Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance)

by Lisa Andersen

  “It truly feels that good?” he said.

  “Yes,” Abbie moaned. “I feel incredible when you touch me like that.”

  “What if I went further down?” His Grace said, looking around like a naughty boy. He bent down and put his hand under her dress. He moved his hand up her leg and under her undergarments until his hand rested upon her womanhood with nothing in between. He rubbed her there, bare, nothing between his fingertips and the sweet spot upon her womanhood. “How does that feel, my lady?” he said, constantly searching the woods, constantly making sure that no one would catch them in this scandalous act.

  “Amazing,” Abbie breathed, unable to focus as pleasure coursed through her. “Amazing,” she repeated.

  He nodded, and rubbed her quicker and quicker, over and over, and Abbie had to bite down to stop from screaming. He rubbed her so hard that pleasure came, a huge pleasure, a pleasure she had not felt before, even on their wedding night. It washed over her and now she did moan out, before His Grace clamped a hand over her mouth.

  When it was done, His Grace removed his hand. “I am glad,” he said, “that you enjoyed it.”

  “I want to give you pleasure, Your Grace—Zack,” Abbie said.

  “Tonight,” His Grace said. “Tonight. Wait for me.”

  *****

  Abbie was barely able to contain her excitement when she went to bed that night. Usually she lay awake thinking of her husband. And tonight he was actually coming to her. She knew what they had done near the lake was unorthodox (to put it euphemistically) and she knew that if Mother were to find out she would scream in outrage. But she didn’t care right now. Right now, all she cared about was waiting for His Grace to visit her bedchambers. She kept seeing his face in her mind’s eye, the boyish fascination that had filled it when he touched her, as though he never knew a woman could respond to a man in such a way.

  Every noise outside her bedchambers was attributed to her husband. When the floorboards creaked - perhaps a skulking servant – she sat up in anticipation, only to fall down disappointedly when he did not come in. She thought over the past months with a sense that she had greatly missed out, that she had no lived life to its fullest possibilities. She and her husband could have shared so much pleasure, if he had been here, if he had shown her any attention.

  But tonight!

  Tonight is the night, she thought, her heart racing in her chest. Tonight is the night.

  She waited for two hours, the moon a solid blue orb framed in her window, and then her door creaked open. She sat up, mouth open, panting. She felt as though she had been standing on a precipice, and now she was tumbling over. His Grace’s form was outlined in shadow: wreathed in shadow. She felt conspiratorial and naughty.

  “Abbie,” Zack said. “Abbie, I cannot see a thing. Where are you?”

  “Here, Your Grace,” Abbie said. “I am here.”

  He fumbled his way to the bed and sat at the end of it. “I want to touch you again,” he said openly, his voice inflectionless. “I want to touch you; and I want you to touch me.”

  Abbie’s mouth went dry when he said that. He was speaking slowly and carefully, as though he weighed each word before he spoke it. “We haven’t made love since—that night,” Abbie faltered.

  “Shall I come to you?”

  “Yes, if you like.”

  He moved up the bed until he was sitting over her. She lay back and stared up at him, his features only delineated by the faintest outline of shadow. He reached down and touched her face. “My lady,” he said. “Would you—it may sound strange—but would you suck my finger?”

  For some reason unknown even to herself, this request sent shivers of pleasure through Abbie. She reached up and found his hand. His forefinger was erect. She guided it to her mouth and sucked the end of it, and then sucked it deeper and deeper, sucking it all. He moved his finger in and out of her mouth as she sucked it, and his eyes were two wide-open orbs in the darkness, moonlike orbs. “Oh, my lady,” he moaned. “Yes, yes…”

  As she suckled his finger, he reached down and rubbed her womanhood. He pulled off her nightclothes, tearing them. She didn’t care. She kicked away the torn remnants so she was naked beneath the sheets. His hand searched, and then found her hole. He touched it, tentatively at first, and then pushed his finger inside of her. She almost bit the finger that was in his mouth when he did that. Her womanhood opened for him and he massaged her insides, going deep and touching a white-hot spot of pleasure. She moaned and sucked at the same time.

  Then he touched her hand. “May I?” he said.

  She nodded as she sucked.

  He guided her hand to his manhood, which was hard beneath his breeches. “Wait a moment,” he said, and stood. He took off his clothes: first his shirt, and then his breeches. His manhood was huge and hard, standing straight up, like a solider at attention. He sat back down and pushed his finger inside of her once more. Then he took her hand and placed it upon his manhood. She grabbed it hard, and then rubbed it up and down. He moaned as she moaned; and they hung like that for a few minutes, lost in mutual pleasure.

  Then he climbed on the bed and kissed her just behind the ear. “I wish to be inside of you, my lady,” he said, in his stilted, short way.

  “I wish it, too, Your Grace,” she replied. “Zack, I wish it too!”

  He leaned over her, and their nakedness brushed: her breasts, nipples hard, touching his hard-muscled chest. He reached down and touched her womanhood, and then touched his manhood and guided himself. She reached down and assisted him, and then the tip of his manhood pressed against her hole, and he pushed. She was very wet, and she opened for him easily. Pleasure filled her at once, and he pushed his manhood deep inside of her, to the hot, pleasure-filled spot.

  “Oh,” he moaned, pushing deeper. “Oh, my lady.”

  “Your Grace,” Abbie returned, lifting her legs and pushing down on his manhood, pushing with the motion of his thrusts.

  Although it wasn’t, it felt like they were making love for the first time. But there was none of the pain that came with the deflowering: none of the pain and none of the blood. There was only pleasure as his huge manhood entered her. He gripped the pillows and thrust into her quicker and quicker, pushing deep inside of her.

  Abbie buried her face in his neck and stifled her moans in his skin. “My lady,” he moaned, as his manhood moved quicker and quicker inside of her. The Pleasure was building, as it had near the lake, but this was a deeper, more intense Pleasure. Her womanhood went positively tight around him.

  “Is it happening?” he moaned.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” she cried.

  “Shall I keep doing this?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  He thrust into her as he had been, and the pleasure came. It wrestled her entire body into submission, and her womanhood poured its wetness onto his manhood. His Grace was moaning louder now, and he thrust into her once more, and then he was moaning too. Abbie knew that he had spilled his seed—inside of her.

  When they were done, and the sheets were wet with sweat and love, they lay side by side. She rested her head on his chest, and his hand came to rest somewhat awkwardly but kindly upon her shoulder. “That was incredible, my lady,” he said, his voice full of surprise. “I never knew—pleasure could be so, hmm, pleasurable.”

  Abbie smiled. “Neither did I, Zack,” Abbie said, her eyes closing lazily. “Neither did I.”

  *****

  The bump protruded from Abbie’s dress. She looked down at it fondly and wondered if it was a boy or a girl that grew inside her. Zack walked behind her and placed his hands upon her belly. It had been six months since that day near the lake. It was impossible to know if the baby had been conceived on that night, but Abbie like to think he or she was. Zack was still awkward, and at times cold, and at times distant, but there had developed a bond b
etween them that oftentimes – if not always – transcended his troubled past. He had revealed two months after the lake that it was the war that caused him to sleep alone.

  “I served my King,” he said, “but it came at a price. I wake at night in a cold sweat, and I see the faces of the dead peering out at me. All of the dead. Not just our soldiers. But theirs, too. All of them, staring at me. And I roll over and bury my head in my pillow and pretend that none of it happened.” He shivered, but his voice did not change. It was cold, and hard, and ready to deal with the madness of life. “If you like – if you think you can handle it, my lady – we could share a bedchamber. For a night or two. As a sort of experiment.”

  She had agreed, and now when night terrors took him, she led him through their home to the library. She read to him from great tomes of Homer, translating quite skillfully for an amateur, and he commented, almost with warmth, upon her skills. His Grace was never quite warm to her, but she came to understand that. And when they were in each other’s arms, in deep night, there was nothing better. They frequently lost themselves in each other: in each other’s bodies. They frequently left this realm and ascended to another.

  Abbie rubbed her belly, coming back to the present. This baby, she knew, was the first of many. And it filled her with joy. Zack moved his hand over the bump. “My son is restless,” he said.

  “She is,” Abbie said.

  (It was a game they played, dueling with the sex of the baby.)

  Mother emerged onto the porch, looking older in skin and body but younger in spirit. She seated herself in the chair and wrapped a blanket around her. “The chill is returning,” she said. “And yet I like to sit out here. I do not think I have many winters left.”

  “Mother, do not be morbid,” Abbie said. “Life is not as terrible as you make it.”

  Mother smiled. It was warm and genuine and shocking to see on her face, which for years had been locked in a rictus look of despair. “I suppose you are right, dear daughter,” she said. “But habits accumulated over years of sadness and hardship are hard to lose.”

  “She speaks the truth,” Zack muttered.

  “I fear you have only emerged to spectate, Mother,” Abbie said, with a smile. “You wish to see Lady Ollivander made a fool of for sport. But I will not do it. We were friends, once.”

  “She is a frightful woman,” Zack said matter-of-factly. “I do not know what inspired to you invite her into our home.”

  “As somebody who has benefited from a second chance, I cannot help but believe in them, Your Grace.”

  Zack smiled and took his hand from her stomach as the footman approached the door. “Lord and Lady Ollivander has arrived, Your Grace, my ladies.” He bowed his head, awaiting instruction.

  “Invite her in, Sebastian,” Zack said.

  “The show begins,” Mother murmured under her breath.

  “Mother!” Abbie cried.

  The baby kicked its little legs within her. Abbie bit back a squeal of excitement.

  Lady Ollivander and her father merged onto the porch. Her father wore an expression of the profoundest deference, and Carol stared at the ground as though Abbie were a queen. “Carol,” Abbie said, remembering their last meeting, when she had corrected her. Now, Carol took the use of her Christian name without a word.

  “Your Grace,” Lord Ollivander said, and then turned to Abbie and repeated: “Your Grace.” He nodded to Mother. “My lady.”

  Carol did the same, curtseying deeply.

  Abbie took this as gallantly as she could. “Carol,” she said. “Do you remember the day we built a daisy chain so long we wrapped it around my father twice-over when he was napping by the fire? He awoke and looked down and how shocked he was! Do you remember?”

  Carol looked into her face, and Lord Ollivander let a small smile play about his lips – he was also there that day – and then Carol smiled. Abbie could see it in her face: she knew she was getting a second chance.

  Zack leaned in and whispered, just loud enough for her to here. “You are quite graceful, my sweet Duchess.”

  “I am as graceful as you are brave, my love.”

  She wanted to kiss him then, to kiss him fully upon the lips, but there was company.

  The pleasure would have to wait until later.

  A Dangerous Reunion

  I cannot marry you, for my heart belongs to another.

  Lady Ruth Eyre knew these words were going to be monstrously hard to speak, and yet she knew with the same sure conviction that they had to be spoken. The war in France had been dreadful (or so she had heard) and there had been many horrors committed and lives taken. But now it was over and the order of things was restored, and His Grace had returned to England.

  I am sorry, Lord Charles Stone, she thought, as she gazed at herself in the looking-glass. She did not look like a lady who would break a heart. She had a kind, open face with soft features and bright blue eyes. Her skin was pale and her hands, as she brought them to her eyes, were small and childlike. And yet the soft exterior hid a hardness that had moved through her for seven longs years, even since His Grace, her love, had gone to France. Luke Orr – now Brigadier Luke Orr – Duke of Stunton, had returned to England.

  Lady and Lord Eyre had begun to lose hope for Ruth when she reached six-and-twenty. They had ceased to look at her with the same hopefulness with which they’d looked at her older sisters before they were married. Then Lord Charles Stone – a man quite beneath them socially and economically – had the gall to visit them time and time again to court her, and Father had done nothing about it. She could see the reservation in their faces, the looks that said that she had to marry somebody before she became old.

  Ruth sighed. “Charles, I cannot marry you,” she said, practicing in the mirror.

  Oh, how full of rage Father would be!

  She retrieved the letter from the drawer and gazed down at it. It was worded perfectly, innocuously, as though it was a run-of-the-mill invitation from a Duke returning to England after a long, bloody time. But the words sang out in Ruth’s mind.

  Dear Lord Eyre,

  I cordially invite you and your family to a ball at Brook Castle. As you know I have been away and I would like to reacquaint myself with the ebb and flow of social life. The Eyres have always been kind friends to me and it would gladden me greatly if you would attend.

  Yours sincerely,

  Brigadier Luke Orr, Duke of Stunton.

  “Luke,” Ruth whispered.

  Her mind was thrown backwards then, backwards seven years, when she was a girl of one-and-nine, a girl full of hope and naivety: a girl who still believed in fairytales. She and His Grace had been dancing close together. It was their third dance of the evening and they were by far the most graceful couple upon the floor. “You move well, my lady,” he had said, looking down at her with his hard, sharp features. “It is an honor to dance with you.”

  “As it is to dance with you, Your Grace.”

  “Use my Christian name,” he had said casually.

  “Luke?”

  He smiled. “Does it scare you, to speak my name?”

  “It makes me feel awfully close to you.”

  “That was my intention.”

  After that, His Grace had visited them in Somerset once, under the pretense of some business deal or other with Father. But after the men had discussed their business, the Eyres and His Grace had walked around the grounds, and His Grace had fallen back and walked level with her. “I wished to see you again,” he said plainly. Ruth’s heart had pounded frantically in her chest. But she contrived to keep her expression impassive, her gait smooth, her behavior unimpeachable.

  If one were to gaze upon the two of them, one could reasonably assume that they were discussing the weather. “I have dreamt about you, my lady,” His Grace went on. “In my drea
m we broke our fast together in my home, and you smiled at me and I smiled at you. We said nothing, and after a while we watched a solitary beam of sunlight track its course across the table. You find it quaint.”

  “It is quaint but lovely,” Ruth had said carefully.

  “My lady, my I kiss your hand?”

  The request had come like a scream from the dark. Father and Mother were just ahead, but they were tied in conversation and their eyes were trained firmly ahead of them. Ruth looked at His Grace and saw that he was in earnest. “I do not know—” She faltered. “What a request!”

  “Is it monstrous of me?”

  “Yes, but I will grant it.”

  Ruth raised her hand. His Grace raised an eyebrow.

  “Would you remove the glove?”

  Ruth’s hands were shaking as she pulled the glove free. Mother and Father had stopped at the edge of a pond and were watching the ducks. Mother loved to watch the ducks and Father said there was something peaceful and life-assuring in it. Ruth slowly and carefully removed her glove, revealing her skin, and raised her hand. His Grace leaned down and placed a warm kiss upon her hand, and then another at the end of her middle finger. Warmth moved through Ruth, awarmth that came with doing something illicit and quite improper. She swiftly put her glove back on. Almost at the same time, Father turned.

  He smiled; His Grace was standing a number of feet away from her.

  “Come and look,” he smiled. “The ducks are quite lively.”

  That was the last time they had met. Then he had left for France. Ruth had discovered it through her Father, who had heard about it through the usual gossip-streams of high society. “His Grace, Duke Orr, I hear he has gone to France.”