“An educated supposition based on the information I obtained at the posting inn.”
“The posting inn? How did you know...?”
“Winston told me of your ridiculous notion to go to Gretna Green.”
“You—you spoke with him?”
“He came to see me in hopes of persuading me to reinstate your dowry.”
Her heart sank further. Of course he did. She wondered if he had ever truly entertained the notion of marrying her sans a dowry or if it had all been a charade?
“I should have known my dowry was my finest quality,” she murmured.
“Millie, you are worth far more than Winston.”
The earnestness in his tone surprised her, and she was able to rally her spirits a little and proclaim, “I think after this, I am determined to remain a spinster.”
She expected him to chuckle, and his crossness did appear to thaw a little. She wondered where Monsieur Laroutte had gone to?
“I suppose my family must be discouraged?” she asked after another spell of silence.
“Perhaps, as they will likely have discovered your absence by now.”
“You did not...? You did not come at their bidding?”
“When I found you were not at Christmas dinner with my aunt, I suspected what was afoot, but I had no wish to alarm your parents. If I had arrived at the posting inn before you left, we could have returned back to London before your family was the wiser. But you chose to run off to Château Follet.”
His tone made her flush.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Why not?” she returned.
“You promised not to return.”
“It was a rather inane promise to make.”
“Nevertheless, you made it.”
She found it difficult to swallow. His pupils had constricted.
“And you will now pay the consequences of breaking your promise,” he finished.
Chapter 30
ALASTAIR COULD SEE her quiver. She looked exceptionally lovely tonight. The gown suited her. The décolletage did not dip particularly low; still, her breasts swelled nicely above it. He felt a wave of jealousy as he considered that it might have been Winston who had inspired her to appear this alluring.
He continued to seek in her countenance evidence of the extent of her grief, but she appeared, at present, to weather the devastating blow that Winston had dealt her with poise.
“She appeared a little downtrodden,” Madame Follet had said when he had pressed the hostess for any insights Millie might have confided to her, “but far from despondent.”
“Millie is too practical for melancholy,” Alastair had replied, feeling some measure of assurance. Though he knew he had spared Millie a life of misery with Winston, he could not bear the sorrow he must have caused her.
“If she was taken with this Mr. Winston, I would have expected her to be much more disconsolate.”
“Perhaps the shock of it has not dissipated.”
“Or perhaps she does not love this man as much as you think.”
He would have liked that to be the case, but why else would Millie have risked her reputation and disappointed her family?
As he stared at Millie, he was determined to drive out all thoughts of Winston.
“I will agree to no such thing,” Millie declared.
“You broke a promise.”
“You may exact another consequence, such as the revocation of my dowry.”
“That has already been done,” he said more harshly than he intended, but he was cross with her, despite his sadness for the wounds she had suffered both to her pride and her heart. Nonetheless, he would rather she had not sought to comfort her grief by coming to Follet to lay with another man. Bloody hell. Who would this woman not lift her skirts to?
And yet, he had to admire this similarity between them. He would have done no less had he been in her situation.
“You agreed not to return to Château Follet within the context of certain circumstances,” he reminded her. “You will therefore uphold the arrangement under which you made the promise.”
“I am expecting Monsieur Laroutte.”
“He is engaged with another now.”
Distress flared in her eyes. Trembling, she backed away from him as he advanced toward her. He had a dual purpose in what he did. He wanted her never to break a promise with him again, and her apprehension would take her mind off her broken heart. Removing his coat, he tossed it aside. He uncuffed his sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows.
Coming upon an armchair, she stepped behind it, though it would offer her little protection. When he reached for her, she slid from behind the chair toward the doors, but he caught her easily enough. Stumbling, she would have fallen to the ground if not for his grasp about her arm. She struggled to free herself and clawed him with her free arm. He dragged her over to a chair. When she had regained her footing, she yanked harder, but he pulled her down onto the chair as he sat. “Alastair!” she cried.
“Behave yourself.”
Laying face down over his lap, she attempted to wriggle herself free, but he pinned her in place with a hand on her back. Her motions caused her pelvis to grind against him. Heat flared through him, pounding in his head.
“Alastair!” she protested again.
The sound of his name only fueled his ardor. He palmed the arch of her rump, ripe for what he was about to do.
“What do you—?!”
Smack!
His hand landed upon a cheek. She yelped, mostly in surprise. He struck the delightful half-sphere harder. Desire throbbed in his groin at the contact.
“Stop!” she pleaded with equal parts indignation and desperation.
“I am convinced you were not properly disciplined as a child,” he said before whacking her derriere. His hand itched to do more.
“This is monstrous!”
“You deserve far worse.”
Smack!
“I will tell Lady Katherine,” she threatened.
“And you think I am daunted by this?”
Smack, smack!
She sucked in her breath at the harder blows. “Madame Follet then. She will throw you out.”
“She may, but I am willing to risk it.”
Wanting to see her bared, he reached to throw up her skirts. Realizing what he intended, she intensified her struggles till he gave her a harsh slap upon a buttock. His arousal lengthened at the sight of her beautiful backside. He caressed the soft curves before groping the supple flesh. Then he reached between her thighs to find the beginnings of wetness.
She cried out. “Alastair!
“Is this not what you sought in coming here?”
“Not with you.” The blood drained from him. No. She had expected Laroutte, or would have had some other bleeder. Devon if he were here.
But he would not let any other man have her. She belonged to him.
“You will have me all the same,” he told her, attempting to stay his anger.
“You’re the most abominable man ever! If you have revoked my dowry, you have no standing to interfere in my affairs.”
“You invited my interference first.”
“Which has become the greatest regret of my life!”
“Has it?” He nestled his fingers into her folds. She shivered. “Your body might disagree.”
She renewed her struggles and managed to bend far enough to bite him on the calf. She tumbled from him as he leaped to his feet, but he grabbed her before she could flee. Hauling her to her feet, he pulled her over to the four-post bed, yanked a tasseled rope from the bed curtains and, ignoring the kicks she delivered to his shins, bound her to the bedpost as he had their first night at Château Follet.
“Alastair, this is madness!”
He cupped her chin and stared his passion into the depths of her eyes.
“When I am through with you, you’ll not think to break a promise to me ever again.”
Chapter 31
MILDRED COULD NOT
SWALLOW. The intensity of his stare stalled her words. This was not what she wanted, because she knew her body would betray her, would yield to his touch. And then she would be left yearning in body and heart.
But with her wrists pinioned to the bed, how was she to escape? What could she do? Though she would agree that she had to atone for breaking her promise, his imposition infuriated her. Did he not have the slightest pity for her situation? Or did it only matter to him that he was in the right? How had she even come to love this man?
Drawing upon her indignation helped to ease her fears. But, due to the turmoil inside her, her body was on edge in an all too familiar manner. When he released her jaw and brushed the backs of his fingers along her arm, she shivered. His hand came to cup a breast, and she had to close her eyes to refrain from being overwhelmed by the sensation, from wishing he could palm her naked instead. Standing behind her, he covered her bosom with his hands and squeezed the flesh through her stays. She grunted and tried not to let his touch excite her.
His hands roamed her body, caressing her midsection, gripping her hips, pressing her belly, and eventually fondling her between the thighs. She had worn but two layers of petticoats beneath, and she could easily feel his fingers pressing into her through the fabric. She squirmed to loosen his access, but he stilled her with his other arm. One hand clamped down upon a breast; the other rubbed her folds.
No matter how tightly she kept her thighs together she could not stay his penetration. The spanking had, to her surprise, aroused her, though she had called upon every ounce of outrage to quell her reaction to his touch. Resistance, however, was futile. The firmness of his grasp, his ability to alternate between light and heavy caresses, called to her desire in a manner she had only ever experienced with him.
He pulled up her skirts and grazed her bare thigh, causing the blood to throb in her extremities. She both relished and wanted to evade his touch. It was madness wanting such contradictions, as if her mind was at war with her body.
Gradually, he released her and went about removing the pins from her gown. She closed her eyes. Dear God. She was to be naked before him. The skirt of her gown pooled below her. He then proceeded to untie her petticoats. The bodice of her gown, however, was a challenge, for, with her arms tied above, it could not be slipped off of her. He stepped in front of her, and seeing the fire in his eyes made her melt. There was nothing more titillating than seeing the desire there.
His gaze dropped from hers to the bodice. Undaunted, he gripped the décolletage in both hands and proceeded to rip the gown in half. She squealed. Was he mad? She could not believe he would destroy her finest muslin. The fabric ripped easily beneath his efforts and hung in tatters at her shoulders. Her stays laced in front, so he had but to undo the ribbon.
“This is unnecessary,” she tried as he unlaced her stays. “I will suffer what penance you deem appropriate, but not this.”
He looked into her eyes. “For one whose body is as wanton as yours, this is the proper penance.”
She groaned. The spanking had warmed her body, and his nearness heated it more.
“You may arrange it with Madame Follet that I am no longer welcome here,” she offered.
“That is insufficient.”
The shift went the way of her gown. Tearing it open, he exposed her breasts, midsection and pelvis. Her pulse leaped and her breath quickened. His hand went between her thighs. She shuddered as he rubbed her. For several minutes, he fondled her, nudging the bud that swelled with desire. His gaze did not leave her face, and she succumbed to the look in his countenance, the smolder in his eyes, the firm set of his jaw. The wetness of her arousal coated his fingers.
She searched for threats, temptations, or taunts that might persuade him to stop, but her body warred with her mind. Her body wanted him to continue, to pursue whatever devilry he intended.
In the looking glass across the room, she caught the reflection of herself, her body stretched toward the rafters, her tattered clothing hanging from her. Only her garters, stockings, slippers, and pearls remained intact.
He grasped a breast, his fingers slowly digging into the ample flesh. Lowering his head, he captured the nipple in his mouth, sending currents to shoot from that bud to the heat collecting between her thighs. She ached within as he licked and sucked. He performed the same attention upon the other nipple. Soon, she was fit to burst. She wanted his hand back between her legs—no, she wanted him between her legs.
Chapter 32
REACHING BETWEEN HER thighs once more, he returned to stroking her. Her arousal hardened his already stiff cock. He wished he knew that he was the sole cause of her desire, that she would not be so aroused by anyone else. Her breath, erratic from the pain, grew more haggard still. He fondled her till she squirmed, but she was not done resisting.
“Is your time not better spent in other pursuits?” she asked, her voice husky of its own accord.
“Are you so eager to rid yourself of my company?” he returned, teasing the bud, now engorged with need, that made her gasp. “Perhaps you regret having solicited my attentions?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Had I known you could be so overbearing...”
“Overbearing? You are fortunate I do not attempt what I truly think would be a worthy punishment of your broken promise.”
“I own I made a mistake. I was...lost and a little beside myself. I knew not where to turn.”
Her words tugged at his sympathy. He stepped into her. A mere half inch separated their bodies. His member throbbed. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman before. But he wanted her to feel the same intensity. How could she consider marrying a man like Winston? Could Winston take her body to such heights, catapult her body into euphoria?
“I suppose Château Follet a proper place to forget one’s intended,” he said wryly.
Anger flared in her eyes. “Accuse me if you wish but would you have done differently? Would you rather I wallow in self-pity alone?”
He could make her forget Winston. As if to prove it, he curled two fingers inside her slit. Her lashes fluttered as rapture bloomed in her countenance.
“Then it would seem you ought to welcome my presence,” he said, stroking the sensitivity behind her mound.
She trembled and lowered her gaze. “Yes, but...I did not expect you. I expected Monsieur Laroutte.”
“Do you still wish for Laroutte?”
“Yes.”
He stopped his fingers.
“I mean...perhaps,” she amended.
He pressed himself into her, making her meet his gaze.
Looking into her eyes, he was lost momentarily in their brightness, and this time he felt his bosom swell. She looked ravishing in her current position, and he was tempted to wrap her legs about him and take her against the bedpost. But he wanted to hear her surrender. Hearing her need, her desire for him, excited him to the depths of his loins.
“Perhaps?” he echoed. He resumed his stroking. Her moan was long and low. “Your body would indicate it is more than ‘perhaps.’”
“My body is incongruent with my better judgment.”
For now, he would be content with victory of the flesh. He strummed his two fingers against her as his thumb circled her clitoris. She clenched her hands and shut her eyes. She looked exquisite with her lips parts and the flush of arousal coloring her features. He could hardly wait to see her spend. The furrow of her brow indicated she was ascending that peak. He crushed his mouth atop hers, to take in every breath, every pant. Her body trembled beneath him, her back arched, she murmured against his lips—prayers or curses, he knew not, nor cared not. His only aim was to wrest from her that sublime carnal euphoria.
With a muffled cry, she succumbed to his ministrations, her body bucking and quaking as tension erupted into bliss. He pressed himself into her, his own need flaring, demanding release. After wringing the last of the spasms from her body, he gently slowed his fondling. He could feel her flex about his fingers and throb about his h
and, her wet heat calling to the lust in his groin.
He withdrew his hand to untie her wrists. Before her legs buckled and she crumbled to the ground, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed. After laying her down, he pulled her arms through her torn garments. He had not intended to rip her clothing, though his ardor had appreciated the outlet. He silently promised her that he would purchase an even finer gown, shift and stays. Indeed, he would gift her anything she desired.
To his satisfaction, he found her staring at his crotch and the bulge there. He remembered all too vividly how well she had swallowed cock at Edenmoor. But tonight was about her pleasure. If he could rain such ecstasy upon her, she would not think to seek satisfaction with another man. Certainly not Winston or the Viscount Devon. Alastair shuddered at the possibility the latter could cross paths with her at Château Follet.
He did not want to think of Millie with another man—any man, let alone the Devon bastard. Millie belonged to him. She was his.
And the only way he could assure that she would be his, and his alone, was to marry her.
Chapter 33
MILDRED SILENTLY CURSED.
Conscious of how wantonly she was splayed upon the bed, she stared up at the ceiling instead of meeting his eye. What was she to do now? What would he do?
She shut her eyes at the emotions, the truth, threatening to overwhelm her. Though her body had received what it most desired, the pain of it was that she could not keep such pleasure. Alastair could never be hers.
She gasped when she felt his touch at her mons. Looking down, she saw that it was his cock. Anticipation surged within her. He had undressed and now stroked the head of his member against her. She wondered that her body could be aroused after it had spent so gloriously but a moment ago. Her moan wavered as delicious sensations rippled between her legs. He teased her with light brushes of his length along her, touching his tip to her clitoris, pushing the crown of his shaft at her folds but not enough to enter.
Tempting A Marquess for Christmas: A Steamy Regency Romance Book 5 Page 17
