A Notorious Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  “I confess myself unable to think of anything but what comes in the next five minutes.”

  “Five minutes?” She smiled, and that curve of her mouth turned his thoughts to mist. “Is that all?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t like vain women, my lord. Silly ones even less, and you once thought me both those things.” She was giving him an out, and he was too pole-axed by the tension between them to take what she offered.

  “I don’t think that now. As well you know.” From somewhere in the barely functioning portion of his brain, he dredged up words to stop this, but the words were wrong. Inadequate. Untrue. He cupped the side of her face. “You are nothing like I thought.”

  “I’m not myself just now.”

  “On the contrary.” He let his hand fall to her shoulder.

  “Do you mean to confuse me?” Her smile seared him, and such was the impact on him that he ignored—deliberately—the danger he was in.

  “At the moment, you are very much yourself.” His fingertip made a circle in the hollow above her collar bone. “If you weren’t, I’d be on the other side of the room, as far away as I could be.”

  She drew back. Not much. Not enough. “You should. One of us ought to.”

  He brushed his lips over hers.

  She did not, he noted, draw away from him. Not at all.

  Her mouth parted, and she sighed, and her arm draped lazily around his neck, and for a time he consoled his sense of propriety with the belief that this was all that would happen between them. Soft, so soft. A kiss only. No harm done.

  She relaxed against him and sighed again, with such pleasure he could not help continuing. When, at last, he pulled back, more or less in control of himself, he saw her anew. Newer eyes than even five minutes ago. This woman—this one—was worth his soul.

  “No,” he said. “I shan’t do that.”

  He kissed her again, with less restraint this time, and she answered that passion. His mind spun away from anything but the physical.

  CHAPTER 25

  Their embrace turned as carnal as his thoughts. His kiss. His kiss turned carnal, and she answered that, and his body responded with arousal that consumed. She wasn’t passive. Nor resisting him. She was kissing him back as if they’d always been lovers.

  It seemed to him they had been.

  Her arms tightened around his shoulders—miraculous, intoxicating—then slid up to twine in his hair, and all he could think was how good it felt to have a woman in his arms who kissed him as if he were the only man in the world who mattered.

  He slid his hand down her side, then back to pause at the curve of her breast. He’d gone too long between lovers not to react to touching a woman like this. A woman’s curves. Soft skin. A mouth that met his. He wanted her naked. He wanted between her thighs. He wanted her eyes on him, soft and dazzled with pleasure. His palm molded the curve of her bosom, slid upward to the skin above her neckline.

  She gasped into his mouth, a sound replete with such pleasure that he brought her closer, unmindful of anything but the desire raging between them and the fact that the woman in his arms was considered unobtainable. She flirted. She danced, and enjoyed being in company, and there was not one man who could lay claim to her affection over any other. He gathered handfuls of her skirts, and the moment his searching fingers curved over the bare skin above her knee, she parted her legs. There was no denying that invitation.

  She’d been married. She knew what men and women did. His fingers glided to her sex and found heat and slick damp, and she gasped again, an abandoned, wanton intake of air. Her arms tightened again, brought him closer, and before he could anticipate her or himself, she found the fall of his trousers. One stroke upward was enough to push any thought from his head but those involving sexual congress.

  Her eyes fluttered open and met his as she gripped him, and he fell deeper into the moment, into her. “Oh.” The word hung on a breath. “Oh, so lovely.”

  She found the first button and the second, and he unfastened the rest. She shifted onto her back, Lord, yes, yes, yes. He needed her, burned for her.That was her, saying those words. Yes, yes yes.

  He came over her, one hand on the sofa above her shoulder, the other moving aside her skirts and petticoats, and he met her gaze head on, searched for reluctance or fear or the formation of a denial, but she said, “Please, oh, please.”

  He shifted and stroked once. Inside. Inside the softness of her. “God in heaven, yes.”

  This. This. The silence took them both. No words. Nothing but sensation, the taut peaking of desire. He was inside her, his cock snug, and he did not give the slightest damn who she was or who he was, or the fact that she had connections to powerful men or whether she’d married suitably or not. He didn’t care about anything but the sound of pure satisfaction she made when he came into her. He thrust again. Harder than was polite, but then he never had been a polite lover. She didn’t seem to mind.

  She drew breath and strained toward him. “I’m going to come.”

  “Not yet.” The words came from miles deep in his soul. He had to grab onto the meaning and even so the words came out, useless. How was it possible they could do this without the awkwardness of lovers who had yet to learn each other?

  She brought one hand above her head and braced her palm on the arm of the sofa and arched to him, and he went mindless, moving in her, feeling the slide of his prick in her. “Harder.” She made another sound, a greedy groan. “Please. Harder.”

  Thrale dipped his head and captured her mouth. His prick was inside her, surrounded by her, so soft. So soft. He stopped being gentle because she’d asked for that, but all the same he was careful of her. He was larger and stronger than she was, and what he liked, what turned him inside out as a woman’s lover, was unlikely to be what she meant by Please. Harder.

  Every thrust exposed the head of his cock, and she answered the thrust forward, and he was going to lose his mind again. Lose control. He restrained himself, timing his thrusts, but his thoughts spun out ahead of him to the possibility of Please. Harder. Just thinking about that aroused him.

  She turned her head away and then back to him. She stared into his eyes, and he had never in his life been so filled with a sense that he had won. He was the victor because this aloof, remote woman was fucking him. Letting him fuck her. No delicacy, just this rawness of sex and carnal need between them and reflected back in her eyes and her breath.

  “Please.” She bit her lower lip. “Harder.”

  He shoved forward, not as hard as he wanted to, but more than he’d dared before, and the ripple of her response made him groan.

  “More. Damn you. More, more.” She kept one hand jammed against the side of the sofa arm. With the other, she gripped his shoulder.

  Thrale pushed forward again, rougher this time. His heart beat fast. Faster. Anticipation built. “This?”

  “Yes. God, yes.”

  For several moments, there was nothing for them but his brutal sharing of his body, and his awareness stretching out along a shiver of incipient orgasm. One of her legs was up high, nearly around his waist, giving him an angle that allowed him deeper penetration. This wasn’t a woman of delicate senses, for all that he’d never known one more delicately formed. The connection between them sharpened. Became richer. Fraught with possibility.

  The hell with restraint. The hell with it. Her passage contracted around him, and he pulled out of her. A close thing, any longer, and he’d have come, and he wasn’t ready to be done.

  “No!” The word came from her in a sob. Her fist pressed against the back of his shoulder. “Fiend.”

  He sat back, his prick hard, and he waited for the flush in her cheeks to fade to pale pink. He put a hand over her sex, sliding a finger along her slick folds, finding the spot that made her groan. Want ached in him. His needs, his, pray God, would match hers. “How rough do you want me to be? Beautiful Lucy, tell me. I need to know so you have what you need from me.”

 
She gripped the sofa with both hands and locked gazes with him, and he believed to his core that he was seeing her without pretense, and there was fire there, in her heart, in herself, that she did not let anyone see. But for him. She was letting him see.

  “Tell me,” he said, “and I will oblige you.”

  “I don’t know.” She glared at him, and that petulant frown filled him with smug satisfaction. “Until I tell you it’s too hard.”

  He smiled, savoring the view of her, the feel of her sex, his arousal and the fact that she was a match for his tastes. “Are you easily offended?”

  “I’m offended that you’ve stopped.”

  He studied the flush that pinked up her cheeks. “If I fucked you from behind?”

  At his obscenity, she drew in a breath, but that was lust there. Desire.

  “Beautiful Lucy, magnificent Lucy, would you be offended by that?” Arousal roared through him. “As hard as you like, madam. As long as you tell me when…if it’s too much.”

  “I won’t take offense.”

  “Shall we have your vinaigrette to hand?”

  “Oh, you beast.” But she laughed, and so did he, and then he turned her over, or she did herself. A mutual adjustment of their bodies. He pushed her skirts out of the way and settled his hands on the curve of her bottom, fingers downward, and the moment before he penetrated her, a finger along her sex.

  He went in hard, and though she let out a sharp breath, she pushed back. Again. Again. And she adjusted to him, to this new rhythm. He circled an arm around her waist and pumped, and he heard the air leave her lungs and the intake of air, and he felt the silk of her, and he went harder again, holding her body immobile.

  His heart raced, and his world narrowed to her. Just her. Taking him higher. He propped one hand on top of the sofa arm, and holding her tight, changed the rhythm, a slow withdrawal now, lazy even. His entire body clenched. When he thrust, though, his penetration was fast and hard. On the edge of brutal. Almost more than he could take.

  He gathered enough of his wits about him to be sure he’d not gone too far. “Is aught well?”

  “No. Damn you.” She arched into the curve and shape of his body. “You said you would oblige me.”

  “I shall.” He slowed. Deliberately. “In due time. I promise.”

  “Damn… you.”

  Brutal this time. This was beyond anything he’d imagined about her. He worked his body hard, and it was for this. For fucking a woman so perfectly beautiful, willing, and passionate, with a body he’d honed for the purpose. His control spun away, not yet out of reach but not in reach either.

  They ended up on the floor, face to face now, and he fucked her long and hard, and she clung to him, she met each thrust of his hips with hers. A desperate coupling that built between them. He pinned her arms over her head, words coming from him, spilling from him, murmured endearments, for pity’s sake, crude words.

  He settled into a motion that had him hurtling toward climax. Soon. Too soon. He changed his angle to take the edge off, and whatever he did, that roll of his hips to give her a moment before he slammed into her again, broke her apart, and she was beyond lovely, beyond arousing. He dissolved into the moment, and his life peaked. Here. That sense that he would spend.

  So close. Too close to his climax.

  Every instinct in him wanted deeper in her, to come while he was surrounded by her. But he withdrew, barely in time. Anything else risked compromising them both. He could not possibly. And still his climax shattered him, pulsing through him.

  He came back to himself slowly, languorously. Beauty, disheveled in his arms. He kissed her once. Then again, softer. Tender, even. Her arms were around him, their clothes a mess, and she still broke him. Guilt stole over him now. Not regret, but he should not have been so rough with her. At some point, he’d kissed her hard enough that he’d left a mark on her shoulder. A tiny, strawberry bruise.

  She watched him, though, with a soft, private smile of repletion. “No,” she said. “Don’t be like that. It was lovely.” She sat up, him, too, as must needs be, and he had to accept this change between them. Fastidiously, she assisted him with putting his clothes to rights, already retreating from him. Returning to untouchable beauty. “We’ll be missed,” she said.

  “This won’t be enough for me,” he said.

  She leaned forward, composed and far, far away. “But it must be.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Lucy and Emily arrived at Rosefeld shortly before eleven o’clock in the morning. The house was every bit as intimidating as Aldreth’s London home; more actually. His Portman Square townhouse was smaller than Rosefeld, more intimate. She should not be so unnerved by the size and opulence, but she was. She always had been.

  Mary and Aldreth had arrived this morning, and the moment the news arrived at The Cooperage, she and her sister had headed for Rosefeld. Emily marched up the stairs without a thought, but Lucy stood before the gleaming front door and traced a finger over the letters carved into the marble at the side.

  Rosefeld. So many memories. As a girl she’d dreamed of being invited to visit, a proper visit, involving one’s best gowns, tea, and dancing, if fortune smiled. She’d meet and fall madly in love with various noblemen, including, naturally, the then quite young heir to Rosefeld. Indeed, this was a house that had been the scene of oft-imagined drama.

  She counted to twenty and went in. Emily was halfway up the stairs, facing the open front door, waiting.

  “There you are, Lucy. I thought you’d decided to go home.”

  “No.” She slipped out of her cloak and handed over her umbrella.

  “Good news. Mary says Aldreth went out. That means there’ll be something left for us to eat.”

  Aldreth’s butler took her things and bowed. “Good morning, Mrs. Wilcott.”

  “Good morning to you.”

  Emily called again, from the top of the stairs this time. Lucy hurried up the stairs and followed her sister into the front parlor. Mary met them halfway and hugged them in turn. This was Lucy’s favorite room at Rosefeld. The walls were orange-red, the ceiling and molding white as summer clouds. Two chandeliers dripping with crystal-drops hung at either end of the rectangle. The curtains were open to the view of fields falling away to the river, and there, at the edge of the panorama, was Butterfly Hill. Like Emily, she sat near the carved marble fireplace. There were one hundred and twelve rosettes carved in the ceiling above.

  “We weren’t going to come here so soon.” Mary passed Emily a bowl of sugared almonds. “Aldreth insisted.”

  “Thank you. Will you have some, Lucy?” Emily extended the bowl half an inch. “No? Then I’ll finish them myself.”

  “You know Aldreth and boxing. He’s mad about it.”

  “Oh, that.” Emily chose an almond. “If I hear another word about Granger or Clancy or Bob Mabobbie, I’ll scream. It’s all anyone can talk about. I wish they’d stage their match and have it done with.”

  “Aldreth was beside himself at the thought he’d arrive too late.”

  “I’ve heard the battle is scheduled for Thursday morning,” Lucy said. “If he means to attend, he’s come just in time.”

  “Not 'til Thursday?” Mary reached for the almonds, but Emily moved the bowl away. “We might have remained a day or two longer in Town instead of upending the entire household. I blame Bracebridge.”

  “Bracebridge?” Emily set the bowl on her lap. “What has he to do with anything?”

  “He told Aldreth we had to leave immediately or miss the debacle.” Mary rolled her eyes.

  “Battle,” Lucy said. “It’s called a battle.”

  “Is it? I pay no attention. Bracebridge got wind of it somehow, and ever since all Aldreth could do was insist we leave immediately.”

  “He is here, as well?” Emily said. “Bracebridge, I mean.”

  “Yes.”

  “Here?”

  “Not at this moment. He and Aldreth left before the children were settled, off to fet
ch Thrale for some misadventure or other. Did you walk here? I wonder you didn’t pass them on your way.”

  Lucy leaned in and took several almonds from the bowl on Emily’s lap. She was relaxed now. Aldreth was out, and he’d taken up Thrale, so they would have an uninterrupted visit. Conversation moved to Anne and her young son, the future duke of Cynssyr, one day in the distant future, one hoped. They were doing well, thriving both of them, with the duke as proud as any papa of his progeny.

  The double doors on the opposite side of the room opened. Lucy, who had the best view, expected a servant with more tea and food. Instead, she connected with Lord Thrale’s iron-grey eyes. The breath left her. Behind him was Aldreth and behind him was Bracebridge, and behind him, Captain Niall and Harry.

  Thrale bowed smoothly. “Lady Aldreth. Miss Sinclair.”

  Emily waved.

  Aldreth breezed in. “I told you the company here would be far prettier than anywhere else in Bartley Green. Lucy. Emily.” He swooped down and snatched the almonds from Emily’s lap.

  “See here, Aldreth.”

  Aldreth scooped up a handful. “You know they’re my favorite.”

  The others came in. Lucy hardly knew where to look between Bracebridge’s scowl and Emily’s brittle smiles, and Harry’s too careful demeanor. And Thrale. There would be heartbreak here, that was certain. There were greetings and then an unseemly descent on the tea. The butler had anticipated the consequences of so many gentlemen arriving, for more tea and food arrived on their heels.

  Lord Thrale took his tea from Mary and walked to the window to stare at the view. Lucy did her best to emulate his coolness.

  Captain Niall sat near her. “Mrs. Wilcott. Good morning to you.”

  Aldreth, Bracebridge, and Harry plunged into a heated debate of the upcoming battle and whether to take the odds on Clancy. She raised her voice to be heard over the general noise. “Likewise, Captain. I wish Miss Glynn had come. It would have been delightful to see her.”