The Wicked Viscount

by Heather McCollum

  Cat moaned, a throaty, deep sound. “Aye, Nathaniel.”

  “I must taste you,” he said, watching her head rise, her gaze meeting his as he slowly lowered his mouth. His cock throbbed, but all that captured his attention were the sounds of her moaning above him as she thrust forward with growing pleasure. Glancing up to see her ecstasy, he watched her palm and pinch her own breasts. She was a pale, fallen angel, kissed with a galaxy of little freckles, flaming curls draping all around her shoulders. The slopes of her body were the most beautiful landscape, made perfect for loving. She smelled of roses.

  Closing his eyes, he focused on the feel of her body, the increasing pitch of her little moans. He lifted under her sweet backside, listening to the Gaelic words that bubbled from her mouth. “Och, Nathaniel, aye,” she said, pressing against him. She panted, there on the edge of the bed as he worked against her sweet core until he felt a spasm of pleasure shudder through her. “Nathaniel,” she called, her voice rasping as she strained to keep her scream contained, rocking against him.

  He slid up her body, stroking her as she shuddered. Her eyes were open, languid as he kneeled at the juncture of her spread legs. “My God, Cat,” he said, his voice reverent. She reached down to spread herself even more, waiting, inviting him to enter. He leaned over her, poised, and kissed her. She clung to his shoulder, and with perfect aim, Nathaniel thrust forward into her.

  The lush, damp heat engulfed him, and she gasped, her body stiffening. Nathaniel balanced on the edge of reason as he forced himself to still within her body, his arms flanking her head. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and he concentrated on his breathing, on not moving even though his body begged for it, throbbed for it. Waiting for her.

  Her foot slid up the back of his leg, and then the other followed, wrapped in bindings. Before he knew it, she’d locked her legs together over his back and gently raised herself to press him even farther within her. A tortured groan came from him, and she grinned. “Ye look more pained than me,” she said.

  “If you are smiling, I just might be.”

  “Move then,” she said. “Make me ache again.”

  “God, yes,” he said, leaning in to kiss her, and his hand teased one breast and then the other as he began to move slowly. He withdrew and thrust forward, reveling in the feel of her heat wrapped tightly around him. She arched toward him, and he picked up a rhythm that she matched, using the tight squeeze of her thighs to give her leverage around his middle. The heat of her drove him wild, making their kisses hungry and deep.

  His fingers traced down the slope of her waist and over her hip, inward to where they were joined. “Aye, right there,” she whispered on a shallow exhale as he rubbed and thrust, faster and faster. Together they moved as one, giving and taking, moaning into each other’s open mouths as the passion built within them, trusting one another to continue toward the peak. Her fingernails scraped down his back.

  “My God, Cat,” he said on a groan.

  He drove into her as she ground against him, faster until she began to moan. Head thrown back against the quilt, her hair lay in a jumble of wild curls. Pale skin flushed pink, her lips lay open and damp as she cried out, the pitch going higher like a song as her pleasure overtook her. ’Twas the most glorious sight he’d ever witnessed, and he exploded. Wave after wave of heat rose and crashed through him as he continued to thrust within her shuddering body. They rode the passion, clinging to one another, until they finally slowed together.

  With a satisfied exhale that sounded almost like the purr of her namesake, Cat unhooked her legs, letting them slide down. He pulled her onto her side to hold her in his arms, her back against his chest. They lay in silence for long minutes, their breaths slowing. He stroked the softness of her stomach and slid his palm along her curved hip, the glow of the fire turning her skin gold.

  She raised her knee, the toes of her good foot gliding along the length of his shin. “’Twas not like I thought it would be,” she said.

  “Oh?” He lifted onto one elbow to look down at her.

  A mischievous grin made her look impish, her eyes half closed, the lashes long. “I thought ye would vanquish the ache I was feeling.”

  He met her grin with his own. “I thought I vanquished you quite thoroughly.” She’d certainly slayed the gloom that had hung over the evening from his conference with Stanton and his old cronies.

  She laughed, her legs stroking higher up to his thigh. “But the ache,” she said, pushing up to press a kiss on his lips. “The fire that was between us before…” Her smile turned more serious, a glint of seduction in her eyes. “It is already starting to return.” She raised her knee up to wrap her leg across his hip, pressing her heel into his arse.

  …

  Rap, rap, rap.

  Meow.

  Cat’s one eye cracked open to the view of two grass-green eyes in a fluffy gray face.

  Meow.

  Cat pushed up from the warmth of the covers to stare at the little ball of gray fluff sitting up on the pillow where Nathaniel’s head had rested. “Hello,” she whispered, a smile growing instantly as she watched the kitten scrunch its little black nose. Cupping the kitten in her hands, she pulled it toward her, nuzzling it against her cheek. “Where did ye come from?” she whispered, but she knew. Nathaniel. Her gaze slid past the cat to a folded piece of parchment that must have been on the pillow, but the kitten had knocked it into the bedding.

  Meow. It pressed into her, wrapping itself instantly around her heart. She glanced around the small room. Bright sun filtered through the one window. How long had she slept? She picked up the note.

  The stable boys say she needs a home. She looks rather like a Jasmine to me. If you like her, we can bring her back to Finlarig with us.

  N

  She smiled, her fingers gently stroking the kitten’s head. Her heart filled with a lightness. Joy? Maybe.

  Rap, rap, rap. “Lady Campbell,” Jane Pitney’s voice came louder from the corridor where she knocked on the room where Cat was supposed to be sleeping.

  She slid out of the bed, setting the kitten in the warm covers. “Stay put,” she whispered. How would she explain the kitten to Jane? Careful with her bound ankle, Cat scooped up her sleeping smock where it was left in a heap by the still warm hearth. The kitten watched her, its head tilted. “I will be back,” she said and hobbled through the cold dressing room, feeling the well-loved ache between her legs. Stepping into the room that had been Nathaniel’s mother’s room, Cat called toward the door. “Aye?”

  “It is time to start your lessons and fittings, Lady Campbell,” Jane called back. “Lord Worthington said to let you sleep, but we can wait no more.”

  Cat looked around the cold room with the still made bed. Time to see if Jane Pitney had a quick or suspicious mind. She walked to the dressing room door and shut it quietly. “I will open the door when ye call me Cat.” She spotted her robe near the tub and shrugged into it.

  “You must learn the formal address,” Jane said. “It is what is used at court.”

  She combed her fingers quickly through her tangles, imagining Jane tapping her foot, hands on her robust hips outside the door. “We are not currently at court, Jane.” She walked over to the door where a large iron key sat in the lock on the inside.

  She heard a murmur behind the door that sounded like a curse and smiled. “I certainly hope that was a pish, pshaw, by gad, or God’s teeth.”

  “Open the door…Cat, or we won’t have you ready in time to depart for London tomorrow. It is already mid-morning.”

  Tomorrow? She turned the key and swung the door inward to look at the frowning woman. “I thought we left in three days.”

  “Where did you even find a key to this room?” Jane asked, brushing by her to enter. The woman paused, her gaze moving from the cold hearth to the bed. She pivoted on her heel to look at her, brows raised high. “There is no need for you to make your own bed.”

  Cat shrugged. “I always have before.” It wasn’t a lie
and better than saying than saying “I spent the most amazing night being vigorously vanquished by Nathaniel, I mean Lord Worthington, and never made it to this room.”

  Jane hurried over to the hearth and began to relight the fire from the past evening. A few embers still glowed under the ash. “A maid should have come by to tend this for you.”

  “I was perfectly warm last night,” she replied, her face pleasant when Jane glanced over her shoulder at her. Again, it wasn’t a lie.

  The woman looked back at the rekindling. “Benedict is bringing up a bucket of warm water for you to wash.”

  “Another bath?” Cat asked, hoping the answer was yes. After her night with Nathaniel, her body could use a soak. They’d explored each other long into the night, and parts of her were sore. A good kind of sore. She smiled softly, feeling a giddiness she’d never experienced before.

  “Of sorts,” Jane said and dropped a small stack of white linen rags on the bed. “I saw a quilt from the adjacent maid’s room with blood on it down in the laundry. Thought you might be able to use the menstrual rags with the belt and warm water to wash.” Nathaniel must have seen the evidence of her virginity and taken it to the laundry. Was that when he retrieved the kitten?

  No one had ever spoken to Cat so openly about her woman’s monthly, not even her mother who had usually been too busy trying to get through each day to talk to her daughter when it had started. Her face burned hot, but she nodded. “Thank ye.”

  “Thank you,” Jane corrected.

  Cat controlled her immediate desire to roll her eyes and curse. “Thank you,” she said instead.

  Jane whisked about the room, tidying, although she hadn’t touched much. There was another knock at the door. Benedict, Nathaniel’s mid-aged manservant, lugged in a bucket of water, putting it behind the screen. For such a slender looking man, he seemed quite strong. Hopefully he didn’t know why she required a second bath, neither the truth nor Jane’s assumption.

  Cat nodded to him and ducked behind the screen with the rags to wash while Jane and Benedict took two empty buckets, threw open one of the massive windows and proceeded to empty the cold bathwater from the tub.

  “I have brought you five new smocks and several pairs of stockings,” Jane said, coming close to the screen to thrust one around for Cat to grab, followed by two dangling silk stockings with garters. “Put these on. The seamstresses will be here soon to work on several of Lady Scarlet’s and Lady Evelyn’s dresses as Lady Campbell suggested in her letter. We must put together a wardrobe for you by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “We are to leave tomorrow afternoon?” she asked, remembering she hadn’t yet received an answer. She peeked around the screen in time to see Benedict leave the room.

  “Lord Worthington wishes to leave as soon as possible to deliver you to the Duchess as requested. I have told him that is the soonest you could be ready, but we will have to work hard to meet that timeframe.”

  “Work at what exactly?” Cat asked, coming around the screen in one of the new lace-edged smocks.

  Rap, rap.

  Jane opened the door to permit three young maids, with gowns draped over their arms. They wore matching black costumes with long white aprons and curtsied in front of Cat before hurrying to the bed with the heavy garments. Petticoats in blue and rose and purple were embroidered with gold thread. Two overdresses had flower patterns. Two white linen and two silk smocks and two sets of stays joined them on the bed. Cat had never owned more than two dresses at a time, and both were made of wool. She limped over, her fingers gingerly touching the smooth material, tracing one of the flowers made of gold thread. “’Tis lovely,” she murmured.

  “The fabric is imported from the Far East,” Jane said.

  Behind her, Jane caught the ends of her red curls in one hand. “We will be working on everything. Your hair, your clothes…” She held Cat’s hand, bringing the backs of her fingers up to eye level. “Your nails.” She dropped her hand. “Your manners and speech.”

  Anger caught and rose quickly to blaze in Cat’s middle. “I am not some awkward, country bumpkin. I have been taught at the Highland Roses School how to take tea, how to read and write and do embroidery.” Truth was that she poked her finger more than the fabric, but she could pass as a content lady who enjoyed foolish endeavors if she moved slow enough.

  Jane looked skeptical. “We will start with trying on these petticoats and the two mantuas, so the girls can alter them to fit you.” She held one up to Cat. “They will need to be lengthened.”

  She looked to the maids. “If there is not hem enough to let out, you will add lace to the bottoms.” Turning back to Cat, “We have two gowns from a local seamstress that will be new.” She smiled, pride on her features. “I was able to purchase them almost complete this morning. They will be fitted and finished by tomorrow.”

  She waved at one of the maids who hurried over with a set of boned stays with lavender ribbon for the lacing. The young woman, like the other two garbed in black and white, had her hair caught up in a plait to coil her head. Cat raised her arms as she wrapped the stays around her.

  “Meredith,” the maid called, and a second maid hurried over to hold the stays up over Cat’s breasts in front as the maid behind her began to pull on the ribbons to tighten the stays.

  “Lift them upward, so they are not as smashed down inside,” Janes said, and Cat scooped under each of her breasts as the stays tightened, making them swell gently at the top. She focused on forcing her stomach outward, so the two tenacious maids couldn’t pull them too tight, something she’d learned when Evelyn had shown her how English ladies wore their gowns. It was like a quiet battle with ribbon and boning, the maid pulling tight and Cat pushing out against the press determined to smash all her internal organs together. The solid stays created a foundation from which to build the ensemble outward. It also pressed her bosom farther upward, making the tops of her breasts swell out the top, edged by the lace of her smock. She felt like she was being tied into armor that only encircled her torso, leaving above and below vulnerable to attack. A full under petticoat came next, tied around Cat’s middle over her smock and stays.

  Scratch. Meow! Scratch.

  Frig it. She hadn’t shut the door from the maid’s bedroom into the middle room.

  All three maids and Jane turned toward the closed door to the dressing chamber. Jane moved first, striding forward briskly. Cat couldn’t twist far in the stays and turned slowly, keeping the weight off her injured foot.

  “Be careful,” Cat said, and Jane opened the door inward slowly, bending down to scoop up the kitten. Instead of holding it at arm’s length, she cradled the kitten in the crook of her arm and turned back to Cat. Jane’s brows rose, waiting.

  “That is Jasmine, my kitten,” she said, her hands sliding along her confined waist.

  “I did not see a kitten with you yesterday,” Jane said.

  “The stable boys said she needs a home, so I am giving her one.” She tipped her chin higher. “Now shouldn’t we return to my fitting? We are wasting precious time,” she said in an imitation of an aristocratic, haughty voice.

  Jane turned to the maids, nodding, and one brought over an outer petticoat in embroidered purple silk. “Over her head,” Jane said, still cuddling the kitten in her arms. The maid, Meredith, tied it in place over the under petticoat and stays, none of which Cat could feel through the boning. During it all, Jane held the kitten, scratching it until it squirmed to be let down to run after a ball of lace that rolled from the bed when the third maid picked up another piece of the costume.

  She brought forth a full, open gown, on her arms that resembled a long coat. “A mantua is an outer dress,” Jane said and motioned for the maid to slide the sleeves up Cat’s arms. “Hold the cuffs of your smock,” she instructed. “The mantua is quite the fashion in London. ’Tis a stunningly ornate pattern.” Jane led her over to the mirror. “Look,” she said, excitement making her voice sound less surly.

  Cat’s breath
caught. The mantua swooped open, and the maids gathered the rich silk behind to hitch up underneath, attaching the voluminous train to some hidden tabs. The front opened to show the coordinated purple- and lavender-colored petticoat in the middle. Flowers in gold embroidery sat on a deep magenta silk stomacher with matching three-quarter sleeves. The lace edging of her white smock showed just above the low neckline and lay across the backs of her hands. One maid held the gown around her middle, deftly pinning the waist to be sewn later so that it would lay smoothly along the stays.

  “Lovely,” Jane said, nodding. “You have a very fine figure.”

  Cat blinked at the image in the mirror. She’d never worn such a gown. Twisting and bending were impossible in such a bind. It was completely impractical if one was expected to do any type of work. No wonder English ladies spent hours perched on the edges of their chairs embroidering and sipping at tea. They could do little else. The entire costume was ridiculous but also…absolutely the most beautiful ensemble she had ever seen. Before she could say anything, there was another knock on the door. Jane sent one of the maids to open it with a flap of her hand.

  “I thought I could go over some of the names of Lords and Ladies at…” Nathaniel’s voice trailed off as he walked in, his strides stopping halfway across the floor. In the mirror, Cat watched his gaze rake up her reflection to reach her face, a slow smile growing across his lips, lips that she remembered trailing from freckle to freckle last night. He’d stopped counting at five-hundred and sixty-nine when she couldn’t stand the erotic teasing anymore and took matters into her own hands.

  This morning, he wore tall leather boots and a long day jacket that looked perfectly tailored to fit his broad shoulders and tapered torso. He cleared his throat. “You should learn the names of courtiers…while they work on the gowns,” he finished, his words soft and slow.