A Notorious Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  “It was coincidence we met with Mr. Glynn on our way here.”

  Thrale continued to stare out the window. What was he thinking? Did he regret what they had done? She did not. Bracebridge called to him, and Thrale turned. He did not look at her, which was what she had asked of him. And not what she wanted. She wanted to be alone with him again. She wanted to kiss him everywhere, she wanted to stare at him, stroke him, explore his body in detail, to drink in the sight of him.

  “Excuse me, Captain Niall.” She set down her tea. “Mary, I’ll only be a moment.”

  Her sister nodded and returned to her conversation with Emily.

  She left the parlor, down the corridor to anywhere, really. Anywhere but here. She wanted to go home. She wanted to be far away from Rosefeld and Lord Thrale, even though she knew she ought to do as she always did and disappear behind a wall of good cheer. Thrale made that impossible.

  She opened a door and went in whatever room this was. Her breath rattled. She sat on a sofa. The room, a parlor, was dimly lit because the curtains were drawn, and the air had more than a touch of cold since the fire had not been brought up yet. She concentrated on composing herself. She would have to return to the others, and if she did with the slightest sign of upset, she would never hear the end of it from Mary or Emily. Or anyone else.

  Her body could not forget Thrale. The sensation of him. The unforgiving hardness of muscle, the sound of his breath, his moans, the way he stretched her, thrust into her, the taste of him. Lust, pure lust, and what lady wanted a man to make love to her without delicacy, with rude words in her ear, with hands and fingers and lips in private places? What lady welcomed a grip that set her at the very edge of pain?

  Sitting was no good. He’d reduced her to a mass of unseemly desire and feelings she’d not had since Devil. She stood and paced from the sofa to a mahogany sideboard at one side of this small parlor. What had become of her that she was losing sight of the difference between the woman she’d been and the woman she was expected to be now? True, she missed her life with Devil, his frank ways with her, how they’d learned to enjoy each other, his love of the physical. And hers. Hers, too.

  She wanted Thrale with an ache. She wanted sexual repletion.

  The door opened, and she looked up, already knowing before she heard a word or saw who was there, that Thrale had opened the door. Her heart stopped beating, and then it beat too fast, and her stomach fell away, because, he was here. And why, why, would she feel such anticipation?

  “Madam.” His stern address slid through her like a knife, but that was his nature. Reserved. Steady. His eyes, the way he looked at her, told her why he was here.

  Without her quite realizing it, she’d moved toward him, breathless, foolishly breathless, because he had proved himself exactly the sort of lover she wanted. Exactly the sort of lover a lady should not want.

  “My lord.” She called on all the serenity at her command. She could be dignified. She could be. Her shawl did not drape evenly on her shoulder, but she didn’t dare look or move for fear it would fall, or she’d drop it, or catch a button in the fringe, or make herself ridiculous as so often happened when she was pretending to be a proper lady.

  He looked at the floor for several seconds before he spoke. When at last he met her gaze, he coughed once. “I was hoping for a moment of your time. If I may.”

  “You may.” She curtsied as a lady ought to when in the presence of a nobleman.

  Thrale walked to her, and the back of her knees went shivery. He came close enough that, if he’d wished, and if she held out a hand, they could touch. What would it be like if he kissed her? Would she let him? Would she feel that same longing?

  A noise in the corridor, a door closing, startled them both. But there was nothing more after that. His gaze flicked to the doorway then back to her. He tilted his head. “Did you leave because of me?”

  The sofa was too far away so she reached to one side and touched the table there, to ground herself. She did not want him to see yet how much she adored his body. Admired it. Lusted for him. “Yes.”

  For some time, an eternity, he said nothing. She as well. She kept a smile on her face. Or hoped she did. The muscles of her face moved, but what that twitch of her mouth and cheeks might look like to anyone, she did not know. A grimace?

  “Because,” she said. “Because I could not stop staring at you and thinking of you. Mary was bound to notice.”

  He walked to the door, and she expected him to leave, but he didn’t. He pushed it closed. She heard the soft clack of wood against wood. He turned the key that had been left in the lock.

  She rested her hand flat on the table beside her and stared at her glove. No lady, then. Despite appearances.

  Thrale returned to her.

  “I cannot think when you are near, my lord.” Yellow kid, with a row of sixteen tiny pearl buttons. She walked away, toward the sideboard. He followed and stopped behind her.

  She was blithe. A woman of no substance. Until he curled a hand around her throat, resting his palm there. There was incipient violence in the way he held her, though he was nowhere near hurting her. He must have stripped off his gloves when he crossed the room, for his hands were bare now. The first time Devil held her, she’d been shocked by the hardness of his body. Warm skin over unforgiving muscle, and she’d been innocent enough at the time to think it was because he was not a gentleman. That a gentleman was soft, and other men were not.

  His fingers angled up until they were resting on her throat and the underside of her chin. The muscles of his arm pressed against her shoulder, his forearm lay across her upper chest. His other hand traced over her bosom, at first over the bodice of her gown, then along her skin. He put his mouth by her ear, one finger, then two, three, delving beneath her neckline. He whispered, “Lucy. I want you. Now.”

  His words turned her liquid inside. She was nothing but the shiver of longing turning her boneless.

  “Hard, and fast, and then I want us back in that parlor with no one the wiser about what we’ve done.”

  “My lord.” The words came out a whisper.

  He gathered a handful of her skirt, slowly at first, because his other hand was wandering down her throat, holding her with enough pressure that she felt his strength, leaning close enough that she felt the power of his torso. “Short stays. Good. That’s excellent.”

  Breath caught in her throat. He was not touching her gently or with reverence. He held tighter, and then her skirts were up enough that he could trap them around her waist, which he did. She was wet, trembling, quivering, so needy she forgot she ought to be delicate. “I need your prick inside me.”

  His hands settled on her backside. “Here, then?”

  “Now.”

  He shifted them both, bringing her along with him until they were at the right of the sideboard. He slid a hand between her thighs and lifted one of her legs until she had no choice but to lean forward. Then more. More. He lifted her leg until her thigh rested on the sideboard.

  “Like so. Yes. Not too much?”

  She was completely open to him, and the fingers of one hand delved, stroked, deft fingers, clever fingers. He pressed a hand to the middle of her back, and she felt his body shift again, the move away of his hips to give him the space to unfasten his trousers. One of his arms circled her waist. His torso touched her back, pinned her in place.

  “Like before?” he said. Gruff.

  “Please.”

  “Tell me if it’s too much.”

  “It’s not enough now.”

  He laughed, low, so low and sure. And then he shoved into her. Hard. Fast, holding her waist tight, his other hand on her thigh, holding her leg, and she let out a hard breath. He found a rhythm, and that took her away from everything but their bodies. She felt his strength, and his restraint, and the way he angled himself in response to her. Her body hurtled toward orgasm, out of control.

  He banged into her. He was strong and hard with muscle, an unforgiving body, an
d she went over, falling, tumbling, soaring into ruinous pleasure. He followed, but pulled out just when she needed that last lovely thrust a man made when he’d come. But, Lord, he must. He must do so if they were to be safe. If she was to be safe.

  He stepped back, fastened his trousers, and she could not move. She was boneless with pleasure. He came back to help her put her clothes to rights. When they faced each other, he kissed her hard and deep, his hand back to resting around the front of her throat, stroking. His mouth gentled, and that melted her, too. How strange that he could kiss her with such tenderness.

  They parted, and he said, “We go back, you first. No one is to guess what we’ve done, yes?”

  She had no true gentility. None at all. She drew a finger down his chest and gave in to the joy of his wanting her. “I’ll be thinking of your cock in me.”

  He leaned in and took another kiss. “Do.”

  CHAPTER 27

  In a private room at the Crown & Pig, Thrale sat exactly the right distance from the fire. He’d eaten an excellent dinner, in excellent company consisting of Niall and Glynn. Sinclair, who had gone with them to the Academy, along with Aldreth and Bracebridge, to watch the exhibitions, had declined Thrale’s invitation with a rather well done insistence that the younger set must enjoy themselves. He’d business with Aldreth, he’d said.

  The three of them were now pleasantly exhausted from their afternoon spent fists raised and toe to the line and were finishing off an excellent Italian red that Glynn had kept in the inn’s cellar against such dinners as this. A better than decent way to pass an evening. Niall was slouched on the chair at the other side of the fireplace, legs stretched toward the fire. Glynn was seated likewise on the other side.

  Niall was a good opponent in the ring, but a known one, as they often sparred when they were in London. Glynn was another matter. Mrs. Wilcott’s assessment of him as a fighter had been spot on. He’d have been cautious in any event, for a stripped down Glynn showed a muscular physique. Nevertheless, he’d gone into his bout with Glynn with her information about the man’s left floating in his thoughts. He might otherwise have been taken unawares by the viciousness of the punch that followed his right.

  For his own fighting, he felt the difference that was a result of his newly gained control over his technique. Johnson had noticed it, too. He’d sparred again with one of the fighters Johnson was training. He took fewer punches and landed more of his own, and once the young man understood this was no accident, he’d nodded, and Thrale had found himself battling at a level that threatened to put him on his heels. He’d held his own.

  “Life,” Thrale said, “could be worse than this.”

  “True words,” Glynn said. “True words.”

  If nothing else came of his visit to Bartley Green, his friendship with Glynn was worth savoring. Aside from his pugilistic skills, the man was astonishingly well read. Like Niall, Glynn knew when quiet was called for and when it was not, but what he liked best was Glynn’s willingness to be unabashedly crude.

  “Indeed, milord, it could be worse.” Glynn shifted on his chair and winced. Sore ribs, and may he feel the ache at least as long as Thrale would feel his own bruises. “You could have hit me harder than you did. I thank you for your restraint.”

  “You’re welcome, sir. Very welcome.” He lifted his glass. “I hope you two will visit me at Blackfern when I am there, and in Town whenever you happen to find yourselves at loose ends in London.”

  Niall hefted his mostly empty glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

  “I as well.” Glynn met the toast.

  “You had better take me up on my invitation.”

  “Hear, hear.” Glynn touched his side. “Damn you, Thrale. I take back every word I said about your restraint. Need you have hit me quite that hard?”

  “I ask the same of you.”

  “I was fighting for my dignity.”

  Thrale snorted.

  “I was. Damn me, man, you’d take Granger himself.”

  “If he had one hand tied behind his back.”

  Niall laughed. “I’m not so sure of that. I own, I am relieved that I did not allow you to pummel me the way you did that poor fool.”

  Glynn acknowledged that with a wry grin. “I’ll make a better account of myself next time, my word on it, my lord.”

  “I shudder to think of that.”

  “A question for you, my battling friend.” Glynn leaned forward, gingerly rubbing his side. “You are given a choice between two events. Neither will ever happen again, and you may choose only one. An epic battle between” —he waved a hand— “name your fighters.”

  “Granger and Clancy?”

  “That.” He nodded as soberly as was possible for a man half drunk. “Or the perfect fuck. Which will you choose?”

  “Is there a choice?” Niall said. “That’s not something you ask a man.”

  Glynn lifted a hand. “It’s a serious question, Niall, and I have asked him. You’ll answer the question next, my friend.”

  Niall shook his head, disgusted. “Who’d choose anything but a woman?”

  He gave a low laugh. “My lord? Your answer? The perfect fuck or an epic battle?”

  “The fuck.” Thoughts of Lucy—Mrs. Wilcott—filled his head. Gad. He knew just the woman to give him that fuck.

  “What’s this? Not even a moment to reflect?”

  “Did you think I’d choose the battle?”

  Glynn cocked an eyebrow. “With a certain woman, then?”

  He smiled slowly. With great satisfaction.

  “Oh, oh! You have. Who was she?”

  Although he trusted both men’s discretion, the fact was, he was not about to compromise himself or Mrs. Wilcott. “A man needs encounters like that. Moments with his pulse racing because he’s about to die in the arms of a beautiful woman.”

  “I’ll second that.”

  He doubted either man had any trouble attracting willing partners to his bed, though he suspected Niall more frequently did so, simply because in London one had more opportunities. He was going to have to get Glynn to Town for a session at Gentleman Jack’s and a night or two or three, among the demimonde.

  Glynn gave him a knowing look. “Whoever she is, may you soon fuck her again.”

  He laughed. “I’ll say, hear, hear, and leave it at that.”

  Silence fell again. Comfortable. Then, he and Niall spoke at the same time.

  “Speaking of ladies,” Niall said.

  “Since you mentioned battles—Please, Captain, you first.”

  “I meant to say that as the subject of lovers has come up, I heard the most astonishing rumor about a certain beauty.”

  Glynn said, “Oh? Do tell.”

  Niall picked up the bottle they’d nearly emptied and poured the remainder into their glasses.

  “A certain milady most notorious, who would have us believe she is unobtainable, is, in fact, engaged in an affair.”

  Thrale’s chest tightened, but he maintained his composure. “Someone we knew in London?”

  “Yes.” Niall laughed. “Oh, yes. A widow, it happens, whose paramour is a married man.”

  A married man. And so his worry that Niall could have discovered him and Lucy was put to rest. He relaxed on his chair.

  “Is that so unusual?” Glynn lifted his glass and examined the contents by the light reflected from the chimney glass. The muted sounds of song from the tavern downstairs carried in the silence. “A gentleman may have his mistress, after all.”

  “None, I daresay. But as I said, the woman pretends she cannot be had for love nor money.” Niall leaned forward. “The man in question let it slip, or I’d have suspected nothing. She’d have us believe she dislikes him when nothing could be farther from the truth.”

  Glynn sighed. “That’s what comes of all you Londoners and Flash men showing up in Bartley Green. I’ll be damned glad when the lot of you are gone. Present company and pretty whores excepted.”

  “You won’t like
London much, then,” Thrale said.

  Niall said, “There are pretty whores in Town, I grant you that, but none as pretty as your local beauties.”

  “They are here in Bartley Green? This woman and her married lover? Do I know her?” Glynn sat forward. “Or her paramour?”

  Niall looked at the ceiling. “They could be here right now, in this very inn. She might this very moment be giving him the perfect fuck.”

  Glynn tipped his glass in Niall’s direction. “May we all find that perfect fuck.”

  They drank a toast to that, and Thrale rested his head against the back of his chair. There was an edge of resentment to Niall’s amusement that bothered him.

  “At least she’s come up from amusing herself with lowborn men and will give time in her bed to a gentleman.”

  “When the lights are down,” Glynn said, “there’s no woman can tell the difference between noble cock and common cock. It’s how you use what you’ve got between your legs that matters.”

  Thrale kept silent.

  “Maybe so,” Niall said, “but I daresay the one with the noble cock can put a sparkle in her eye and around her neck. If you’re going to fuck a man, as well have one who can do both.”

  “Point, Captain Niall. Point.”

  “I fancy this woman even more now I know I needn’t come up to snuff. If she’ll take common, then she ought to take my gentle one at no expense to me.”

  Glynn pointed at him. “It does not pay to stint the woman you hope will keep you amused in bed. That’s been my experience.”

  “God love a randy widow.” Niall let out a breath. “You’d never think it to look at her.”

  Thrale stomach twisted into a painful knot. He did not like this conversation. Surely, Niall did not mean Mrs. Wilcott? He’d said her lover was a married man.

  “Who is she?” Glynn asked. “I could use a woman just now. It’s a poxy risk going with one of the commodities in town for the fight.”

  “As if I’d tell you who she is when I’m after her myself.”

  “Someone in Bartley Green for the duration? Good Lord, man, have pity, I’ve enough to deal with now I am home. If, as you say, she’ll take a gentleman’s equipment, I’d like to try my luck.”