by Cheryl Holt
Was he joking? She was hanging on his every word, listening for nuance, probing for hidden meaning. The content was near and dear to her heart, and she felt terrible to be egging him on while he divulged his private miseries,
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yet she couldn't desist. "Why haven't the two of you become reacquainted?"
He bent forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "He hasn't wanted to meet me, so I decided not to press. My eldest boy, James, says it's because Michael has no memories of me and therefore he sees no reason to get to know me at this late date. I have to admit the idea hurts. It's been giving me some uneasy moments, and I wonder if I made the correct decisions all those years ago...."
He'd edged extremely close to a disclaimer about his decades-long marriage. Abruptly aware of how inappropriate such an outrageous allegation would be, he straightened, "Don't pay any attention to me, Abigail," he announced in a tight tone. "I swear I've turned absolutely maudlin in my old age."
"Recollection is not maudlin. You've had any number of diverse adjustments to endure this past year. 'Tis only natural that you'd engage in some self-assessment."
"I suppose you're right," he conceded pensively. "Recently, I've been doing too much ruminating. When Charlie marries, there will be even more transition in store for me."
"Exactly."
Abigail wished she was more experienced at offering consolation and counsel. Altogether, Edward had sired six legitimate children. Four had lived to adulthood. His three girls were married and had been rearing their families for several years. Charles, his heir, was now raised, so Edward would soon be all alone in his rambling Town house with only his reminiscence for company.
How sad that, apparently, he harbored many regrets.
He proclaimed, "I'm not cut out for all this personal upheaval."
"You'll muddle through just fine," she assured him, patting his hand. "No one ever succumbed from a few life changes."
"Maybe I'll be the first," he said in that rueful manner he had, inducing her to chuckle, even as she pondered how odd it was that he and James were so much alike when,
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evidently, they'd had very little excuse for interaction during James's childhood.
"You've missed your two oldest boys, haven't you?" she asked softly, unable to resist.
"Every day of every year," he admitted with an old sorrow, but as Caroline and Charles were headed their way, he had no further opportunity to expound on the level of his continuing loss.
Abigail's introspection was deluged by a single question: What would James say if he comprehended the true extent of his father's remorse?
******************
Barbara Ritter stood in her bedchamber, staring distractedly through the afternoon sunshine down to the street below as James entered the hansom that would deliver him to his gambling club. Dressed only in a short, transparent robe, she huddled out of sight, concealed from his assessing gaze, should he happen to glance up. The last thing she needed was for him to observe her gawking longingly out the window. He might start wondering if she was obsessing over him, if her emotions had become involved, which they hadn't.
Her passions? Yes, definitely. But her emotions? No.
Still, men were thick creatures, often prone to misconstruing behavior or purpose. If he had the slightest inkling that she carried more man a passing interest in his attentions, he'd be gone—again—in a heartbeat. She wasn't certain why he'd left before, so it had taken a lengthy amount of plotting to bring him back to her bed. Now that he'd returned, she was seriously resolute about keeping him there.
When she'd sent her note around earlier, baldly inviting him to stop by for another spot of daylight bed play, she hadn't counted on him showing, but with James, a woman never knew what he might do. He'd surprised her acutely by knocking on her door. Just remembering his savage, impetuous sex games made her hot all over again. Moisture flooded between her legs, and she began calculating how
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soon she could lure him to their next rendezvous.
He probably believed that their meeting at Lady Carrington's had been a random encounter, but the truth was that Barbara had been trolling for him for weeks, for months, attempting to force a confrontation. When he'd led her upstairs for those torrid hours of decadent romping, she‘d been thrilled and delighted by the prospect of renewed coupling. After the rough display had ended, she'd arrived home only temporarily mollified and recognizing that she would have to use all her wiles to instigate further try sting.
Who would have imagined he'd be tempted so easily? Or so often? Of late, he'd been so randy that he was nearly insatiable. A hastily penned invitation had brought him practically begging for the types of lurid recreation that only she knew how to render.
No other woman could possibly grasp what James desired, what he was truly like, or what he expected from a female. They were two of a kind, and she'd appreciated their affinity from the very first.
The night they'd met, her husband had still been alive— barely—and she'd wandered through the darkness, hunting for the sort of connection that only James Stevens could provide. He was a disgustingly handsome, virile man, who enjoyed extensive carnal release. His sexual mastery, and willingness to engage in the naughty amusements she craved, had enticed her to his side, but his enigmatic disposition caused her to remain.
His selfishness, brooding moods, and lengthy silences drew her like a moth to the flame. She liked his independent ways, his displays of ennui and annoyance with the women who regularly threw themselves into his arms. Those vexatious characteristics implied disturbing needs that exactly matched her own.
She'd initiated a regimen of seduction, one that would tempt him until he was so enamored of her, and so enticed by the disquieting future they could share, that he'd never consider abandoning her again.
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Oh, yes, she had definite plans for James Stevens.
Despite how abominably he treated her, his coldness and his truculent disregard kept her interest piqued. He was overbearing, crude, imperturbable, which were the reasons why she cherished him so desperately.
She loathed the idea of possessing some limp man who would come to heel when called. The fickle women of the ton could have their boring, castrated males. She wanted James, with his coarse manners and his fuck-me-or-don't attitude. His studied indifference made him all the more exciting, and definitely a heady challenge worth accepting.
In her heart, she perceived that she was different from all his other women, and though he'd told her repeatedly that they had no destiny, she hadn't accepted his opinion regarding their affiliation. She'd had sex with plenty of other men and women, and she understood the lurid diversions available to him. His choices were limited, and in the period when they'd been estranged, he'd wandered through London's private entertainments. She'd heard all the stories: what he'd done and with whom he'd lain. Obviously, he'd chased after the style of tempestuous sex that only she was bold enough to offer, and he hadn't located anything close, so he'd reverted to her.
She was the sole female of his copious paramours who grasped his black side, his solemn personality, his requirements for distance and space. Her background was too much like his own, so she welcomed him with all his flaws intact, for those were the sides of him she liked best.
Always a passionate, vigorous man, for some reason his sexual drives had recently been overwhelming. She was grateful for whatever peculiar events were creating such physical anguish. The amount of carnal appetite he displayed was highly arousing. With her hands, her mouth, her body, she'd given him untold episodes of satisfaction, and thus found her own. Still, when he'd finally decided to depart, she'd sensed that she could have continued on. That nothing would have slaked his raging appetite.
She didn't know what had caused this delirious inferno,
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and she didn't want to know. She was simply determined to b
e the one and only woman who extinguished the flame when it burned so hotly.
He would come to her, and her alone, because there was no one else who embraced him completely and without reservation. He belonged with her and always would. There was no other acceptable conclusion. Without fail, she intended to ensure the successful attainment of her wildest dreams.
CHAPTER
TEN
"Take off your jacket."
Abigail hesitated. She'd dressed for exactly this moment, understanding that James would hope she'd disrobe for the entire assignation, and she longed to please him. Yet, as she'd already learned where he was concerned, thinking boldly and acting boldly were two entirely different animals. While she wanted to confidently begin shedding her clothing, she couldn't set her hands to the task.
Her mind frantically searched for the fortitude to bravely strip herself, but her previously mustered courage had definitely deserted her. Her green riding suit contained two pieces: a jacket and a skirt. Underneath, she wore a chemise, drawers, stockings, and slippers. No petticoats, corset, or other feminine contraptions were present to restrict movement or accessibility, so when the outer layer went, he'd be able to see nearly all of her. The idea was exciting and terrifying.
On witnessing her vacillation, he asked, "Is something amiss?"
"No," she asserted.
He'd arrived before she had, and had somehow found a method of entering. Once inside, he'd abandoned the small meeting parlor for the bedchamber, and he'd made himself at home by preparing the room for seduction, with the obvious intent that she'd be unable to resist his rather substantial masculine charms.
The drapes were pulled against the afternoon sky, candles were glowing, a fire burned away the chill. An open bottle of wine and two glasses were set on the table. The bed, menacing and magnetic, called to her from the far wall. The covers had been turned back, and it was shadowed, private, and full of erotic possibilities.
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James was lying on the center of the mattress, relaxed and comfortable with the pillows braced behind his head. His long, luscious locks curled nearly to his shoulders. He'd been perusing his portfolio of indecent pictures, although she couldn't see upon which one he tarried, and he tossed the stack aside.
Wearing only a pair of trousers, he appeared too handsome, wicked, dangerous. The pants were stretched tight, the fabric hugging each delectable curve and valley, so she was treated to the sight of much more man than she'd counted on viewing.
His broad chest was covered with a thick pile of dark hair. It thinned to a line that ran down the middle of his stomach and dipped under his waistband. He'd loosened the placard, and she could see much farther than she ought as it descended to unknown, tantalizing regions.
Her eyes lingered there, where the dim light and cloth outlined the bulge between his legs. With a thrill of delight, she realized he was aroused, and to her surprise, his member incurred additional swelling just from the heat of her gaze. Exhilarated at successfully exercising her feminine wiles, she moved on, to his muscled thighs, his exposed calves and feet.
He lounged on the bed, in no hurry, letting her look her fill. She visually traveled his length, loitering another good long time on his groin, which caused him to shift uncomfortably, and she couldn't help wondering if this might be the day that she would truly ascertain his nude secrets. How she craved the opportunity to behold him in his altogether!
'Take off your jacket," he repeated.
"I have only my chemise under it," she explained, her cheeks blushing bright red with the admission.
"I know."
"But I'm not certain if I'm ready "
"I am."
"But I believe I'd like to-—"
"No," he said firmly. "I insist on observing your breasts while we talk."
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She wanted to shed her clothing. She really, really did, but disrobing was so difficult to contemplate when he was sitting there like a huge cat prepared to pounce. Still, this extra intimacy was what she'd longed for from the moment they'd met, so she latched on to his potent command and used it to bolster her lagging resolve. Trembling, she hastily released the first button, then the second.
"Slower," he ordered. "And watch me while you're undressing."
Deliberately, she lifted her eyes. His hand rested on his chest, and he rubbed it in lazy circles; then, making sure she was paying attention, he lowered it to the placard of his trousers and began leisurely stroking his rigid phallus. "I haven't been able to concentrate on anything but this for days," he admitted. "I've been so hard for you."
Her breath caught; her knees weakened. Her bones had dissolved. Nervously, she advised, "I'm not sure I can proceed."
"You can, and you will," he contended. He nodded to her jacket. "Another button, if you please."
She toyed with the third, then the fourth, and he tensed with anticipation as each additional button slid through its hole. Languidly, she fussed with the final one, stalling in working it free.
Finally, the jacket was hanging open, her chemise visible. Refusing to allow herself any chance for reflection, she reached for the cuffs and tugged at the sleeves. They came off quickly. Her arms and shoulders were suddenly bare, and though the temperature was pleasantly warm, her skin prickled with goose bumps, and her nipples puckered into little buds that pressed frantically against the silk that shielded them. She stared down, and every detail of her breasts was delineated. Nothing was left to his imagination, and she might already have been naked to the waist.
As casually as possible, she strolled to a nearby chair and draped her jacket over the back.
"Put your foot on the chair," he said, "and remove your slipper."
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She did as she was told, haphazardly dropping it, and it landed with a soft thud.
"Now the other."
She complied, then turned to face him, her toes feeling strange and exposed, and she curled them into the rug.
"Your skirt."
Her skirt couldn't be discarded in a hurried fashion. The tiny, decorative buttons that her seamstress had painstakingly stitched were dastardly, and as she carefully undid them, she worried about her moderate speed until she dared a glance at James and decided the inconvenience was worth it. He was enamored by each flick of her wrist, so she delayed her pace even more.
Of its own accord, the skirt slid down her hips, swishing as it whisked past her drawers. Though she desperately wished to grab for it to keep it in place, she restrained herself, permitting it to fall to her ankles.
His fierce regard focused on the top of her head, then proceeded languidly, to her face, neck, breasts. Her abdomen, her crotch. To her thighs, knees, and feet. He patted the empty spot next to him on the bed. "Come closer."
She walked to the edge of the mattress. Her throat was dry, her skin hot but cold, and she was shaking, scared, but so excited she could hardly stand.
"Let your hair down," he dictated, and she dislodged the combs and pins. It tumbled across her back in a blond wave, the ends rustling across her hips, and he added, "Run your fingers through it."
She complied. Each time she raised her arms, her breasts lifted and pressed, shifting and reshaping themselves under her chemise, the nipples abrading irritatingly.
"Very nice," he murmured, assessing her to the point of
rudeness. Then he decreed, "Your chemise......"
She inhaled sharply. "I would like to ... I truly would, but—"
"I can see your nipples," he interrupted. His voice was raspy and low. 'They're stimulated."
"Yes."
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"Would you like me to kiss you there again?"
"You know I would." Heat flared between her legs and moved up her torso, to her bosom, her throat, her cheeks, and she felt on fire, as though she just might ignite.
"Then remove your chemise."
Time seemed to have stopped. The room had grown so silent that
she couldn't help speculating if, perhaps, the planet had stilled on its axis. The only sounds were James's ragged breathing and the furious pounding of her pulse in her ears.
Imperceptibly, she reached for the waist of her drawers and drew free the hem of the chemise. Sequentially, she manipulated it upward, baring her stomach, the bottoms of her breasts, the tips, until she dragged it over her shoulders and threw it to the floor.
He didn't speak; his sizzling attention was centered on her chest. His searing scrutiny was so blatant that it produced a savage response in her nipples, causing them to throb with each beat of her heart.
"You have the most fabulous breasts," he said irreverently. "They're simply made for a man like me to appreciate."
He held out his hand, and she grabbed for it like a lifeline and climbed to the mattress. On her knees, she was off balance, and with his swift jerk, she was plunging forward and sprawled across his chest.
Her exposed nipples encountered his torrid skin, and she couldn't do anything but lie stationary while she contemplated the treacherous turmoil the contact instilled. The sensation was too intense, and she buried herself in the crook of his neck, while he idly massaged her back.
"Do you realize the effect you have on me? Feel this," he instructed, and he took her hand and laid it on the front of his trousers. "This is what you do to me." His palm was over hers, forcing her to caress him in a sexual rhythm, and he groaned with unrelieved misery. "I've been dying to have you touch me again."
"You're so big ... so hard. . . ."
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"Just for you," he vowed. "Look at me as I dally with you," he urged. "Your pleasure will be so much greater that way." His thumb and finger clasped one of her nipples, gently at first, then with heightened pressure, and she thrashed with uncomfortable expectation.
