"How is that, sir?" she inquired.
"You're doing very well," he allowed.
She liked the hitched quality in his voice, as if he was having difficulty catching his breath. It made her feel powerful, bold. She explored the flat ridges of his abdomen, running fingers lightly over muscles which jumped at her touch. Navigating around the mighty pole for the moment, she stroked downward over his powerful thighs and calves, all the way down to his large masculine feet. There was a sprinkling of hair, she observed, even on his toes.
"You're hairy," she said.
"You're a tease," he said hoarsely.
She laughed, liking the sound of that.
Slowly, she traced her way back up his thighs and paused, admiring the view of his male flesh. It was so forward, this part of his body. The turgid length could not hide its primal nature. Under her gaze, it swelled even larger. She touched a tentative finger to the base of the purple-veined shaft. Instinctively, her other fingers joined the first, curling around the thick rod. She could barely contain him within her fist. She marveled at the contrast of textures, like an iron poker wrapped in satin. At the bulging tip, she discovered a slit. She watched, fascinated, as a bead of moisture oozed out.
She dabbed her fingertip in the dew and smeared it around.
Nicholas, who had been breathing heavily all the while, let out a groan. His cock spurted again. That had to mean she was doing something right. She rubbed the rosy head a little harder.
"Like this," Nicholas rasped, grasping her hand and wrapping her fingers around him. His eyes closed as he moved his hand with hers, teaching her to stroke his cock. She learned how much pressure he liked, what rhythm tore sounds from the back of his throat. Her own breathing escalated with the thrill of watching her fingers and his, intertwined, sliding in unison over his glistening flesh. Dreamily, she reached with her other hand to cup the plum-shaped sac below, finding it heavy and surprisingly supple.
His hand stilled on hers.
"Enough." He had her beneath him in a second, not an inch of air between them. The head of his sex dipped into her passage.
"Did I pass the first lesson, sir?" Her tone was a bit smug. She could not help herself. It was not every day that she drove her husband insane with passion.
"With flying colors," he assured her.
He pushed a little deeper. She gasped at the hot, thick stretch.
"And now for the second lesson," he said.
"Wh-what second lesson?" She could hardly think with the liquid heat bubbling between her legs. He impelled himself deeper, and she gasped again.
"The lesson," he murmured in her ear, "in which naughty schoolgirls receive their just desserts."
The conversation quite halted after that.
*****
The time for serious conversation came afterward, when Helena and Nicholas retired to her bedchamber. After sharing a breakfast tray brought in by a beaming Bessie, Helena snuggled into her husband's embrace and absorbed the rest of his tale. In halting tones, he told her about the mysterious blackmail notes. The threats of the man who'd shot at him in St. Giles. The discovery that a dock worker named Isaac Bragg had been behind all of it and now Bragg was dead.
"A part of me still cannot believe that Bragg was the mastermind behind these crimes," Nicholas said. "He had the brawn for certain, but the brains? The man seemed a bit simple, if you ask me. Yet the evidence was all there in the flash house."
Frowning, Helena asked, "But how did Bragg learn about your past? From what you have said, Grimes died over sixteen years ago. Surely your secret must have died with him."
"I have asked myself the same thing," Nicholas admitted. "In truth, I can think of no answer save one. Besides me and Grimes, only one person witnessed what transpired that night."
Realization dawned. "The boy," she breathed. "He's still alive."
Nicholas expelled a breath. "We do not know that. He might have survived that night, living only long enough to tell someone what he saw. It might have become a rumor, a piece of gossip that somehow reached Bragg's ears years later. As for the boy ... anything could have happened to him. The odds are not favorable for an orphan alone in the stews," he finished grimly.
"But if he is still living, what would you do?" Helena asked.
She felt his muscles bunch beneath his dressing gown. "I would find him," Nicholas said quietly. "I would do whatever it took to make amends for what I did."
She wanted to tell him again that he was not at fault, but she knew words could do little to dissolve the guilt of a lifetime. Perhaps taking action would help. "Then why not begin investigations to find him or at least discover his fate?"
"I have thought about it." Nicholas' charcoal eyes were troubled. "For so long, I have been driven by fear, striving to outrun the past. Never once did I look back. To stop now and go in the other direction ... the risks are great, Helena. I don't know who I'd trust to look into the matter."
"Mr. Kent, perhaps? He seems a decent man," Helena said thoughtfully. "And you wouldn't have to tell him everything, would you? Just that you are looking for a boy you once knew in Grimes' employ. You could say the business with Bragg made you wonder what had happened to him, which is no more than the truth."
"I will think on it." His arms tightened around her, and after a pause, he said gruffly, "And you would support me, no matter the outcome?"
"I will love and support you no matter what," she vowed and leaned up to kiss him.
*****
The next few days passed in a blur of happiness the likes of which Helena had never known. By night, Nicholas continued to instruct her in the art of passion. He proved a most dedicated tutor, teaching her about her body as well as his own. She had not known that such variety existed with lovemaking. It was as if Nicholas presented her with a buffet of delights, and she could not prefer one above another.
Some nights he loved her tenderly, slowly, prolonging pleasure until her body exploded at the gentlest touch. Other nights, he showed her a rougher sort of loving. The rawness of his needs elicited a corresponding wildness in her. At first, she tried to hide her passion, but he saw through her blushes and punished her with such sublime wickedness that she gave up all pretense of being anything but a complete wanton in his arms. He showed her that when he'd said she was perfect just as she was, he'd meant it.
If the nights were spent unraveling the mysteries of lovemaking, the days yielded further revelations. Helena had not expected much to change in their daily routines, given the demands of Nicholas' profession. Knowing what she now did about his past, she felt immense pride watching him go off to the warehouse, to the empire he had created through sheer force of determination and a will to succeed. She told herself she would be content to spend their evenings together, lingering over supper and talking into the wee hours of the morning. As it was, they would be in each other's company more than most fashionable couples, who might occasion each other once a week at a social affair.
Once again, Nicholas surprised her. He returned home earlier than expected most days, and, on several occasions, eschewed work entirely to spend the day showing her sights around Town. He took her on drives through Hyde Park, where they picnicked along the banks of the Serpentine. They visited the British Museum and the Royal Academy, admiring exotic artifacts and exhibits by talented young painters. She reveled in Nicholas' attentions, absorbing his presence as a light-starved flower might the sun.
What was more, she was discovering hidden facets in her husband: the sly humor beneath his reserved countenance, the raw passion beneath his controlled façade. She loved that he seemed to laugh more in her presence. She loved that the powerful man who ran the docks by day shuddered in her arms at night, growled her name as he poured himself into her ...
Much as she craved his company, however, she could not allow her love to become an unwelcome distraction. She did not wish Nicholas to neglect his duties out of marital obligation. One morning, she ventured into his bedchamber to te
ll him so.
"So, you see," she said, perching on the bed as the valet put the finishing touch on Nicholas' cravat, "you need not fear I will be bored without your company. I have plenty of things with which to occupy my time."
Nicholas nodded, and the valet bowed and departed.
Her husband walked over to the bed. Her heart flipped at his handsomeness. Freshly shaved, smelling of sandalwood and soap, he was the most delicious man in the entire world.
And he is mine.
She could scarce believe it at times.
"Are you saying I interfere with your busy schedule, my dear?"
Mesmerized by the warm, teasing look in his eyes, she struggled to keep her mind on the purpose.
"No. That is, yes, I do have household matters to attend to, but more to the point, you are a busy man, Nicholas. You really need not feel obligated to escort me on errands and such. I can carry on well enough on my own."
"Ah. But perhaps I do not carry on half as well on my own."
He stood between her knees now, his thighs wedging her legs apart. Her palms dampened on the coverlet.
"You are teasing," she said. She attempted to scoot backward onto the bed, only to find he had trapped her by her skirts. "Nicholas, I am attempting to be serious. I know how much the company means to you. I would not have your life's work suffer out of a sense of misplaced duty."
"Duty, hmm?"
He was not listening to her, she was quite sure of it. He was too preoccupied nuzzling a spot beneath her right ear.
"Y-yes," she managed.
He licked her earlobe.
Sighing, she tilted her head to offer him more access and was instantly lost in the spell he cast over her senses. His hand captured hers, brought it to his arousal. She inhaled at the fierceness of him.
"Do you think this is duty, my love?" He pushed into her hand, and she felt a corresponding throbbing between her thighs. "Is this obligation? A misplaced sense, perhaps, of husbandly responsibility?"
"That is not what I meant," she said, in a desperate bid to reason with him before her wits abandoned her entirely. "It is just that I know you must have many appointments, many people counting upon you ..."
"Mmm," he said.
He had unbuttoned his trousers; the satin-steel length of him burned against her fingers and evaporated the last iota of reason. Greed, pure and unadulterated, surged in its place. She made to sink backward into the mattress, but he stopped her. He kept her sitting on the edge of the bed as he tossed up her skirts and chemise. Instead of mounting atop, he cupped her hips and brought her closer. Her legs dangled, not quite touching the floor. She sat thus, splayed by his knees, open and vulnerable. Her pussy quivered and moistened.
As she watched, he ran a long finger up the crevice of her sex. He parted her curls, and his eyes darkened as he took in her womanly secrets. She whimpered at the decadence of his touch, groaning as he slowly, deliberately, slicked a path to her bud.
"Do you think," he said, his voice raspy and low, "there is anything of greater importance to me than you?"
She could not speak. Her hips arched upward, a silent plea. His eyes smoldered with smoke and flame as he obliged her, notching the head of his rod to her eager opening. In one swift thrust, he vanquished the emptiness. Her legs clenched around his thighs. Her head fell back. There was no room for thought, for words, for anything save the devastating pleasure churning between them.
"Do you actually believe that anything could matter as much as you?" He withdrew and thrust again, to the rhythm of her cries. "As my desire for you, as my need to be with you, inside you, every waking moment?"
Still, she could not speak, so filled was she with his loving.
He lifted her hips and brought her down against him at the same time that he drove upward. Their bodies collided; the sound of panting, of skin meeting skin filled the room. Over and over, he penetrated her to the depths of her being. She was impaled fully upon his cock, suspended between bed and floor, with no purchase save the thickness of him holding her aloft. He was her fulcrum, the center of all sensation. Hands fisted in the bedclothes, she ground against him, every fiber straining with need of him. She began sobbing, the feelings too intense, too exquisite to be contained.
"Yes, my love." His tones were gravelly, harsh with his own need as he urged her on. "Reach for it. Take it, Helena. It is yours."
"I love you," she cried the moment before she shattered.
He followed, his shout of satisfaction mingling with hers.
A while later, she blinked drowsily. She lay on the bed, Nicholas beside her. He was still fully dressed, but his eyes were closed. He looked to be asleep. A good thing, as the man rested too little. Perhaps time away from work might prove good for him after all.
With a tender smile, she reached to brush back a wayward tuft of black hair.
His lips twitched. "Still fretting about my important appointments?"
Whatever am I do with this husband of mine?
"Oh, do be quiet and kiss me," she said.
He laughed and, rolling over, did just that.
THIRTY
The following afternoon, Marianne came to call. Helena greeted her with an impulsive hug. She was much relieved to see her friend in usual spirits, looking ravishing in a walking dress styled à la militaire.
"Well, I suppose that answers my question about the state of your affairs," Marianne said dryly as she rearranged her epaulettes. "To think, I came to check in on you after hearing the latest on-dit."
Helena lifted her chin. "I do not care what they are saying." It was true—after a week spent in a dreamy cocoon of love and passion, she couldn't give a fig what the world thought. She had everything she wanted. "Jacoby deserved every wallop he received."
"I know he did, my dear." For once, the smile reached Marianne's eyes. "And so does the rest of the ton. The gossips have made you a heroine."
"Me? A heroine?" Helena asked, dumbstruck.
"Of the most romantic sort," Marianne confirmed, as she seated herself and removed her gloves. "The innocent young wife who defends her lord with the dark past, et cetera, et cetera. They are calling Harteford a hero, too, for the brooding dignity he has shown while curs like Jacoby yapped at his heels. Mrs. Radcliffe may yet write a novel about the two of you."
Helena dropped onto the chair opposite. "I cannot believe it."
"It is the way of the ton," Marianne said, with a philosophic shrug. "Once you care not what they think, they welcome you into the fold with adoring arms. Harteford is the Makeshift Marquess no longer. But tell me, dearest, you are happy, are you not?"
"I have never been better." Helena smiled and shook her head. "Nay, I never thought to be so happy."
"I take it matters with Harteford have been reconciled?"
"Yes."
"And you have told him everything?"
"Everything," Helena said with pride. "And you were right—he does not care that I am not a paragon. He loves me as I am."
Marianne smiled slowly. "Your husband is a wise man, my dear."
"A lucky one, at the very least."
At the sound of the deep, male voice, Helena spun around in her seat. Nicholas must have recently arrived home for his dark hair bore the mark of his hat and his cravat appeared ruffled by the wind. To someone who did not know him, he appeared somber, austere even. But she did know him, and the silver warmth in his eyes nigh stopped her breath.
"You are home early," Helena said.
Crossing the room, he bent to kiss her cheek. His lips lingered for the briefest instant. "Am I interrupting anything?"
"Not at all." Suppressing the urge to give him a proper welcome, one that would be decidedly improper given the company, Helena murmured, "Marianne and I were just enjoying a bit of a chat."
"How nice to see you again, Lord Harteford," Marianne said.
Nicholas bowed over her extended hand. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Draven." He slid his wife a devilish look. "And I understand y
ou had something to do with that. Please accept my most sincere gratitude."
"None necessary, my lord," Marianne said approvingly, "for my friend's happiness is reward enough. And speaking of rewards, Helena, I saw Madame Rousseau this morning, and she wanted me to tell you your new gowns are ready. I had a glimpse of them—they are divine."
"I suppose I could go see Madame after tea." Helena tipped her head at her husband. "That is, if you don't mind?"
"Not at all. In fact, I will accompany you," Nicholas said.
*****
"You are sure this is not a waste of your time?" Helena asked as the modiste led her to the mirrored platform.
"Not in the slightest," Nicholas replied. He took her hand and kissed it, before settling into a chair. "In fact, I could not imagine a better use of my time."
Helena smiled at his chivalry.
She was not smiling several minutes later when the agenda behind her husband's visit became evident. Nicholas was voicing yet another suggestion regarding her new silk toile gown.
"Six inches?" Using her hand, she raised the imaginary neckline up to her throat. "You might as well dress me in a ... a nun's habit! 'Twould ruin this gorgeous gown completely. Tell him so, Madame."
Madame Rousseau looked skeptically at Helena's reflection. "It would be a trifle, how do you say, dow-dee? I am certain my lord would not wish his lovely wife to be dressed in the manner of the country cousin."
"I wish to see my wish dressed. Period," Nicholas said.
"Ah." Madame Rousseau sent a placating look to Helena. "This is the prerogative of the husband, no?"
Helena clenched her teeth. Clearly, the modiste thought it prudent not to cross swords with he who footed the bills. She, herself, had no such qualms.
"'Tis my prerogative not to resemble the veriest bumpkin," she said. "You shall leave the gown as it is, if you please, Madame."
"For God's sake, your breasts are falling out of the neckline," Nicholas snapped.
She spun to face him. "You did not complain of that in the drawing room last week!"
"I will not have you sharing your charms with the world." Nicholas' brows lowered, a portent of storms ahead.
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