by Cheryl Holt
"Oh, hello, Mr. Mason."
"You must be Mrs. Smythe."
"Yes."
"I've heard a great deal about you." "How terrifying!"
"All of it good," he quickly added, which she knew was a lie.
It was scandalous in the extreme for Anne to have barged in at Gray's Manor, but it was a mark of Charles's notoriety that he'd been allowed to bring Anne into a gentlewoman's home and pass her off as a friend of the family.
Mr. Mason hadn't released her arm, and normally, she'd have been upset that he hadn't. With her being Charles's mistress, she was regularly the target of unsolicited attention, but in her current mood, she didn't mind.
It had been an eternity since a handsome man had noticed her, and if he wanted to tarry for the next hour—for the next day!—she was eager to oblige. In fact, in light of her restless emotional condition, she might agree to do anything he requested.
He frowned, studying her. "Have we met previously?"
"I'm sure we haven't."
"You're so familiar."
"I was thinking the very same."
She didn't know if he was speaking the truth, but on her end, the comment was false. There was nothing about him that she recognized, but she was content to linger and gaze into his exquisite brown eyes.
He noted that he was holding her arm, and he dropped it and moved away.
"It was very nice to bump into you," he said, amused.
"And you, as well."
She gave him a hot look that was impossible to misinterpret, and she was stunned by her audacity. She never behaved wantonly, never cheated on Charles or even flirted. Not once in all the time they'd been together. Yet suddenly, she'd practically propositioned a stranger.
Whatever the message she'd been sending, he received it with no difficulty. He rippled with surprise as he calculated her intent.
"I hope to see you again very soon," she boldly declared.
"I hope so, too."
"Are you ever about after supper?" "I'll make it a point to be." "Marvelous."
He nodded, confused but intrigued, and he walked on.
She left, too, heading for the stairs and away from Charles and the confines of her life that were slowly choking her to death.
Chapter Seven
Dammit!" At Jordan's curse, muttered in the adjacent chamber, Margaret jumped. A crash followed as, in a fit of temper, he smashed something against the wall.
She was amazed to hear him storming about. He always seemed so calm and collected, so in control of every word and action. What could have happened to put him in such a dither?
Tiptoeing to the door, she pressed her ear to the wood, listening as he let fly with a string of epithets. When he smashed another object, she couldn't resist spinning the knob and peeking in. Unfortunately, she hadn't paused to remember that he was in the dressing room, complete with hip bath, soaps, and towels. To her dismay—she refused to call it delight—she had stumbled upon him in the same state of undress in which he'd initially found her.
He was attired in a pair of tan breeches that fell to just below the knee. His shirt was missing, as were his shoes and stockings, and she couldn't help but gape.
His back was to her, and as she studied his wide shoulders, his thin waist and hard thighs, he whipped around and barked, "What the hell are you doing home at this hour of the day?"
"The children are busy with summer chores, so there are no classes for a few weeks."
Apparently, she'd interrupted his washing. His hair was damp and swept off his forehead, his skin moist and smooth, and the sight of his naked chest did something funny to her insides. It was broad and manly, covered with a matting of dark hair that was thick on the top, but it tapered to a line in the center, and descended into his pants to destinations she couldn't begin to fathom.
The buttons on his breeches were undone, and she couldn't keep her brazen eyes from drifting down. With ease, she was metamorphosing into a shameless hussy!
Since the occasion when he'd kissed her senseless, she'd been in a fine fettle. Her body was alert and alive, aching in spots she'd never previously noted, and her pleasant demeanor had vanished. She was surly, out-of-sorts, her patience exhausted.
She was desperate to be with him again, and she'd been in a veritable frenzy of anticipation, night after night, expecting that he'd relent and join her, but he hadn't, and his disinterest was driving her crazy.
"What do you want?" he snarled.
"With all the noise in here, I was merely checking to see if you're all right."
"I'm so bloody dandy, I could strangle somebody!"
"Well.. . good. I'll just be going."
He resembled a wild animal that was ready to attack, so she retreated, eager to escape before he pounced.
She took a step, then another, and she'd made it through the door when he lunged after her, approaching until they were toe-to-toe. He towered over her, trying to intimidate her with his size, with his temper, but she wasn't frightened.
His anger was blatant and exciting, and she reveled in it. She was thrilled to have him so near, to have all his concentration focused on her, and it occurred to her that she might do anything to keep it.
"Why are you poking your nose into my affairs?" he demanded.
"I told you: I was checking on you."
"I don't need you hovering."
"So, go away. Did I ask you to follow me in here?"
He gripped her waist. "Don't you know how dangerous it is to taunt me when I'm in such a foul mood?"
"Me? Taunt you? I was minding my own business, in my own bedchamber, till you started rampaging like a monster."
"A monster? Yes, that's exactly how I feel."
He picked her up and twirled them so that they fell onto her bed. They bounced on the mattress; then he rolled and pinned her down.
Having no notion of what to do next, he stared at her, and his expression was filled with such longing and confusion that it was almost comical. He was on edge and keen to lash out, but he wouldn't be violent. His energy had to be channeled in another direction, into conduct she couldn't describe but relished.
She reached out and placed her hands on his chest. His skin was warm and soft, and at feeling her he was pushed off the cliff where he'd been perched.
He initiated a searing kiss, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers in her hair. He seemed to be searching for something, or pleading for something, though she wasn't sure what it was. She felt as if she were on a ship at sea, that she was being tossed in turbulent waves and about to sink to the bottom. She had to hold on and hope that he would guide her safely to the shore when the tempest had passed.
'Touch me all over," he ordered. "Don't stop for a single second." "I won't."
At his command she realized that she'd been lying like a statue, and she leapt into the foray, stroking his shoulders, his back, even daring once to dip down and massage his buttocks.
Her caress was like lightening, electrifying him, and his passion grew more intense, his need more powerful. Her own body was in an awful state, her pulse pounding, her nipples throbbing.
He settled himself between her legs, his torso fitting there as if it had been specially created to welcome him. His privates were wedged to hers in a way that she recognized and craved, and as he clutched her to him and began to thrust, her hips met his with an equal vigor.
"What are you doing to me?" she managed on a gasp.
"I've explained this before: I'm making love to you. Pay attention."
"But you keep flexing into me. Why?"
"It's how a man makes love to a woman, how a husband makes love to his wife."
"I don't understand."
"Does it feel good?"
"Yes."
"Then you don't need to understand. Just do it for me."
"Beast!" she chided.
"Yes, I am. I'm a beast, and you're crazy to be with me like this."
"I'm not afraid of you." "You should be." "I'm not."
He was
fumbling with her gown, struggling with the buttons, but in his frustrated condition, he couldn't free them.
"Bloody dress! Next time I come in here"—her heart soared at the prospect of there being a next time—"have your clothes off prior to my arrival. I want you naked and waiting for me. Save me all this trouble!"
He was jerking at the fabric and about to rip the garment in half. She had such limited apparel and couldn't have him destroying any of it.
"Stop!" she scolded. "If you need me to remove my dress, we can discuss it like civilized people. I won't permit you to tear it to shreds as if you were some sort of barbarian."
"I want it off now!"
He gave a ferocious tug as material split and buttons flew. With a smirk of satisfaction, he rolled them again so that he was on the bottom and she was draped across him, her breasts spilling into his hands. He squeezed the two mounds, pinching the nipples, and she hissed with pleasure.
"This is how I desire you," he said. "This is all I contemplate, all I ponder. My dreams of having you like this—they consume me!"
"That can't be true."
"Have you any idea how I've longed for you?"
"No."
"Can you imagine how difficult it's been to be right next door, to yearn for you so badly but not be able to have you?"
"I can imagine." She'd been dying to be with him, too, but she couldn't bear to suppose that he'd felt the same.
He rooted to her breast and took the tip into his mouth, nursing as a babe would its mother, though with none of the tenderness. He was rough and insistent, and he seemed to know what she needed when she wasn't aware herself. She didn't want gentle treatment or placid interaction. She wanted fire and heat, and he gave all she required and so much more.
He kept on and on, until she was writhing in misery, in ecstasy. He shifted from one nipple to the other, going back and forth, back and forth, and she worried that she might explode.
"Desist!" she eventually implored, and she tried to squirm away, but he wouldn't release her.
"You can't quit until I decide you're finished."
"But you're killing me! I can't stand much more."
He was inching her skirt up her leg, pulling it higher and higher, until he was at the juncture of her thighs. He pressed down with the heel of his hand, providing a modicum of relief, but it wasn't nearly enough.
"Jordan, please ..."
She didn't know for what she was beseeching. She wanted the agony to cease, but she wanted it to go on forever.
"Yes, say my name," he murmured. "Say my name as you beg me."
"Jordan! Oh!"
He slithered into her drawers and through her womanly hair, when suddenly, he slid a finger inside her. A second joined the first, and he stroked them in a rhythm that made her body tense and ripple.
"Has any man ever touched you like this before?"
"Are you mad? Who would have?"
"So I'm the only one?"
"Of course, you are! Do you think me a trollop?" He grinned. "Let me show you something." "What?" "You'll see."
He sucked on her nipple as his thumb flicked at a spot she'd never noted prior. He jabbed once, again, again, and she shattered into a thousand pieces. She was blinded by rapture and careening across the universe. A harsh noise rang out, and she thought it might be herself, wailing with bliss, which couldn't be possible. She was much too restrained for such a shocking exhibition.
Finally, she reached a peak and floated down, landing safely in his arms, and he looked very smug. "My goodness," she breathed. He chuckled. "You are so easy." "What was that?"
"It was a very stunning example of sexual pleasure. It's called an orgasm or a climax."
"Can it occur more than once?"
"Yes, it can occur over and over."
She gazed at the ceiling, disconcerted and wondering if a person could become addicted. Was it like a dangerous drug? Would she be chasing after him, cornering him in dark alcoves and demanding he do it again?
"Did I... did I... cry out?" "Very loudly."
"Aah! Do you suppose anyone heard me?" "Let's hope not."
He adjusted her dress, covering her; then he snuggled her onto her side and spooned himself to her. They cuddled in the quiet, and it was the most precious, most splendid moment of her life. She shut her eyes, absorbing every smell, every sound when, in a slow, deliberate motion, he flexed against her bottom.
"I'm so hard for you," he muttered, and he quivered, seeming distraught.
The comment puzzled her, and she tried to rise up and turn around, but he wouldn't let her.
"What do you mean—you're hard?'
"Lie still." He pushed her down.
"Jordan!"
"I told you to lie still!" "Why should I?"
"Because I want you—in such a thoroughly masculine fashion—that if you wiggle your ass at me one more time, I can't say what I might do."
"I don't understand you, at all."
"I wouldn't expect you to."
"Quit talking in riddles. I detest it."
He took another leisurely flex, and he moaned.
"Are you in pain?"
"Yes."
"Can I help you?" "No."
She elbowed him in the ribs. "Don't be such a grump." "When I'm this miserable, I can't act any other way." She froze. Was he claiming he hadn't enjoyed what they'd done? Was he hinting that he'd found her lacking in her amorous abilities? For pity's sake, she was a spinster! How could she know any different?
She struggled around enough so that she could frown at him.
"Why would you be miserable? As I am the one who's been ravaged, you'd better say something nice. And be quick about it!"
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"You have the most seductive eyes." "I do?"
"You make me want to take you and damn the consequences."
"Take me how?"
He sighed with exasperation. "I've never been in bed with a virgin before, so I didn't realize it could be so tedious."
"What a horrid thing to tell me." She scrambled away to storm out in a huff, but he clutched her even tighter and nestled her down again. 'There's more to it," he whispered. 'Then explain it to me." "I can experience the same ecstasy as you." "But you didn't?"
"No, and it makes me grouchy. I'm so aroused that even my teeth are aching. I can barely keep from proceeding."
"So go ahead. What's preventing you?" "There are other ... uh ... aspects to it." "And I want to do them!" "You just think you do," he declared. "No, I'm pretty sure I mean it."
"It involves my ruining you, my taking your virginity."
"How does that transpire? I've always wondered."
"It's for your husband to demonstrate."
She scoffed. "As if some man would marry me. Especially after this!"
"It requires something totally magnificent, but totally reckless, and if we carried on and you later wished you hadn't, you couldn't ever fix what we'd done."
"You're speaking in riddles again."
"Just believe that I like you too much to hurt you that way."
At his admission, she smiled. "You do?"
"Yes. You provoke me beyond my limits. I don't know what to do with you."
She gazed at the far wall, the marvelous words sinking in. In the past, she'd never thought much about marriage, but now that she'd met him, it dawned on her that there was an entire side to it that she'd never considered. What would it be like to have a man like Jordan for her own? The prospect had her seriously reflecting on what she'd missed by remaining a spinster, and suddenly, it seemed like so very much.
She yawned, and he laughed.
"I'm tired."
"I bet you are. Sex can be rather draining."
"Will you show me what to do someday? Will you teach me how to please you?"
After a lengthy hesitation, he murmured, "I will."
He grabbed for a blanket and covered them with it, sealing them in a snug coco
on. She reached over her shoulder to caress his cheek, and he kissed her hand.
"Why were you angry?" she inquired.
"When?"
"When I first heard you in the dressing room, you were very upset." "My father is here." "I know. I was introduced to him." "He can be difficult."
"Really? He seemed very charming to me."
He snorted. "Charming, yes. He's definitely charming, but you should be wary of him."
"Wary? Of your father? Would he harm me?"
"Well, you don't have any money, so he probably won't notice you, but he's capable of any treachery."
"Your father?" she queried again, not quite able to accept it.
"Yes. Hush now. Rest for a bit."
He pulled her closer, and shortly, her eyelids drifted shut. She dozed, content in the circle of his arms, but when she awoke, he was gone, the bedchamber next door eerily silent, and there was no sign that he'd ever been there with her, at all.
Chapter Eight
It's not fair that such a horrid child should have so much money." "No, it's not." Anne toasted Charles with her glass of brandy.
"Why would Fate waste a bloody fortune on someone so unworthy?"
"I believe that's why it's called Fate" Anne said. "There's no rational explanation."
She'd had too much to drink, which was dangerous. In light of her ill humor, she might say anything, even things she didn't mean, even things she couldn't retract later on.
She didn't usually overindulge, but her reckless mood was growing stronger by the second, and she was desperate to tamp it down.
Would Charles steal Jordan's fiancée? Would he marry again after swearing to Anne that he wouldn't? Could he really behave that badly to the last two people on earth who still tolerated him?
If he made a play for Penelope Gray, then Anne would have to make a play of her own. She couldn't stay with him, and she yearned to ask him outright, to demand a straight answer, but she was too much of a coward.
If he admitted that he was about to seduce Miss Gray, Anne would finally be pushed into a decision. But where would she go? What would she do?
By hooking up with Charles as she had, she'd lost contact with friends or relatives who might have assisted her in a crisis. She was on her own, with Jordan as her sole ally, but his financial situation was even more precarious than hers, and she wouldn't add herself to his burden of responsibilities.
