Grey's Lady

by Natasha Blackthorne

  She heard his laugh and turned towards the windows. In the farthest corner, Grey sat with two other gentlemen, newspapers spread over their table.

  He glanced up and, for a moment, she had a sense of disbelief. He couldn’t be the same gentleman who had made such heated, passionate love to her in his carriage. Oh, he possessed the same midnight-black hair and hard-boned handsomeness but this man was a stranger.

  A laughing stranger with a ruthless set to his jaw and eyes as cold as agates.

  Her heart leapt into her throat. What was she doing here?

  He focused on her with hawk-like intensity and she sucked in her breath. Apprehension tingled in her belly and the sensation radiated through her body out to her fingers and toes.

  His companions stopped talking and their gazes followed his. The one to his right was a short, dark-haired man with an overripe red mouth and obsidian eyes. To his left was an older man, tall and spare with thin lips and a beak-like nose.

  The two other men couldn’t possibly see her face through the widow’s veil she wore but, even so, their cold, hard stares bored into her. Nothing like the tame, pampered gentlemen she knew from working at Mrs Bickle’s Inn, their power seemed to pulsate on the air. A cold power, used to having its wants immediately assuaged. A power jaded with itself, empty and hungry for anything novel to fill it up.

  Sensation crawled over her. A sensation like a blizzard of frozen mosquitoes descending upon her, their icy legs skittering over her scalp, prickling and biting their way down her back. Her heart pounded in her ribcage and she turned and fled.

  In the corridor, she leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, then hugged herself and shuddered all over. She’d read those two other men’s thoughts in their eyes. They had the means to buy and sell human lives. The capacity to suck one’s soul dry and take pleasure in it.

  Was Grey like them? Had she made a terrible mistake? What was she doing here? Cold sweat and nausea threatened to overtake her and she forced herself to take deep, slow breaths.

  You are being silly. They are as mortal as you.

  But no one had ever looked at her like that. As if she were a slave on the block.

  Run, just run and forget this insanity.

  With her eyes on the stairs, she picked up her skirts. However, it was too late—the sound of boots on the hardwood floor reached her straining ears. Once again, her heartbeat galloped away from her. Oh, she was a damned fool. Tricked by lust into thinking this was safe. Snared in her passions like a senseless hare. Yet pride demanded she stand to face him, not flee like some silly girl.

  Anyhow, it was her decision to be here. She was in control and she’d stay in control, of both herself and the situation. That was what mattered most.

  The sound of boots stopped and her mouth dried. A tingling rush swept through her stomach, but whether from anxiety or anticipation, she didn’t know. She turned and saw the tall, dark shadow looming over her. Cool air rushed over her sweat-damp face as her black widow’s veil was lifted away, leaving a delicious sort of weakness in its wake. Grey’s eyes were luminous silver, reflecting the starlight of her dreams and taking her breath away.

  The scent of his shaving soap, a nuanced blend of citrus and spice with an underlying note of musk, mingled with that of crisp, fresh linen. The scent evoked a sense of solace, as if she’d been living for nothing else since they’d parted. As if there were some kind of magical security to be found with him alone.

  Yet she knew so little about him, except that he was leagues above her. She let her gaze roam over his tall, hard-muscled body. His cravat glowed blindingly white against the dark blue of his jacket, so stiffly starched, so perfectly tied it appeared carved from marble. The thrust of his clean-shaven jaw seemed almost ruthlessly arrogant. Heavens, he exuded wealth and power and privilege from every pore. And he consorted with those hollow souls in the dining hall. Was his just as hollow?

  She felt as though she were Pandora with her hand on the lid of the box. Once again, her hands twitched to pick up her skirts and her feet burnt to run.

  “Thank God it’s you, else I expect I’d have had my face soundly slapped by now.” His deep voice resonated in her belly.

  Neither of them laughed. The tension, sharp like a knife’s tip held at her throat, rendered her speechless.

  “I am sorry they directed you to the dining hall. Most indelicate. Someone should have come and fetched me instead.”

  Inwardly, she shuddered at the memory of so many curious male eyes upon her veiled person. “It’s no matter now.”

  “Are you hungry?” he asked, his tone front-parlour-polite.

  “No.” She couldn’t possibly eat. She’d been pent up with desire like a caged cat for two weeks. Now, so close to being beneath him again, she could barely keep herself from swooning from the excitement.

  “You know, for a moment there, I thought you were about to bolt.”

  “No, never.”

  “That’s a relief.” He laughed without smiling and pressed something into her hand—a key. He whispered his room number. “Go up. I’ll follow shortly.”

  “I haven’t much time.”

  “Very shortly.” The edgy promise in his voice sent a bolt of desire twisting through her belly. Her knees melted to jelly and she wobbled.

  “Careful.” His strong hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her, his face showing none of the emotion pounding through her own body. How could he remain so unaffected?

  Impulse seized her and she caught hold of his lapels. “Kiss me.”

  He leaned closer. Heavens, anyone could come along and catch them. Oh the risk… But her breath quickened and her nipples stiffened, straining against her stays. She closed her eyes, tilted her head up. Waited.

  And waited.

  “How many men since me?” He laid his large hand at the base of her throat and a thrill went chasing through her. “Look me in the eye.”

  Her lids fluttered open and his gaze pierced into her with such intensity she gasped. “It has only been two weeks.”

  “Answer me, Beth.”

  Another thrill trembled through her. Fear or anticipation? She couldn’t say. “None.”

  Still holding her throat, he studied her for several long moments. She set her jaw, refusing to waver under his scrutiny.

  He bent and his mouth pressed hers, hard and hasty. Passion spiralled, took her soaring to the stars. Lassitude weakened her and wetness seeped between her legs. He lifted his head. She tightened her hands on his lapels, trying to pull him back. He resisted, his eyes trained on her like a stag with a doe.

  Kiss me. Just kiss me, you arrogant jackanapes.

  “Now, go.” He released her, set her veil back in place and left her there.

  She gaped at his departing back, watching how he moved, so tall and proud. Over-proud. Did he have any idea what a rarefied class he found himself in? She didn’t go around asking just any man to kiss her. She had very high standards and she shared herself with only a select few. She was bestowing quite an honour on him and yet he reacted as if she were the one who ought to be grateful. And to add insult to injury, he hadn’t even kissed her. Not truly.

  Yet, despite the seething vexation he inspired in her, wetness slid down along the insides of her thighs. She could hardly wait to get upstairs and be alone with him again. To lie in his bed and have his weight press her down and his huge, hard cock thrust into her. Filling her, stretching her to her limits, just as he had that day in the carriage.

  Heat swept over her and she realised she was shaking with excitement. Oh, this wasn’t good. Or safe. Or sane. Her mouth went dry. She ought to leave, right this minute. But she couldn’t seem to find the will.

  Dear God, it frightened her how much she wanted him.

  * * * *

  Grey reached for the doorknob and took a deep breath, struggling for control. After two weeks, he’d been sure he’d never see her again. He had wanted her to the point he’d lost all interest in his current Philadelp
hian mistress and scarcely been able to keep his mind on business. To see her here today had been like a typhoon rush of excitement.

  But no matter how much he wanted to, he wasn’t going to pounce on the woman and carry her to bed. Instead, over champagne, they would discuss their relationship. Define it. So they knew where they stood, because two weeks of uncertain waiting had been intolerable. He was prepared to make her terms no sane woman could refuse, and she seemed sane.

  Once defined, their liaison would start anew as he intended it to go on, no different from with any of his mistresses. There would be no room left for emotion. No distasteful power struggles or disappointments.

  He entered his room and locked the door. Soft footfalls sounded on the polished floorboards. He turned to see her running towards him.

  She was completely naked. The vixen.

  She flung herself at him. Instinctively, he caught her, reeling backwards a little. While he struggled to keep his balance, her hands latched on to his shoulders, her legs wrapped around his waist and gripped tight. He braced her bare, satiny bottom.

  His heart hammered in his chest. As welcomes went, it was staggering. Her mouth found his, her tongue flirting along his lips.

  “Damn.” He half-groaned against her lips. Kissing her deeply, with one eye open, he bore her to the bed. Bright light flashed through the gossamer white curtains, illuminating her porcelain skin against the dark blue velvet bedspread. She rolled onto her back, all pink-tipped breasts, flat, youthful belly and luscious, long legs.

  Thunder rumbled as he stretched over her. Fitting his hand to the curve of her waist, he bent his head. Her pulse beat a tattoo against his lips, her skin like smooth cream on his tongue, her scent exotic, all sweet and tangy, like the tangerines he had enjoyed so much in the Orient. Slowly, he kissed his way down to the soft swell of her breasts. Capturing her hardened nipple between his lips, he ran the tip of his tongue gently over it.

  She shivered and moaned, arching her back, pressing up and clutching his head. Her soft, plump mons pressed against his erection. Every male instinct screamed for him to wrench his pantaloons open and thrust into her immediately.

  Light flashed, followed by an immediate loud boom. He raised his head, focussing glassily. This was going too quickly. However much her artless honesty was a refreshing departure from Maria’s lace-and-silk calculation and Kate’s cool sophistication, he shouldn’t let his instincts rule.

  He rolled away and got up to peel off his jacket. Then he took out his cotton banyan for her to wear. So they could talk.

  When he turned back to the bed, she lay with one hand caressing her breast, one hand between her legs, a finger stroking her nub. He sucked in his breath, his balls tightening.

  She moaned and his eyes flicked to her face. Her body writhed as the speed of her stroking, circling finger increased, and her every hitching breath reverberated in his cock. Good God. A long-held fantasy brought to writhing, moaning life. It defied everything he thought he knew about women. Ladies would never do it. Mistresses might, if they were in a good humour—but in a practised way, every movement showing that they were play-acting. This was no performance. This was woman at her most sensual, intimately abandoned.

  He approached the bed and stretched out alongside her. “Do you want it that much, Beth?”

  “Can’t wait… Please don’t make me wait.”

  “Christ.” His hand raced up her thigh. Entering her with two fingers, he explored her forward wall until she caught her breath.

  “There, my darling?”

  “G—god.”

  His palm flat against her nether lips, he stroked her deeply with his fingers.

  On a moan, she laid back and closed her eyes. Those honeyed walls hugged his fingers and she flattened her palms on the bed, pressing down. Her hips thrashed as uncontrolled moans tore from her throat.

  He circled her erect nub with his thumb while he moved his fingers inside her with steady, firm motions.

  “You’re…a…”

  He redoubled his efforts. Her cunt spasmed, her body jerked off the bed, she screamed. His mouth came down over hers a moment too late. Her pleasure reverberated in the chamber, still echoing in his ears as he lifted his mouth.

  They’d be lucky if someone didn’t call the watch.

  Cool, rain-scented air billowed the curtains and rushed in. Beth lay panting, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on her skin, a rosy flush fading from her breasts. Gooseflesh rose on the flesh that would fit his hands perfectly, and their tips were tight, raspberry points. He bent and tasted their salty sweetness. Hunger pounded through his blood, demanding he cover her body with his.

  A crash of thunder brought him to his senses.

  Damn it, this wasn’t the way to take charge of the situation. He went and closed the window. Then he returned to her and laid a soft flannel blanket over her nakedness. His cock throbbed in aching protest. He ignored it.

  “I am a what?” He rested his hand over her flat belly.

  “A…genius at dexterity,” she said, breathlessly.

  He laughed. What would she do or say next? He daren’t guess. “Sit up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to undo your hair.”

  She raised her brows. “Is it necessary?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But it takes so long to fix.”

  He sensed she was being difficult on purpose. Irritation intruded on his pleasurable excitement. One thing he prized above all in a mistress was a willingness to please.

  “Come on, up,” he said, forcing his most implacable tone.

  With a small shrug, she complied, and he began removing her hairpins. “You think of words like ‘dexterity’ when you’re on the verge of coming?”

  “When it applies. So how did you become so dexterous?”

  “The sextant requires it.”

  She laughed breathily, leaning towards him. Her hair fell over her face, a heavy mass of spun gold and silver threads. He regarded her plain wire hair pins with disdain. Hair so beautiful should be dressed with pearls and gems.

  No, wait—a silver tiara of diamonds and aquamarines.

  Could such an item be found in the United States or would it have to come from Europe? Factor in the blockade-runner—Christ, she was going to cost him a small fortune.

  She traced along the fall of his pantaloons.

  He clasped her wrist and detained it. “I sent a note for my valet to fetch us some strawberries and champagne. He’ll be here soon.”

  She gave an exaggerated shudder. “I hate southern berries.”

  “These are local. Very sweet.” He smoothed the hair off her face, delighting in its thistledown texture.

  “Impossible, the spring has been too cold.”

  “They grow them in a hothouse or something, I don’t know.”

  “Sounds terribly expensive.”

  The reference to her poverty reminded him of something that had been bothering him since he’d met her. “Beth, why aren’t you married? A beauty like you should have done well on the marriage mart.”

  She shrugged. “I enjoy my freedom.”

  “If you could do anything you wanted to, what would you do?”

  Her expression grew serious. “I would teach the piano.” Enthusiasm electrified her eyes to blue pearlescence. It gave him a sensation like having the wind knocked out of him.

  “Really? You can play it that well?”

  “Yes, or so I have been told. I play for wages at Mrs Bickle’s Inn on Maple Street in the afternoons. But it doesn’t bring in much.” She sighed. “I do it for the privilege of having access to a piano.”

  “Where did you learn?” he asked, warmed by the passion resonating in her voice.

  “My mother worked for a kindly lady who had lost her own daughter to the yellow fever, and she allowed me many liberties in her home. She taught me how to play.”

  “You should take on as many students as you can manage and earn as much as you
can while youth and health are on your side.”

  “I don’t have my own piano.”

  “You could teach the children of the wealthy in their own homes, on their own pianos.”

  “I can’t right now. My brother needs my help in his cobbler shop. He doesn’t like me to spend too much time away. He’s not happy about my working for Mrs Bickle as it is.”

  Inhaling deeply, he struggled to keep his voice patient. “Why would you allow your brother to dictate your chosen employment?”

  “I have an obligation to my family.”

  “Your brother can hire more help.”

  “He can’t afford it.”

  “You can help pay for it out of the wages you earn teaching, instead of ruining your eyesight and”—he took her hand and kissed the palm—“your beautiful hands slaving away making shoes, which, I’d wager all the sealskin in the Pacific, you loathe with every fibre of your being.”

  “Charlie tried to hire some apprentices but he says no one stitches as evenly as I do.”

  Not trusting what he might say next, he released her hand and got up from the bed. He went straight to the sideboard and poured a healthy dose of bourbon into a glass.

  “Grey?”

  He looked up and saw her dressed in his banyan, rolling up the too-long sleeves, her silver-gilt hair shining against the dark blue fabric.

  He put the glass down. “All I hear are excuses.”

  “Are you angry with me?” she asked, her tone incredulous.

  “I am trying to help you and you are fighting me.”

  “I am not fighting you, I am simply explaining my life.”

  “You are making excuses. Excuses won’t get you anywhere in this world.”