Love Lessons

by Cheryl Holt

  Clearly, she'd mistaken his physical ardor for something else. Lady Newton had hinted as much, and Angela Ford had bluntly insisted that any perception of James developing an emotional attachment was erroneous. Apparently, both women had been correct. This stranger, who was so annoyed with her, could never have possessed an ounce of kind sentiment.

  What had she been thinking, to offer herself in this manner? She wasn't one of his doxies. Desiring escape—from the room, the house, him—she slipped to the edge of the bed, but her clothes were behind the screen, as far away as America. How she yearned for the ability to perform a magical feat whereby she could reappear somewhere else, hidden from his view.

  Unfortunately, there was no magic available to resolve her predicament. She'd have to rise and walk past him with his calculating eyes following, and the idea of him watching, while her folly was so plainly evident to them both, was too much, and she couldn't force her legs to take a single step.

  So.. . she sat, shoulders slumped, the belt of her tiny robe tied across her waist but not shielding much. Tears threatened, but she'd never allow them to fall because she would never give him the satisfaction of discovering how distressed she was.

  He'd rounded the bed, but she failed to notice until she saw the toes of his boots.

  "What do you want?" he asked irritably.

  "It doesn't matter now." She pretended a fascination

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  with his footwear, noting the scuff marks, the spots of dirt, the heel that was slightly tattered, and she strove to picture where he'd been in those boots, what he'd been doing; anything to occupy her mind so that she didn't dwell too much on where he was at that very moment.

  "You were bold enough to visit Angela. In my home"—he was excessively angry about it—"so it must have been something important. Whatever it is, your ladyship—"

  "Don't call me that."

  "Don't call you what? Lady Abigail? Isn't that who and what you are?" She could sense that he shrugged, his furious regard running over her like a hot towel. "Whatever you have to say, say it! Say it all! Unburden yourself. Get it off your chest. I'll not have you badgering my mother ever again."

  "I just thought. . ." But as soon as she embarked on the sentence, she realized she couldn't finish it. What exactly had she thought? Her asinine plans were completely idiotic to the situation in which she'd landed herself.

  "What?" He prodded like a burr under a saddle.

  "I had hoped we could talk," she finally professed. "I wanted to apologize for how I conducted myself at the theater."

  "Are you sorry?"

  "Don't be cruel, James." She whispered his beloved name, but it felt like crunching down on ice. "You know I am."

  "I know nothing of the sort. In my experience, members of your exalted station"—his rebuke was stinging—"behave however they please. You'd previously warned me that you would feign disinterest if we met in public; I expected no different conduct from you."

  "Well, I expected more from myself. I hurt you, and I'm sorry I've made you so upset."

  "Don't flatter yourself, milady," he derided, "into presuming that you have any effect on my day-to-day goings-on. My current mood has absolutely nothing to do with you."

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  "What is it, then? Why are you acting like this? Why are you speaking to me so horridly?" She found the courage to raise her eyes to his, and she was astonished by what she saw. For the briefest instant, she observed torment, grief, and heartbreak, much more injury than she could have caused by her public slight at the Chelsey Theater. As quickly as she accepted his agony for what it was, he cloaked it behind a frozen mask of ire and ennui.

  Quietly, she inquired, "What's happened to put you in such a state? Is it your father?"

  He whirled away, lest she discern more of his anguish. Stalking to the table, he poured some wine and drank it down. "My father is fine. So is my mother. So is my whole bloody family." He set the glass on the table so hard that the stem cracked. "Now, was there anything else?"

  "Your mother said she was moving out of your home." She pushed at his vulnerable points, driving him to respond. "Did you have a disagreement with her?"

  "I don't fight with my mother."

  "Who, then?"

  "My brother." She was surprised by the admission and, apparently, he was, too. Unsettled, he went to the window, drew back the curtain, and glared down into the street. "My parents have decided to marry...."

  She was so startled that she couldn't immediately respond. The Earl of Spencer was finally going to break down and marry Mrs. Ford! What had precipitated their decision? When would the wedding occur? Where would they live? When would the announcements be sent? What explanations would they provide?

  Edward had certainly kept it a grand secret, and she wondered if he'd broken the news to his other children yet—and if their reactions had been anything like this!

  She was dying to interrogate James as to all the details but didn't dare. He was so distressed that she'd only end up making matters worse, but she wasn't about to falsify her opinion just to placate him. "That's a marvelous conclusion, James. For both of them."

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  "I suppose you would think so," he mused, glowering at her over his shoulder. "You always were Eddy's greatest champion. I believe I'll introduce you to my brother, so that you can convince him of Eddy's honorable intentions. And I'll be certain to call on you to hold my mother's hand when Eddy breaks her heart again."

  "He won't."

  "I'm glad one of us can be so sure." He left his spot by the window and approached the bed. Without further comment, he pulled his shirt from his trousers, yanked it over his head, and tossed it on the floor.

  Gazing up, she saw the swirls of dark hair covering his chest. She could smell his sweat, and there was a musk about him that she associated with desire. Being eye level with his crotch, she couldn't help noticing that he was aroused. Wanting her. Wanting what she longed to share with him.

  "Lie down," he commanded, his fingers tugging at the front of his pants. Momentarily, they were loose about his hips.

  While she relished the chance to hold him in her arms, she was so uncertain. Of his motives. Of her own. Of what her next move should be.

  She was a novice at these love games. Other, more experienced women might be able to jump from cold animosity to physical mating in nearly the same breath, but she wasn't one of them. She couldn't progress to intimacy unless there was affection attached to the joining. Yet if they made love, she felt certain that she could reestablish them in that special place, which was where she desperately yearned for them to be. Still. ..

  "I don't know if I can."

  "Why?"

  "It just seems wrong."

  "Then why are you here, dressed like this?"

  She flushed bright crimson. "I thought that you might want to . . ."

  "I do," he persisted. "Lie down."

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  "Answer a question for me first." She shifted so she could look him in the eye. "Have you just been to another woman's bed? Because if you have, I couldn't possibly make love with you." Hastily, she added, "Don't lie to me."

  "I've been in the country, searching for my brother. There's a whorehouse in Surrey that he particularly likes."

  "Oh .. ."

  "But he wasn't there"—he kicked off one boot, then the other—"and I didn't partake of any of the females. I came straight back to London."

  Nodding, stalling, she tried to quell her careening emotions. She was so confused about what was best! She craved this so much—apparently so did he—yet she couldn't proceed until she ascertained the truth. "With how many . . ." She swallowed, blushed a brighter scarlet, then forced the words on a rush of air. "With how many virgins have you lain?"

  "Two. You and my wife." His answer was honest and succinct as he scowled down at her. "Why would you even ask me such an absurd question?"

  "Someone said something . . ." S
he trailed off, unable to describe the strange, hateful conversation she'd had with Barbara Ritter.

  "Who?" he pressed.

  "Just. . . one of your companions."

  "Which one?" he queried, refusing to let the matter rest.

  "Lady Newton." She flinched; speaking the name of one of his other lovers was too excruciating. "I chatted with her that night at the theater. She said that you regularly sought out virgins and lured them to bed—just for sport."

  "You believed her?"

  "Shouldn't I have?" she asked vehemently.

  He gave her a mocking bow. "No doubt that is the kind of man you perceive me to be."

  No, no, of course not! she longed to cry, but what emerged was, "I'm just so disconcerted, James. I don't know what's true anymore. And what's not."

  He reached for her shoulders and shoved the robe down,

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  baring her breasts. With a finger and thumb, he manipulated her nipple, and her body's reaction was instantaneous. As though they'd never been apart, as though they'd just made love minutes ago instead of weeks ago, she was hungry for him and what he could provide.

  He grabbed for the waist of his trousers and started working them off his hips. "I want you now. Lie back.”

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  James stood in front of her, naked, fully aroused, and unashamed of his virility. His male beauty was irresistible, and without pausing to decide the wisest course, she nuzzled her face against the bristly hair surrounding his privates. When James desired her like this, demanding gratification, she simply couldn't deny him.

  Whatever animosity remained, whatever issues still separated them, they could resolve their problems later. For now there was only this extraordinary rush of sensation.

  Rooting and nestling along his abdomen, she filled her hand with his erect cock, relishing the throb of his elevated pulse through the eddy of enlarged veins. She cupped his balls, caressing the tender sacs. He groaned his approval, and she rewarded him by drawing him into her mouth.

  His taste was so intense, a concoction of sweat and man designed especially to inflame her. Automatically, his hips began flexing in the rhythm she enjoyed so much. His hand was at the back of her head, steadying her, and she eagerly complied with his directions, taking as much of him as she could, his satisfaction serving only to increase her own.

  The tip of his phallus oozed with his sexual juice, and her level of anticipation grew. During their prior night of loving, he'd refused to spill himself in her mouth, insisting she wasn't ready, but she knew how greatly he welcomed completion in this fashion, and she hoped he would allow her to pleasure him to the end.

  But just as she concluded that this would be the occasion she would endure all, he pulled away and settled her against the pillows. His superb, heavy body pushed her into the mattress, the hair on his chest and legs rubbing against her and causing her to writhe with anticipation.

  He didn't kiss her, which disappointed her terribly, but

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  she didn't complain. In his current state, she couldn't predict how he might react, so she forced herself to be content with whatever he chose to share.

  With his mouth at her nipples, he labored over her, sucking formidably, inducing her to thrash and struggle against the fierce stimulation. Never stationary, he touched her everywhere: shoulders, arms, breasts, stomach. He clutched at her pantaiet and ripped it away, throwing the swatch of red silk on the floor. Then his fingers were inside her, rough and determined, and her hips instinctively thrust in the carnal tempo he set.

  He traveled slowly down her stomach, blazing a stormy trail and spurring her to open for him. Licking at her clit, delving into the folds, be buried himself, lapping at her saturated cleft, and he reveled in her flavor as though imprinting it into his very soul.

  She wanted to come, she needed to come, but he left her hanging on an appalling cliff of exhilaration, begging and pleading for more.

  He kneed her legs apart, then grabbed her thighs, the crest of his erect staff at her center, and he hesitated, staring at the spot where their private parts were barely joined, his swollen cock intense and eager, her blond hairs coaxing him in.

  Clasping at her hips, he said, "I am going to fuck you so hard.”

  "Yes, James," she urged, far beyond the point where she would disagree with him about anything. "Whatever you want... please.. . "

  "Never forget," he declared, "that I was the first. The only one."

  He immersed himself, his reckless member impaling her so ferociously that it felt like a punishment, but it was chastisement she craved. She arched and widened, giving him all the access he could stand. His hips pounded like the pistons of a huge machine, the impact of his momentum propelling her across the bed until she was shoved into the headboard. Grappling to stabilize herself, she gripped the

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  edge, holding on while she received more of his brutal invasion.

  She was stretched to breaking, his cock battering her with each incursion, yet he didn't ease up, nor did she want him to. This frantic, savage coupling was so very distinct from what she'd fantasized might occur that she hoped they never reached the conclusion. There was something so joyous about how desperately James appeared to lust after her that she was almost frightened by his intensity.

  Perspiration pooled on his brow; his pelvis buffeted hers. His heart was thumping so stridently that she could see it beating against his ribs. He braced himself on either side of her shoulders, his muscles corded with tension, his fists gripping the pillows. From his level of agitation, she recognized that he'd arrived at the pinnacle where he'd spill his seed. At the last second, when he would have stolen his sexual emission from her, she wrapped her feet around his calves, her arms around his back, and she held him as tightly as she could.

  With tortured surprise, he glared down at her, but it was much too late to expect that he could hold off. He plunged deep, deeper than it seemed possible to go, then he emptied himself, and she encountered the flaming spray of his semen against her womb.

  Closing her eyes, she whispered a small prayer: Please God, let us have made a babe.

  For that single moment, she didn't care about the future, about Society, its mores, stigmas, or the ultimate disgrace she might bring down upon her family. She was simply a woman who had been thoroughly loved by the man of her dreams, and her body was crying out for the natural consequence to transpire.

  With a final, feral submersion, he shuddered and collapsed, his forehead resting on her bosom, his fiery breath spewing across her sweat-soaked skin. As he gradually relaxed, she used the opportunity to calm herself.

  Surely, after all that, he'd have purged his animosity and frustration!

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  She waited for him to speak, but to her dismay he said nothing, and when he shifted away, he had an unreadable expression on his face. It scared her. She'd been so certain that she would finally behold the love burning in his eye once again. Anxiously, she wet her bottom lip, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a semblance of a smile. Her heart ached. He was so beautiful when he smiled.

  Gracing her with a chaste kiss, he said, "I shouldn't have finished that way." He shrugged. "I'm always more careful. I'm sorry for my lack of control."

  With that, he tipped himself onto his haunches and stepped to the floor. He retrieved her robe and tossed it to her, then he reached for his trousers and began pulling them on.

  "What are you doing?" She watched, horrified.

  "I'm needed elsewhere," he replied enigmatically, causing a myriad of hideous images to careen through her mind as she contemplated where he might be needed. And by whom.

  "But... I thought we should talk. . . ."

  "About what?"

  "Well... about us ... about—"

  "Lady Abigail," he interrupted, killing her by articulating her title, "there is no us. There never has been. You know better than to belie
ve otherwise."

  "James, please. I've apologized. Say you'll give me your pardon."

  "Certainly, milady. All is forgiven." He grabbed his shirt, tugged it on.

  "But. . . you're still so angry with me."

  "Truly, I am not. I simply have many, many more pressing matters with which to contend. Now"—he found a boot, jerked it on. Found the other, jerked it on as well— "if you'll excuse me, I must be off. Thank you for inviting me to your bed. The experience was most. . ." He paused, searching for the appropriate word, then concluded with, "Most rewarding."

  Their loving had been so dramatic; she'd been so con-

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  vinced of the outcome! After what had happened between them, how could he consider withdrawing? "You're going to leave? Just like that?"

  "Yes, Abby," he responded more gently. "And I must request that you not ask me another time. Don't bother my mother; don't send me any more notes. I won't answer, and I'll not come again. My visits with you have been an extremely pleasant diversion, but they can't continue. There couldn't possibly be an acceptable conclusion for either one of us." When it looked as though she might argue, he added, "You know I'm right."

  "But... I love you," she whispered in dismay, and to her ultimate chagrin, tears overflowed and coursed down her cheeks.

  "I'm sure you do," he retorted, "but that was a grave mistake on your part. For I don't love you in return." He bent over, took one last, quick kiss, then stood. "Goodbye," he murmured, then he turned and strolled out of the room.

  Lying there in a stunned silence, she was unable to move, unable to breath, listening to the sound of his foot on the stair, to the front door opening. With the click of its closing, she managed to rouse herself. She pushed her arms into the sleeves of her robe, rushed to the window, and cast open the shutters. Down the street, she could still see him, and she cried out, "James! James!"