His lips twitched as he leaned over the easel and made some bold strokes. “Has anyone ever told you that you make a very impatient subject, Hattie darling?”
Part of her impatience stemmed from not only the hard stone of the bench beneath her, but also the necessary evil of remaining still whilst his eyes roamed all over her. Each look was as seductive as a caress.
She was growing most uncomfortable in an entirely different manner. “You are the first to be so bold.”
“I find I enjoy being bold with you.” He glanced up, giving her a small, knowing smirk.
Yes, he did, the wicked man.
And she loved every moment of it.
She loved him even more.
But she had not said the words aloud just yet. She was not certain she dared. Certainly, Ewan had not offered proclamations of tender feelings to her either. Still, their lovemaking was another way in which things between them had changed. There was a poignant reverence to each encounter now. He touched her differently, with such gratitude in addition to desire.
“And I like when you are bold,” she forced herself to say, irritated with herself at how husky her voice emerged.
He selected a different pastel crayon from his case and placed it inside the metal holder before returning to his task. “Do you know, I cannot find the proper shade for your eyes? The color of them is so unique that I have had to blend no less than three different pigments.”
More warmth unfurled within her. “They are only green, and not even a proper green, but a rather muddy one.”
He continued working strokes over the paper, his concentration evident in the stern set of his jaw. “Nonsense. They are the most beautiful eyes I have ever beheld. A rare combination of Prussian blue, yellow ochre, and a hint of burnt sienna.”
Her heart gave a pang. Just when she thought she could not possibly love him more…
“No one has ever paid such notice to my eyes before,” she said, fidgeting with the fall of her gown. Trying to tell herself his attentions did not mean more.
He was an artist with his tools, attempting to capture a likeness. She must not fancy he had feelings for her beyond desire and the common concern any gentleman would have for his wife just because she loved him so much it hurt.
“Then no gentleman has ever been worthy of capturing you,” he said softly, his gaze flitting back to her.
A new frisson of awareness slid through her. The air between them seemed to change, growing more heated. The silly bird, wherever she was, sang from above with greater enthusiasm.
“I never wanted to be captured until you,” she found herself revealing, before she could think better of the admission.
It was true, and once spoken, could not be recalled.
“Hattie.” His voice was low, velvet to her senses. Beloved.
She thought she could happily listen to her name uttered in his decadent baritone every day for the rest of her life. With each day that passed, the notion of them living separate lives one day grew more and more impossible for her to fathom. She could only hope he felt the same.
“Yes?” she asked hesitantly, watching as he set down his pastel crayon and stepped away from the easel.
“If I do not have my cock inside you in the next five minutes, I am going to die,” he growled, striding toward her.
She shot off the bench as if it were made of flame rather than cold marble and went willingly into his arms. His familiar scent hit her, along with desire, and love so powerful she trembled as she locked her hands behind his neck.
“That is just as well,” she told him. “Because if I do not have your cock within me in the next five minutes, I shall turn into flames.”
“God’s fichu, I love it when you say filthy things with that angelic mouth of yours.” He kissed her slowly, swiftly. “Then it stands to reason we must save each other, mustn’t we?”
“Oh, yes,” she agreed, breathless, lips still tingling from the bliss of his mouth upon hers.
Before she knew what he was about, he bent and swept her off her feet, holding her in his arms. She was weightless, cradled against his chest, and it made her giddy.
“I have just the plan, sweet.” But instead of returning to the house as she had supposed he would do, he strode deeper into the small garden.
“Ewan,” she protested on a squeak. “Surely you do not mean to… Anyone could see us here…”
“That is part of the fun,” he told her. “The thrill of getting caught. Knowing that at any moment someone could peer out a window and catch a glimpse of what we are doing.”
His words shocked her. To her amazement, they also stirred the fires of her desire. Between her legs, she was not just aching, but throbbing. Desperate for him.
“That is indecent,” she said anyway as he carried her deeper down the gravel path to the center of the garden where more sweet William blossomed in large urns and a sundial revealed the time of day.
Though they were surrounded by hedges, they would remain clearly visible to anyone who ventured to the windows overlooking the garden. She wondered, before she could stifle the thought, if this was something he had done before. Unbidden, the bitter words of his mother returned to her, chiding, bringing with them an unwanted pinprick of doubt. He will never change.
The dowager was wrong. Ewan had changed. He was no longer the wild and wicked rakehell he had once been. He had promised to be faithful to her.
Until he gets an heir on you.
Ewan set her on her feet, and she wished the thought to the devil. Doubt had no place in their marriage. Nor did fear or misgiving. He was being honest with her now. There were no more secrets between them, and she had to trust in that. To trust in him.
“Two minutes have already passed,” she teased him, growing bolder.
One of his hands sank into her hair, cupping her head, while the other clamped on her waist, hauling her into him. “I want you.”
“Then have me.” Her hands were still linked behind his neck, and their closeness meant her breasts were crushed deliciously against him. She pulled his head down to hers.
Their lips sealed. There was no languor in this kiss. Only desperate, raw hunger. She opened to his questing tongue as the kiss deepened. He made a low sound of approval that made her ache. They kissed as if they would cease to exist if they stopped. Kissed as if they never wanted to part.
It was a forever kiss.
Her initial embarrassment fled in the face of his feral passion. The need to pleasure him rose within her, and it would not be denied. Breaking away from him at last, she sank to her knees on the gravel, not caring if she ruined her gown, not giving a fig that the sharp rocks dug into her sensitive skin through her layers. She had tended to him in this manner before, and she wanted to give him a release now. She wanted to sin with him. To give in to desire. To give him everything.
“Hattie, darling, no,” he protested. “The path is too hard.”
“Yes.” She undid the fall of his breeches and his cock sprang forth, giving lie to his denial.
He wanted this every bit as much as she did.
She grasped his thick, smooth shaft. This part of him, like all the rest, was beautifully formed. A drop seeped from the tip, and she could not resist catching it on her tongue, relishing the taste of him.
He groaned, his fingers tightening in her hair. “You do not need to do this, pet.”
“I want to,” she said, and then she took him in her mouth. As much of him as she could.
His hips jerked, his cock surging to the back of her throat.
“Hell,” he rasped. “Your pretty mouth is so hot and wet.”
Yes, it was. And he was hot and hard and delicious. She hummed her approval as she moved, taking him deep before dragging her lips along his length, and then sucking him once more. She kept one hand on the root of him, and with the other, she gently massaged his heavy sac. Once, he had flooded her mouth with his seed, and the remembrance of the power to make him spend spurred her onwar
d.
“Enough,” he gritted, disengaging from her. “I want my cock inside your sweet cunny when I spill.”
She wanted it, too. She allowed him to pull her to her feet. He surprised her by turning her around and leading her to a nearby statue of Mars. He placed her hands upon the marble deity’s muscled calves.
“Stay just like this,” he instructed her. “Do not move.”
He kissed her nape, caressed her waist, and then she heard the crunch of gravel behind her.
“Ewan,” it was her turn to protest. She glanced over her shoulder to find him kneeling behind her.
“Turn around, darling,” he ordered. “If you cannot behave yourself, I will not give you what you want.”
Oh. She swallowed and turned forward, shivering with anticipation as she felt his hands on her ankles. His touch made her mad for him. He grasped one firmly, guiding them apart. And then he caressed higher, up her calves, past her knees, all the way to her thighs.
His tongue flicked over her without warning, and she could not contain her cry. It echoed in the garden, reverberating against the walls. As he licked her center, his fingers parted her, and he found her pearl with unerring ease. She was so ready for his touch, she almost spent then and there.
But he was not finished with her yet. He began a maddening rhythm, sinking inside her with his tongue and rubbing torturous circles over the bud of her sex. White-hot sensation bolted up her spine. She held on to Mars, the cold marble a delicious contrast of sensation to the warmth of Ewan’s fingers and tongue between her legs.
Her heart was pounding, breath emerging in gasps. He moaned as if he were consuming the most delicious dessert, the vibration of his pleased voice setting off little tremors within her, the prelude to something wild and furious.
“You taste so sweet,” he murmured, giving her a long, slow lick that made her knees buckle.
He caught her with his free hand, keeping her from sinking into a pool of quivering lust at the base of the statue, and she tightened her grasp on the war god. All around her the day was bright, the colors more vibrant, the pleasure inside her more frenzied than it had ever been before. It was as if the small garden had been bathed in gold, as if she had.
The splendor building inside her could not be controlled. His tongue sank deep, and he increased the pressure on her pearl. She lost herself. In a radiant haze, she spent, a burst of pleasure quaking through her with almost violent force. Her heart was galloping, her breath ragged.
He stood behind her, lifting her skirts. In one hard thrust, he entered her. Deep, so deep. She instinctively pressed her bottom toward him, seeking more even as the ripples of her release continued. He began a maddening rhythm.
“God, you are so wet,” he said, nipping at her neck and he drove in and out of her.
She was speechless, her body moving against his as if they were one, seeking more of the pleasure he promised.
“I want you to come again, darling.” He kissed her ear. “Come on my cock. I want to feel you.”
Dear heavens. His words were wicked. So very vulgar.
She liked them. And she was on the precipice once more, about to fall headlong into the abyss.
“Do you think anyone is watching us, pet?” he asked as he thrust harder, deeper.
She thought of all the windows around them. With him inside her, she no longer found the prospect mortifying. Instead, she found it oddly thrilling.
She made a sound, half cry, half whimper, as she neared her peak.
His fingers grazed over her swollen bud once more. It was the nudge she needed. She reached her pinnacle in a dazzling fury of bliss. Her body clenched on him, tightening, and in two more thrusts, the hot release of his seed flooded her.
He collapsed against her, breathing as heavily as she was, their bodies still joined. They remained that way, pressed together for an indeterminate span of time, as reality slowly intruded upon their idyll in the form of fat droplets falling from the sky.
It was raining, Hattie realized.
The dazzling gold of the day had vanished behind a cloud, and once more, London was enrobed in gray. Ewan kissed the side of her throat, then withdrew from her and flipped down her skirts.
She turned around to the sight of him tucking himself back in his breeches.
The sky opened in truth then, unleashing a sudden deluge.
“Damn it all,” he cursed, holding out his hand to her. “Come, sweet. We must get you inside before you catch a chill.”
How sweet of him to worry over her, she thought, allowing him to lead her back down the path. By the time they reached the easel where he had been working on her portrait, the likeness he had devoted hours to had turned into nothing more than a smear of wet colors.
“Oh Ewan, your beautiful drawing!” she exclaimed. “It is ruined.”
“It was a pale comparison to you anyway,” he said. “I can always make another, especially if your sitting for me ends in such spectacular fashion.”
She was sure she was flushing furiously beneath all the rain. They gathered everything as best as they could and rushed back inside, dripping all over the rugs and laughing at the messes they had made.
“Next time,” her husband told her with his rakehell’s grin, “I am going to draw you naked in your chamber. No chance of rain there.”
She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him again, thinking she had never been happier.
Chapter Twenty-One
“The Honorable Mr. Arthur Parkross is calling, Your Grace,” Low announced.
Seven words.
That was all.
And Monty’s life imploded.
If there was ever a time when he had needed a substance to fortify himself—a glass of gin, a drop of laudanum—it was now. Of all days, a perfectly happy Wednesday at the end of November was the day when the monster from his past chose to reemerge at last.
He supposed he ought to have anticipated such a move by the manipulative bastard. His uncle’s notes had continued to arrive, growing more desperate and threatening in tone, and Monty had continued to ignore them. He could refuse to see him now, but that would only prolong the agony, the wait.
His face felt as if it would crack if he moved it. He swallowed in a mouth that had gone suddenly dry. That old, sick dread unfurled within him.
“Send him in,” he managed to say at last.
Low bowed.
It was all quite ordinary.
Except for the fact that his world as he knew it—the carefully crafted paradise he had won with Hattie—was about to burn down to nothing but ash.
He attempted to prepare himself. Struggled to maintain his calm. But by the time Arthur Parkross stood at the threshold to his study, he leapt to his feet, hands balled into fists. He was dimly aware of sending his butler away, waiting for the door to close.
His heart pounded harder. “I would bow,” he said, “but I have no intention of pretending I hold you in any sort of regard.”
Parkross bowed to him. He was dressed elegantly, an older version of the monster who haunted Monty’s dreams. His dark hair was silver now over his balding pate. He appeared thinner. There were sharp lines of age marring his forehead. The hand gripping the filigree head of his walking stick shook ever so slightly.
“I will show you the respect you deny me,” said his uncle, his tone mocking.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Monty snapped, part of him breaking inside.
Here was the man who had tormented him when he had been a lad. The man who had hurt him. Who had misused him. The man who was family. A man who should have been trustworthy and honorable. The need to do him violence teemed, ugly and festering inside him.
“You did not answer my letters,” his uncle said. “I had no choice but to seek the lion in his den.”
“If I were a lion, I would have already ripped off your ugly head and made you my dinner,” he said coldly. “I made it clear that I want nothing to do with you. Ever again. You are dead to me
.”
His uncle’s smile was forced. “Ah, but here I am, still very much alive. And desperately in need of funds.”
Money.
Of course.
“I would sooner die by my own hand than give you a farthing,” he spat.
“Do not be hasty,” Parkross said calmly. “I understand you are married now.”
His uncle’s allusion to Hattie made Monty’s blood go cold. “You are never to speak to her. She will never know you.”
“Do you think you control me, Montrose?” his uncle asked. “I can assure you that you do not. I can seek out Her Grace at any time I choose. How do you think she would feel if she knew about what you have done?”
His gut curdled. “It is not what I have done, but what was done to me.”
Again, the sick bastard smiled. “That is not how I remember it, my boy.”
“Do not call me that,” he bit out.
“What happened was an aberration,” his uncle said soothingly. “A sin. But no one ever need know.”
“As long as you get your funds,” he guessed, feeling as if he would retch.
“Precisely.” Parkross’s smile faded. “I am in need of ten thousand pounds. The creditors are darkening my door. I will give you three days to make your decision. If you do not provide me with the funds I require, I will regrettably be left with no choice other than to inform Her Grace of her husband’s shocking depravities.”
“You will not go near her, you brazen whoreson,” he said, but even as he bellowed the order, he knew there was no way he could enforce it.
If Parkross chose to seek out Hattie and tell her about what he had happened so long ago, there would be no stopping him. Desperation lanced through him, followed by despair. His entire body felt as if it had seized up, as if he were one of the marble statues in the garden, cold and dead.
“The choice is yours,” his uncle said calmly. “I need the ten thousand pounds, and I need it desperately. Desperation will drive a man to do things he would otherwise not.”
“And what was it that drove you to hurt an innocent boy, one who was your own flesh and blood? Was that desperation, Parkross, or was it the pure evil festering inside you, you spineless maggot?”
Duke of Debauchery Page 22
