them, “by yonder blessed moon I swear, that tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops—”
She pulled her shift over her head. “Don’t worry. The love between you and my breasts isn’t star-crossed in the slightest.”
He smiled. “We’ll grow old together.”
She leaned in, presenting one rosy nipple. He sucked it eagerly until she pulled away with a wet pop and gave him the other. Her eyes were glazing over; the game was arousing her too. She twined her fingers in his hair and held him there, her thumb tracing his ear. Her breathing grew ragged, and his cock stirred to lazy life.
He flicked her nipple with his tongue. He knew she liked that—such a small thing to know, and so many still to discover. She made needy, shameless noises. At this rate, he’d be hard again in no time.
She pulled back and moved down to straddle his hips once more, her wet nipples leaving cool trails on his chest. Taking his half-hard cock in her hand, she rubbed the sensitive head over her slit, then up to tease her clitoris.
She arched her head back, baring her throat. He knew he couldn’t reach to bite her there, but he tried anyway.
She gave a breathy laugh and ignored him, seeking her own pleasure. His cock twitched faintly in her hand. She didn’t seem impatient. It would be ready when it was ready. He lay back and waited, enjoying the view, enjoying the slow build of his pleasure. She moved her hips in slow circles, sucking her lower lip into her mouth, her lashes dark against her skin as she shut her eyes.
Then she slithered further down and—oh. She rubbed the head of his cock against her wet nipple. That was filthy. He watched her, enthralled. Her open, panting mouth still curved with shy mischief as she met his eyes, arching her back to give him a better view. Her areolas were darker than they had been a minute ago. The skin of his cock darkened too, a shocking contrast to her pale breasts. He thrust, throwing off her movements.
Her fingers tightened infinitesimally around him in reprimand. Just like that, he was hard again.
She glanced down in surprise, then tightened her fingers again, gently. He drew in a sharp breath. Her smile widened. He waited, breathless, to see what she had in store for him.
She captured his cock between her breasts, her nipples tickling the tender skin of his lower belly as she slid up and down. He’d wanted to ask her for this that first time in the kitchen and hadn’t been able to.
“This isn’t the best angle, but another time…” She trailed off, voice thick. “You look unbelievable.”
He laughed. “Me?”
“Your hair’s all mussed, and your mouth is wet and red, and your eyes are so, so—and when you do that the muscles in your arms stand out—” And all the while she was moving, the flushed head of his cock peeking from between her breasts and disappearing.
He tugged at his bonds. “When I do this?”
“Mm-hmm.” She let his cock fall and climbed astride him. “Do it again.” So he wrestled up to meet her as she sank onto him. She was so wet for him that there was barely any resistance at all. Then she clenched around him, tight, and smiled triumphantly when he fell back against the bed, hips surging into her.
“You fit so perfectly.” She settled down against him, her hips moving with slow purpose. “It feels so perfect. I could do this forever.”
“Don’t let me stop you.” His voice cracked somewhere in the middle. He could see his cock sliding in and out of her. Even better, he could feel it.
There was no urgency to her movements; she was simply enjoying the sensation of being joined. For a few long minutes she kept that up. It was torture, and the most deeply satisfying thing he’d ever felt. His skin was on fire—the last thing he should be was comfortable. But he was.
“Touch me,” he said, the first thing he’d asked for aloud since getting on the bed. She shifted to balance on her knees and ran her hands up and down his sides in long, slow strokes, gentling him like a nervy horse. He became abruptly aware that the mattress was lumpy when every muscle in his back relaxed into the bed.
She stroked up swiftly, her thumbs swiping his nipples. His nerve endings lit, his hips jerking. She gasped. Just like that, the mood changed. She put a hand down to touch herself, riding him faster. He moved to meet her, trying to get as deep as he could.
“Kiss me,” she said, leaning down to press her mouth to his. Their lips met sweetly, gently exploring while below they coupled relentlessly. “Oh.” Her mouth fell open. “Oh.” She hovered over him for a moment, and then her intimate muscles began to spasm. She buried her face in his shoulder and rubbed herself furiously, drawing her climax out, her breath shuddering hot against his skin. The rhythm was exactly right one moment and all wrong the next, and somehow that only made it better, hotter, more intensely erotic. He strained upwards, unable to pull her closer, unable to do anything but take what she gave him.
She fell against him. He was still hard inside her, hard and entirely unready for this to be over. “Phoebe. Please.”
She reached up and fumbled at the knots. “Drat. They’ve tightened.” He thrust shamelessly into her as she shifted unpredictably, wrestling with the knot she’d tied. Stretching to reach his wrists, she kept her cunny and her thighs tight around him and let him use her as best he could.
“Ha!” she said, and one of his wrists fell free. He moved it to her hip, anchoring her in place. “I can’t concentrate when you do that.”
His other wrist came free. He rolled them both so she was beneath him. His leg twinged a protest but he didn’t care. She was curvy and soft, and when he drove hard into her she spread her legs wider and made a sleepy sound of approval. He raised himself up on his elbows and watched her, her body bouncing with his thrusts, her heart-shaped face flushed and relaxed, her hair curling across the sheets. She breathed deeply and evenly, eyes closed, her exhalations holding the edge of a moan.
He let the pleasure consume him, taking her hard and fast until his climax flared white-hot and he spilled into her.
They would be married soon enough that she wouldn’t even have to take her herbs, he thought with hazy contentment.
Phoebe took the stairs to her lodgings slowly. The door to her rooms was ajar. Through it, she heard her sister laughing, and a male voice that sounded familiar. Some friend of Helen’s, no doubt. It was nice to hear her laugh again. She pushed open the door, smiling, and— “Mr. Gilchrist?”
The Tory agent stood politely, his oily smile diluted by traces of genuine amusement still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “Mrs. Sparks. I’m so glad to see you. We’ve found a new suitor for you—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Gilchrist,” she said, “but please convey my apologies to him and tell him I’ve decided to marry a Whig.” She felt terribly self-conscious. How would she explain to him that she was going to marry Nick when she’d assured him there was nothing between them?
Mr. Gilchrist’s eyes popped. “You don’t mean that, Mrs. Sparks. Marry that Moon-calf instead of the man of sense and substance I—”
Helen hid a smile with her hand, and Phoebe felt a pang of guilt. What was poor Mr. Moon going to do now? “That is unkind,” she said sharply. “Mr. Moon has plenty of substance”—even if most of it seemed to be sugar—“which is more than I can say for you, sir.”
“Yes, but what about sense?”
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time. But I’ve made my decision, and I’d prefer you to leave.”
Mr. Gilchrist glanced at Helen. “Use your influence with her. This is folly.”
Helen flushed. “Once my sister’s mind is
made up, talking won’t change it.”
Phoebe wasn’t sure how to take that. “Goodbye, Mr. Gilchrist. Thank you for everything, but I won’t be changing my mind. I’m sorry.”
Gilchrist took up his hat and went, but Phoebe saw him give Helen an I’ll-be-back look.
“Are you really going to marry Mr. Moon?” Helen asked.
Phoebe shook her head. “Mr. Dymond’s asked me to marry him. I told him yes.” There, now it ought to feel real, less like a fairy gift that would be taken back if it wasn’t kept secret.
It still didn’t.
For a long, long moment, Helen didn’t say anything. Her mouth worked, a little, as if she was trying to speak. Her face slowly drained of color.
“What is it, Ships? I know you read nasty things about the Dymond boys in the scandal sheets, but—”
“I can’t come to your wedding,” Helen said abruptly. “Fee, I’m so sorry. I’ll help you with your hair and your dress, but I can’t go. And—I think I’ll go live with Mama again when you’re married.”
“What do you mean?” Phoebe asked, a sinking sensation in her chest. “We’d agreed you were to live with me. Do you know something about Mr. Dymond? If there’s something I ought to know—”
“No, no, there’s nothing,” Helen said hastily. “You love him, and you should marry him. I wish you all the joy in the world, truly.”
Phoebe tried to puzzle it out. Helen wasn’t against the marriage. Then what would happen at the wedding, or in their home, that— The Dymond boys have a reputation as heartbreakers, Helen had said. She hadn’t wanted to come to the Whig party, and every time Phoebe said Mr. Dymond, she twitched like a fox that heard the hounds.
Helen had shown Tony Dymond around town when he had arrived two months ago. And her seducer was married.
“Ships, is that baby Tony Dymond’s?”
All the color rushed back into Helen’s face. “No.”
“You’re lying,” Phoebe said with conviction. “What did he say to you to make you lie for him?” But she knew. Helen had told her, that first day. He said there’s no money, and if I tell anyone, he’ll ruin me. He’ll tell everyone what I did. “But he’s rich, Ships. He ought to help you.”
“He hasn’t got any money of his own. He said his mother wouldn’t help me. He said if I told her, I’d be ruining him for nothing, and he’d make sure everyone knew what sort of girl I was.”
“What sort—what sort—why, that—” There were no words big enough for her anger. No words to express how much she hated Tony Dymond. She tried anyway. “That despicable, contemptible, swinish, foul, disgusting—”
Helen laughed. “Oh, Fee, don’t. You and Mr. Nicholas will be happy, I know you will.”
And that was when Phoebe knew she loved Nick. Because if she didn’t, her heart wouldn’t break with this awful, irrevocable crash when she realized she couldn’t have him.
She couldn’t abandon Helen. Not again. She couldn’t let her sister go back home and live with Mrs. Knight’s disappointment and judgment every moment of every day. She couldn’t have Helen afraid to come to her house—afraid to come to her wedding, for heaven’s sake—for fear of meeting the man who’d mistreated and abandoned and threatened her.
She could tell Nick. She could tell him everything and ask him to intercede with his family, and—
Then what?
Could she really ask him to bar his own beloved little brother from his home? Even if he agreed, Tony would be furious. He’d tell the whole town. He’d ruin her sister for spite.
Then she’d tell Nick and ask him to keep it secret—but she couldn’t do that either. She couldn’t know if Nick would keep it secret. He might think he had a duty to talk to Tony, or tell his mother.
Even if he didn’t, she could never pretend to be Tony Dymond’s loving sister-in-law, never. By marrying Nick, all she would do was keep herself and Helen firmly in Tony’s field of vision, and sooner or later, he would realize Helen had told the secret.
Then the worst possibility of all presented itself. What if Nick took his brother’s side?
He was fond of Tony. Plenty of men didn’t think it a terrible crime to seduce a willing woman. She couldn’t bear it if he stood there with his hands in his pockets and shrugged Helen’s hurt away apologetically.
She could hear little bits of her heart rolling under the furniture.
But if there was one thing she’d learned as the clumsy daughter of a mother with a temper, it was that once you’d smashed something, it was no use trying to glue it back together. You could admit what you’d done and take the shouting and the slaps, or you could sweep up the pieces and bury them in someone else’s rubbish heap and deny you’d ever seen the thing. Sometimes you even got away with it. But broken things never mended.
She gave Helen a smile. “Oh, don’t be foolish. It’s not as if I were in love with him. I only thought him the best of a bad lot.”
“That’s not what you said before.”
She had known it was a mistake to confide in her sister. She had known it was a mistake to let her guard down. “You’re my sister,” she said, taking Helen’s hand. “I just met him. I like him, but that doesn’t matter. You matter.”
Helen squeezed her hand. Love surged up where Phoebe’s heart used to be, but there was nothing to contain it anymore. It spilled everywhere, dripping and spurting, and she couldn’t tell what was for Helen and what was for Nick. “Everything’s going to be all right,” she lied, kissing the top of her sister’s hair. “I promise.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Nick was actually a little surprised when his mother’s coach pulled into the courtyard of the Lost Bell just as they were finishing dinner. He hadn’t been sure she’d leave the county election.
She alighted, nodded regally and smiled graciously at everyone she saw, gave Tony and Ada and Nick a motherly embrace, and inquired after the innkeeper’s children and sundry other relatives. Then she said, “Nick, dear, may I speak to you privately?”
He took her to his room. “You didn’t have to come.” Her eyes searched his face. She was the picture of motherly concern.
He knew she was concerned. It wasn’t an act. This would be easier if it was. “I think I did. Nick, is this some kind of joke? Are you punishing me for sending you out here?”
“No. Mother, I—”
She sighed. “I never dreamed you’d take this so seriously. Nick, there was no bet with your father. I only said so to get you out here. I was worried about you. I’d like the vote, of course, but it’s Tony’s first campaign and this is a difficult borough. I won’t be surprised if he loses.”
All his suspicions confirmed. “So there was no bet?”
She shook her head, looking tired. “Honestly, Nick, how could you think there was? I’m not a monster. But of course you’d believe anything of me.”
“I believed it because you said it. I should have known better.” He had almost wanted the bet to be real, just so she wouldn’t have lied to him. But she simply didn’t see the point of honesty, or of the two of them understanding each other.
“I did it because I love you.” Lady Tassell laid her bonnet down on top of his papers and quills and sleeve-links as if they weren’t there. Such a tiny thing to make him so angry. “You needed to get out of those wretched rooms and get some country air and stimulation. You look a hundred times better. There’s color in your cheeks.” She came closer as if to touch his face.
He shied away. “You could have been honest with me. If you’d told me you were desperately worried and this would ease your mind, I probably would have come.”
“Nick, we don’t need to discuss this anymore. We need to discuss your marriage. You can’t be serious.”
“I am.”
“I know you’re doing this to spite me. What can I do to change your mind?”
“It’s got nothing to do with you. I want to marry her. She’s a wonderful woman.”
“I’m not saying a word against h
er,” Lady Tassell said with the engaging candor she was famous for. “I’ve always liked her very much. But she isn’t an appropriate wife for you, Nick. Only think how awkward it will be, introducing someone of her station to your friends.”
God, how Nick wanted to walk out right now, or to retreat into sullen silence. He wanted to think of something else—the curls at the ends of Phoebe’s hair or—but he didn’t want to use her to dull his senses. In the end it was only a subtler version of his mother’s We don’t need to discuss this anymore tactic, anyway. They did need to discuss it. “I’ve made up my mind,” he said. “I’m marrying her. I think she’ll make me happy.”
Lady Tassell shook her head. “I don’t understand how I raised such gullible children. Maybe that’s all there is to it on your side. But do you think she doesn’t want something?”
Nick felt his attention drifting and pinched himself hard. “She does need something, it’s true. But you would have helped her if she’d married any Whig in Lively St. Lemeston. She chose me.”
“And what is this little favor?” Lady Tassell said, with an air of I knew I was right all along.
“Her sixteen-year-old sister is with child, and the father can’t marry her. She needs to take the girl away to have the baby, and to find a kind home to take it in.”
Lady Tassell smiled. “Well, I can’t blame her for preferring you to Robert Moon. You must have seemed like a breath of fresh air in this town.” She reached out to brush her fingers through his hair. He made himself stay still and let her.
He shouldn’t hate it so much, his mother touching him and smiling at him. But all he could think was Flattery oils the hinges. She might mean it, but she’d do it even if she didn’t. “So you’ll help them?”
“I’ll help them.” That, Nick did trust. She always made good her election promises. He relaxed. “Is the special license here yet?”
“I expect it on the five o’clock mail coach.”
She nodding, glancing at the clock. “Well, I’d better get to know my future daughter-in-law a little better.”
