He groaned and kissed her.
At last! She clung to him and kissed him back, with feverish relief.
‘And now?’ he murmured into her ear, when eventually he paused for breath. ‘Now that you know I love you. Adore you. Want you to be my wife. Do you still want me?’
‘More than ever.’ She sighed.
‘Then come,’ he said, leading her back to the bed. ‘Let us make love. Truly make love. For the first time.’
They sat side by side on the bed and just looked at each other. He had one arm round her shoulder. She had both of hers round his waist.
‘The other times were tainted by bitterness,’ he said, kissing her brow gently. ‘And lack of trust,’ he said, stroking her cheek. ‘And fear of rejection. But I’d like,’ he said, looking unusually sombre, ‘to make this a new beginning. For us both.’
They undressed each other this time, pausing often to kiss and caress whatever they’d uncovered. Every time he touched her, it felt as though he was touching her soul, not just her body. He no longer acted as though he had anything to prove. And she’d lost that edge of desperation that had made her snatch at what little she thought she was going to get from the encounters.
When they were both completely naked, they stretched out side by side on the narrow bed, gazing into each other’s eyes as their touches became more urgent. She hooked her leg over his hip when he entered her and he held her tight round the waist as they pressed together, rocking each other to an orgasm that came to them both at exactly the same moment. They truly had reached paradise together.
Until, suddenly, he jolted, jerked back and looked down into her face with a troubled expression.
‘You are going to marry me, now, aren’t you? I took it for granted when you said you loved me. But I’ve suddenly realised you haven’t actually said yes.’
‘Yes.’ She sighed, sliding her arms up and round his neck. ‘Yes,’ she repeated solemnly, looking deep into his eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said, reaching up to kiss him. ‘And I shall keep on saying yes, every day for the rest of my life, just to remind you, if you like.’
‘Oh, I like,’ he growled, pressing her back into the pillows with the ardour of his kiss. ‘And I especially like the sound of having a wife who is going to say yes every day for the rest of my life. Though I wonder,’ he said with a troubled frown, ‘how on earth I am going to survive your insatiable demands.’
For a moment, she thought he was serious, until she caught the twinkle in his eye.
‘Oh, you need not worry about that,’ she said with false solemnity. ‘After all, you know very well that if you are not up to it, I am quite capable of, um, helping myself.’
He flung back his head and barked with laughter, then, with a roguish smile, flipped on to his back, carrying her with him so that she draped over him in a tangle of sprawling limbs.
‘I am feeling just a touch fatigued now, to tell you the truth,’ he said, stretching his arms above his head and feigning a yawn. ‘Perhaps you had better just remind me how adept you can be at helping yourself.’
She raised herself up on her hands and knees and, looking straight into his eyes, slowly took into her the part of him that demonstrated he was very far from being spent.
‘I warn you,’ she said with mock severity, ‘that this could take a very, very long time.’
‘Nooo...’ he groaned, flexing his hips as she rotated hers.
‘Yes,’ she countered, bending down to kiss his lips. ‘At least fifty years, I should think.’
He let go of the bedpost and placed his hands round her waist. ‘In fifty years’ time, I shall remind you of that,’ he warned her.
‘I will be here,’ she vowed.
‘Thank God.’ He sighed, stroking his way up her sides, until he very gently cupped her breasts. ‘For I could not survive another day like today. When I thought I’d lost you...’
‘You have not lost me,’ she said. ‘You never did. I have always been yours. And I always will be.’
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from Some Like to Shock by Carole Mortimer.
Author Note
As I began to research the treatment and possible care of those classified with mental problems, I was shocked to discover just how vulnerable they were to the most cruel forms of abuse. There was no public health system in place, as we know it today.
Although there were some public asylums for those with mental health issues, many wealthy people preferred to have their family members cared for privately. Private asylums were run according to the theories of whoever set them up and the proprietors did not have to have any medical experience at all. Instead, they might claim experience, handed down from parents. One of Jane Austen’s brothers, George, was sent to live in a village several miles away from the rest of the family, in such an establishment. It is uncertain what his condition was, but he was referred to as ‘poor George’ in correspondence and steps were taken to make sure financial provision was made for his care because there was not ‘...the least hopes of his being able to assist himself’.
The one advantage of these private asylums was that if satisfaction was not given, the inmates might well be removed. Public asylums, however, were generally populated by people who had no wealthy relatives to come rescue them.
The first public asylum intended for mental patients was the notorious Bethlehem Hospital in Moorfields. Because it was known to house the largest collection of mad people in the country, it became a favourite resort for sightseers. Provincials visiting London would put it on their itinerary, along with the lions in the Tower and Bartholomew Fair. It quickly became a byword of man’s inhumanity to man.
By the Regency era there were public asylums in many cities. The one in York became the centre of a scandal which resulted in a Parliamentary committee being set up, in 1815, to investigate the running of such institutions. It all started with the death of one Hannah Mills, a Quaker. The members of her congregation had become concerned in the first place because she wasn’t allowed to have any visitors once she became an inmate. After she died, they didn’t let go, but very deliberately bought places on the board of trustees, so they could have the right to inspect the asylum and question the physician in charge, Dr Best. He and his staff—known as the Bestials—were suspected of profiteering, ill treatment, embezzlement and the covering up of up to 144 untimely deaths. Then the asylum burnt down, destroying what might have been vital evidence, as well as resulting in the deaths of several more patients.
After 1815 it was not so easy for corrupt physicians to feather their own nests at the expense of their patients.
Sources:
Madmen—A Social History of Madhouses, Mad Doctors and Lunatics, by Roy Porter.
Quacks—Fakers and Charlatans in Medicine, by Roy Porter.
We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Historical.
You dream of wicked rakes, gorgeous Highlanders, muscled Viking warriors and rugged Wild West cowboys from another era. Harlequin Historical has them all! Emotionally intense stories set across many time periods.
Visit Harlequin.com to find your next great read.
We like you—why not like us on Facebook: Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Follow us on Twitter: Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
Read our blog for all the latest news on our authors and books: HarlequinBlog.com
Subscribe to our newsletter for special offers, new releases, and more!
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Chapter One
May, 1817—London
‘May I offer you a ride in my carriage, Genevieve...?’
Genevieve turned sharply to look at the man standing beside her at the top of the steps leading down from St George’s Church in Hanover Square. The two of them had just attended and acted as witness at the wedding of mutual friends.
It was not the gentleman’s tone which surprised her, but the question itself, when her own carriage and maid were clearly waiting at the bottom of
the steps in preparation for the drive back to her home in Cavendish Square.
There was also the fact that she was Genevieve Forster, widowed Duchess of Woollerton, and the gentleman at her side was Lord Benedict Lucas, known to his close friends and enemies alike as merely Lucifer. There was a difference in their social standing, the two of them having only been on nodding acquaintance before today, which should have dictated he refer to her as your Grace rather than by her given name...
‘Genevieve?’
She felt a quiver of awareness travel the length of her spine at the husky intensity of Lucifer’s voice, even as she realised he was looking down at her with enigmatic coal-black eyes, with one equally dark brow raised in mocking enquiry beneath the tall hat he had placed upon his head upon leaving the church.
Lucifer...
How well that name suited this particular gentleman, with his midnight-black hair curling softly over the collar of his black superfine and eyes so dark a brown they also appeared black. His cheekbones were high besides a sharp blade of nose and sculptured mouth that occasionally curved in sensual appreciation, but was more often than not thinned in haughty and unapproachable disdain above the firmness of his arrogantly angled jaw.
Aged one and thirty, Lucifer was but six years older than Genevieve, but the depth of emotions hidden behind those glittering black eyes spoke of a gentleman much older than his calendar years.
Part of the reason for that, Genevieve and all of society knew, was the tragic way in which his parents had met their deaths ten years ago. Lucifer had found the couple murdered at their country estate and their slayer had never been found or brought to justice.
Which was perhaps also the reason Genevieve had never seen Benedict Lucas wearing anything but black over his pristine white linen, all perfectly tailored, of course, to emphasise the width of his shoulders, muscled chest, lean hips and long legs in black Hessians. It was attire which should have given him an air of somberness, but on this gentleman only added to his air of danger and elusiveness.
An elusiveness, if Genevieve’s assessment of his offer was to be believed, which Benedict Lucas was now suggesting she might be allowed to breach by travelling home in his carriage with him...?
A suggestion, if Genevieve were to accept, which was so very much in keeping with her declaration a week ago to her two closest friends, Sophia and Pandora, that as widows recently returned to society after the required year of mourning, they should each of them take a lover, before the Season ended. It had been a brave and risqué suggestion on her part, Genevieve knew, and made more out of bravado than intent on her part; her painful and humiliating marriage to Josiah Forster had resulted in a physical wariness on her part in regard to all men.
She moistened her lips. ‘It is very kind of you to offer, my lord, but—’
‘Surely a lady as...daring as you cannot be feeling nervous at the idea of travelling alone in my carriage, Genevieve...?’
That quiver of awareness turned to one of alarm at Lucifer’s use of the word daring, for that was exactly the same term she had used a week ago, when talking to Sophia and Pandora in regard to their taking of a lover. It had been a conversation she was aware one of Lucifer’s two closest friends had overheard—and perhaps repeated...? It was most ungentlemanly of him to have done so if that should turn out to be the case.
Her chin rose as she looked up at Lucifer with guarded blue eyes. ‘I was not aware that I had ever behaved in a manner which any might consider “daring”, my lord?’ Nor was she at all sure she would ever be able to do so. Bravado with her two close friends was one thing, acting upon that bravado something else entirely.
Besides which, Benedict Lucas was a gentleman whom all of the ton talked of in hushed voices, if they dared talk of him at all. A man of deep and violent passions, he was known to have vowed ten years ago that he would find the person who had murdered his parents, no matter how long it took him to do it, and that when he did he would kill the man himself rather than trust to the justice of the law.
Lucifer was also known as one of the finest shots in England, as well as a superior swordsman, skills he had honed and perfected during his years spent in the army, which meant that he was more than capable of carrying out such a threat.
‘Or perhaps you have heard otherwise, my lord?’ she challenged at his lack of reply.
Benedict might have laughed at how little that expression of haughty reproach suited Genevieve Forster’s impishly beautiful face. Almost. Except laughter, amusement of any kind, was not something which had come easily to him this past ten years. Instead, his mouth now curled into a hard and mocking smile. ‘Not particularly, Genevieve.’ He continued to use her given name deliberately, having noted her earlier discomfort. ‘But I am sure it is not too late for you to remedy that particular omission, if you so choose...?’
There was no denying that Genevieve Forster was a very beautiful woman; her abundance of curls beneath her blue bonnet was the colour of flame and her mischievously twinkling eyes the colour of periwinkles. Her nose was slightly snub above full and sensuously pouting lips, her complexion that of peaches and cream. And although tiny in stature, almost daintily fragile, the swell of her breasts, above the low neckline of her blue gown, appeared full and lush.
To Benedict’s knowledge she had been married for six years, and widowed for one. She was without any male relatives, except for her stepson, the current duke, a gentleman who was several years older than Genevieve, and it was known that the two were not close. Her two closest female friends were also currently engaged in relationships which he knew took them from Genevieve’s side.
Not that Benedict had ever been known to prey on unprotected females, but as a widow of five and twenty years, that term hardly applied to Genevieve Forster. A public acquaintance with her would do well as a foil for his own movements over the next few weeks, in his capacity as a spy for the Crown, with the added bonus that her beauty and vivacity would also ensure that Benedict enjoyed that acquaintance.
‘Unless, of course, you feel it would be too daring to travel alone with me in my carriage...?’ he now challenged softly.
Genevieve bristled at what she considered to be a slur upon the independence she had tried so hard to acquire since her widowhood a year ago. She was also well past the first flush of youth. She was a duchess, and a widow, and as such she could, and would, now behave as she pleased.
Neither would she give the arrogantly mocking Benedict Lucas the satisfaction of thinking her a coward. ‘Not at all, my lord,’ she assured him frostily. ‘If you will just give me a moment to dismiss my own carriage?’
‘And your maid?’
Her spine stiffened at this further challenge. ‘And my maid,’ she conceded coolly after several seconds’ thought.
‘Shall we...?’ Benedict Lucas offered her his arm to escort her down the steps.
Genevieve’s cheeks were pale and her heart was beating a little too rapidly in her chest as she placed a gloved hand lightly upon that muscled arm and allowed Benedict Lucas to escort her down to her carriage, whereupon he excused himself to stroll across to engage in conversation with his own coachman as he waited for her to join him.
‘Are you sure, your Grace?’ May, Genevieve’s maid for the past seven years, had given a wide-eyed glance in the direction of the dark and dangerously attractive Lucifer upon being informed of Genevieve’s intention to ride home in his carriage with him.
‘I am very sure, yes,’ Genevieve stated more firmly than she felt. May knew better than most how horrific Genevieve’s marriage to Josiah Forster had been.
Her maid looked unconvinced. ‘I’ve heard such tales about that particular gentleman—’
‘That will be quite enough, thank you, May.’ Genevieve had also heard ‘tales’ about Lucifer, and all of them wicked. But what else could she have done when he had challenged her so obviously?
Run as far away as was possible, came the instant and emphatic answer!
N
o, she would not, could not, continue to live in the way she had been forced to live during her marriage to Josiah, frightened of her own shadow most of the time. No matter how much the thoughts of being alone with any gentleman made her pulse flutter and her stomach clench with nausea!
Besides, what could Benedict Lucas possibly do to her in his carriage in broad daylight...?
* * *
‘Is that really necessary, my lord?’
Benedict smiled at Genevieve Forster as she sat across the carriage from him, those blue eyes wide as she watched him pulling down the blinds on the windows. ‘Do you not find the sun a little...overbright?’ he drawled derisively.
She studied him for several long seconds. ‘It is a little...intrusive,’ she finally conceded abruptly.
‘Exactly.’ Benedict’s gaze continued to meet hers as he pulled down the last of the blinds. ‘This is much cosier,’ he murmured appreciatively.
‘Much.’ The coolness of her smile was belied by the telltale rapid beating of her pulse in the slenderness of her throat. ‘Tell me, were you as surprised by today’s wedding as I?’
‘No,’ he answered unhelpfully; the confidences of the bridegroom were exactly that, confidences, and they would remain so.
‘Do you think—?’
‘No.’
Genevieve Forster arched red-gold brows. ‘You have not heard my question as yet.’
Benedict gave a hard smile. ‘It is not necessary when I have no intention of discussing the private business of today’s bride or groom.’ His gaze moved to the firm swell of her breasts as she drew in a deep breath. ‘That is a very pretty...necklace you are wearing.’
‘I— Thank you.’ Her gloved fingers instinctively moved to touch the sapphire as large as a robin’s egg nestling between her breasts. ‘It was a wedding gift,’ she added stiffly.
Annie Burrows Page 24
