She stared at him for an interminable moment, still watching him working his member. She swallowed visibly as the moment stretched and he wondered what she would do. His gaze drifted to her throat, to the madly thrumming pulse there. It was jumping beneath her flushed skin like a wild drum, like a hammer pushing to break free. It was passing strange. She wasn’t exerted and yet that pulse was throbbing, beating, fighting like the wings of a bird at her neck.
“Make a decision. Go or come here,” he commanded, at war with himself. Wanting her to go. Wanting her to stay. He simply needed it done one way or another.
She dropped down beside him with an anguished little cry that he felt echo through him as keenly as the twist of a knife’s blade.
He wasted no time, flipping her skirts and positioning himself between her thighs.
He dragged her toward him. She slid easily over the slick grass.
His eyes met hers. She looked back and forth between his face and his cock, pulsing and aimed directly for her crotch.
There was a good amount of alarm in her eyes and he wished it gone. He wished to put her at ease. She thought he meant to take her. Ravish her in the outdoors like a rutting beast.
He would not.
He was not that much of a cad. Nor was he keen on deflowering a maid who couldn’t even bring herself to own her own desires.
Still, there were other things they could share that did not involve relieving her of her maidenhead.
The open seam in a lady’s drawers made it blessedly convenient to access her pretty quim. As a randy youth, he had always been grateful for the mechanics of female undergarments. He had taken many a maid for a quick tumble, neither one of them discarding their clothing.
Even so, he had never been as grateful as he was now.
He studied her pink and quivering flesh in the light of day. She was wet, weeping for him. He could practically smell her desire, ripe and pungent on the summer air.
“You’re still suffering the influence of your tonic?” he heard himself asking.
She nodded jerkily.
His gaze dropped to the open seam of her drawers. “Would you like me to relieve you again?”
She nodded, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to hear her say it.
“Charlie?” he prodded. “Tell me what you want.”
She licked her trembling lips, her gaze landing on his cock. “Make the ache go away.”
Nodding, he released a ragged breath. He could take her now. He knew that was as good an invitation as any, but still he withheld himself the pleasure of sinking into her inviting heat. Again, he was not a cad.
Instead, he lowered his face to her, inhaling her fragrance and nuzzling his lips in her sweetness, his tongue tasting and finding the tender pearl buried at the top of her folds.
He seized it between his lips, interchangeably grazing with his teeth and flaying with his tongue. Her body bucked under him. His hand found her abdomen, pressing down and holding her as he feasted, working and rolling the little nub.
She began to roll her hips, working herself against his mouth in abandon. Her hand delved in his hair, her fingers tugging fiercely on the strands as she used him, seeking her release.
Then she found it. She climaxed and the tension in her body snapped.
He drank deep from her until the last wave rocked her.
He fell back, his chest rising and falling as the air shuddered out of him.
This was perhaps not his best idea.
His own arousal raged unabated. His erection jutted out hard before him, unrelenting and unrelieved.
He gripped it savagely, determined to finish himself off before he turned and drove into her welcoming heat, so soft and available and still vibrating with the aftershocks of her release.
He was not a mindless brute, however.
No matter how tempting she was. No matter how many times she used him to take her own release.
He’d not find his pleasure with her until she was in full possession of reality and not hiding behind excuses. Not until she admitted she wanted him strictly for passion’s sake and not because of some idiotic aphrodisiac.
Groaning, he dropped his head back and closed his eyes, trying to block out the sound of her gasps as she came down from her release.
Then suddenly her hand was pushing his own hand aside.
His eyes shot open to find her over him, staring down at him with bright-eyed determination. She bit her lip and his gaze fixed on that mouth, hungrily absorbing the way that tiny row of white teeth sank into the deep pink of her lip.
He read her determined expression for what it was. She wanted to return the favor—last night’s favor, and now this one.
He shook his head. “You don’t have to do—”
“Quiet,” she murmured in a throaty voice that brooked no argument. “It’s my turn now.”
Her touch was by no means expert. Her small hand was uncertain, barely big enough to wrap around him, but the tentative sensation of her slender fingers, so warm and delicate on him, had him sitting up on his elbows and watching her ministrations.
“Harder,” he directed after some moments, covering her hand with his own and showing her how he liked it, guiding her once, twice, three times up and down his cock in a pumping motion.
She was a quick learner. He dropped his hand and let her take over.
The sight of her pale fingers around his thickness mesmerized him.
He watched, transfixed as her head suddenly dipped.
She kissed him there. It was gentle and sweet and tentative. Her tongue darted out to taste him. He jerked at the first velvety swipe of her tongue on his pulsing head.
She looked up at him, her lovely lips inches from his manhood. “Is this not acceptable?”
“Oh, it’s completely acceptable.” He threaded his fingers through her wet hair, piled atop her head in a messy arrangement.
She lowered her head back down and lapped at him with her tongue, her hand still flexing around the root of him.
It took everything in him not to thrust deeply into her mouth. He held himself back and allowed her to lavish him with her lips and tongue and hand.
His balls tightened, rising up, and he reached for her arms, hurriedly lifting her up and moving her away.
With a choked gasp, he turned and spilled himself into the grass, pleased that his ragged breaths matched her own behind him. He wasn’t the only one affected. She was every bit as discomposed.
“Kingston?” she said behind him, her voice shaky as a brittle leaf on the breeze.
He turned to face her. She’d covered her legs again, hiding her sweet quim from his gaze. Despite her bedraggled appearance, she looked deceptively demure and not like a chit given to shagging in the out of doors.
And for some reason that irked him.
Even with his body still humming from release, he was irked that she looked so wholly unsuited to illicit trysts.
He could almost believe she was under the influence of a love spell or aphrodisiac or some other such rubbish. If he believed in rubbish, which he didn’t.
But she did.
She thought this was inspired by something outside of herself.
“How was that?” he asked. “Better than your last taste?”
Her cheeks went scarlet.
Instead of stopping there, he added, “Lucky for me your tonic was still holding strong.”
The softness melted from her face. She turned to hard edges before his eyes. If he tried to touch her, he was sure he would cut himself on one of them.
“You mock me.” Not a question. She stated it unequivocally. The sky was up. The ground was down.
And he mocked her.
“Admit it was you here.” He waved back and forth between them. “You. You, Charlotte Langley. Not a female possessed.”
She stared at him with her chilled blue eyes—the only sound between them that of the water burbling nearby and the anger pounding in his ears. Anger she could deflate with
just a few words.
A few honest words.
Instead, she said, “I should go. Anyone could happen upon us.”
“Indeed. You wouldn’t want to be compromised with the likes of me.”
“No.” Her chin lifted. “I would not.”
“Have no fear, Miss Langley. You can count on me for discretion.”
“Can I?” She looked at him intently, as though truly concerned.
Fear shadowed her eyes. In that moment, she looked so very young. Lost and confused. He had the fool impulse to gather her up in his arms and reassure her, tell her everything would work out for the best—whatever that meant. It was what people said. What men told the women for whom they cared.
Absurd, of course. He needn’t go that far. He did not possess such depth of emotion. Not for any female.
“Indeed.” He gave a single resolved nod. “I’m not looking for a wife. You may trust this is behind us.”
She sighed. Relief draped heavily within the sound. “Very good then.”
After a long moment of awkwardness, she turned and fled in the blossoming dawn, snatching up her shoes and stockings in her hasty flight.
He watched, unmoving from where he lounged partially naked on the grass. Honestly, he did not think he could tuck himself back into his trousers. Not yet. That would require more movement than he could manage. His muscles had the consistency of jam, so undone by her untried talents.
His own words echoed in his ears. You may trust this is behind us.
He’d said the words, but he did not like them.
He forced himself to remember that she would soon be wed, and he didn’t dally with married ladies.
Soon be wed.
But not yet. Not yet wed.
He released a short, tormented laugh. Brilliant. He was laughing to himself like a madman alone in the woods, demented and fantasizing after a woman he ought not want.
He knew he should leave her be and cease this senseless pursuit of her. Disaster loomed ahead if he did not. He recognized that. She might be fatherless, but Warrington was her brother-in-law and he knew the man well enough to know he would not tolerate Kingston dallying with her—for the sake of his wife, if nothing else.
He sighed and fell back on the cushion of grass. This attraction, this unfortunate pull he felt toward her, was because he had not been with a woman in a long time. He was suffering for it. It being a shag, of course. It had nothing to do with her. Nothing at all. Nothing to do with the unusually compelling creature that was Miss Charlotte Langley.
He watched shades of pink streak across the sky, splashing through the purple cotton fluffs of clouds.
The chit was not to be shagged. Plain and simple.
She was the kind of lass one married.
Specifically, she was the kind of chit another man was going to marry. Another man, not him.
He needed to remember that. That was the critical distinction. As much as the idea knotted his gut, he accepted it. Because whilst she was not for him to shag . . . he was not built for marriage.
He was not husband material. It was not in him. He was not fashioned that way.
He knew himself well enough to know that.
Chapter 8
Hours later, Charlotte paced a hard line back and forth across Nora’s bedchamber, taking a breath amidst the accusations she was hurling at her sister.
Sunlight streamed in through the windows, doing little to cheer her mood and dampen the barrage of words she launched at her younger sister.
Irresponsible. Reckless. Dangerous. You could have killed me!
When she’d returned from the pond, despite her maelstrom of thoughts and emotions, she had somehow returned to her bed and fallen asleep. She’d dropped into her bed like a lead weight.
Not only had she managed to sleep, but it was perhaps the best sleep she had ever enjoyed since moving into Haverston Hall. She’d slept deeply, the ravages of Nora’s tonic melting away with the vestiges of night.
When she woke up to ready for church, her encounter with Kingston felt as illusory as a dream. Gossamer wisps of fantasy.
One of those wildly impossible dreams that faded bit by bit, piece by piece with each passing waking moment.
Except it had all happened. It was no dream.
In the broad light of day, the truth was a maelstrom hitting her in full, unremitting force.
What had she done?
The blue-and-yellow-striped fabric of her skirts swished smartly about her ankles as she moved. It was a new dress. Far lovelier than anything she had owned before her sister married the Duke of Warrington. Almost all her dresses were new now. She and her sisters were regularly outfitted in all the latest fashions. Marian enjoyed clothes. To be fair, so did Charlotte.
Charlotte had a way with needle and thread. Unlike her sisters, though, she actually enjoyed sewing. She had not necessarily enjoyed it when she had been forced to work long hours for the local dressmaker after Papa had died, but there had been no choice in the matter then.
Those days were behind her. Now she no longer slaved away to earn coin to help support her family. With that burden lifted, she actually enjoyed fashion again. Sewing it. Wearing it. She could once again pick up a needle and thread without a bone-weary sigh. She could study the fashion plates and it no longer felt like a chore, like something she must do in order to stay abreast of the current trends.
“What are you accusing me of, Charlotte?” Nora asked indignantly.
“There was something in that cordial last night!” She stabbed a finger toward her younger sister.
“Well, obviously there was something in it,” Nora replied smoothly. She was never rattled. Many a time, Charlotte had lost her temper with her and Nora weathered it all with equanimity. “I wasn’t giving you a dose of tea.”
“Oh! Don’t be wippish with me. This is very serious! There was something . . . foul in the draught . . .”
Nora looked her up and down. “Why are you so distressed? Have a seat. Clearly you are well today. Your color is exceedingly fine. You don’t look ill. You didn’t die. What is amiss, love?”
“What is amiss?” she echoed almost shrilly and then she did something totally out of character. She laughed.
She laughed uproariously, holding her sides until they ached.
Nora’s eyes widened. “Dear God. You’ve gone mad.”
Suddenly Marian strode into the room. She stopped and looked back and forth between them.
Nora waved at Charlotte helplessly. “She’s gone mad.”
Marian tsked and shook her head. “I can hear you two down the hall. Why are you bickering? We’re going to be late for church. Can you not choose another time for one of your arguments?”
Nora waved her hand at Charlotte as though that was explanation enough.
Charlotte shook her head, trying to regain her composure, but she couldn’t seem to stop the absurd laughter.
“Talk to her,” Nora encouraged. “The girl is daft. Look at her, would you? Listen to her!”
Frowning in concern, Marian turned on Charlotte. “Char, are you well?”
Charlotte shook her head wildly. “No,” she got out between gasps of mad laughter. “No. I am not well. I am not fine at all, thank you for asking.” She stabbed another finger at her younger sister. “This idiot poisoned me with an aphrodisiac last night.”
There. She said it. It was out.
Aphrodisiac.
The word had been swimming in her head ever since she’d first scrambled off Kingston in the library. Ever since she’d taken her pleasure of him without so much of a “by your leave.”
She was a well-read individual. True, perhaps a little sheltered and lacking in worldliness. And yet she knew what an aphrodisiac was. Up until last night she had thought it entirely fiction. A thing of lore. An invention of fantastical works. Something one would read about in a Shakespearean play.
Not real. Not possible.
Except it was.
It was p
ossible.
She knew because she had experienced it.
There was no other explanation for her behavior. It wasn’t in Charlotte to accost a strange man and seduce him. The things she had done to him were not even in her knowledge. Her actions had been led by pure primal instinct.
The silence stretched on forever at her declaration until Marian finally found her voice. “Charlotte.” She said her name slowly as though speaking to someone slow to comprehend. “Are you still feeling unwell?”
She and her sisters exchanged looks—as though she were some poor demented creature—and that only infuriated her.
“I am not ill,” she said in her steadiest voice. “I am of sound mind.” Now she was at least.
Marian released an uneasy laugh. “Yes, well then. There is no such thing as an aphrodisiac, my dear. That’s just absurd. Certainly you know that.”
Charlotte nodded. “Indeed. I would have thought the same thing until last night.”
“Last night?” Nora’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What happened? We left you asleep in bed.”
Marian’s eyes widened. “What could have happened to you . . . in your bedchamber . . . in your bed?” She looked faintly ill as her words penetrated. Evidently her mind was drifting through terrible scenarios.
“Indeed. You left me sleeping in bed. And then I woke up,” she snapped, heat firing her body as she recalled waking up and all that had transpired after that. “My body was in a rage.”
“A rage?” Marian echoed, her expression wary.
“Because of the aphrodisiac Nora gave me. I could not sleep.”
“Stop calling it that,” Marian bit out, her composure slipping. She was clearly exasperated. “It’s mad. Is it not, Nora? You did not give her anything that could have done such a thing. It’s impossible. Tell her so.”
Nora winced and shrugged. “I cannot. As I mentioned, the tonic wasn’t exactly the same one I usually administer to her, so there was no way of knowing how this combination of ingredients might affect her.”
Charlotte nodded, satisfied Nora was at least not denying her assertion that the tonic functioned as an aphrodisiac.
“Well.” Charlotte tossed her hands in the air and spoke with great sarcasm. “We know now. Now we know how it might affect me.”
The Virgin and the Rogue Page 7
