“We’ll broach that later.”
“I feel we should broach it now.” She straightened her spine, proud of herself for the strength with which she delivered the words. As he stared down at her, though, that confidence crumbled. “I should tell you…I’ve endured treatment that now causes me to fear.”
He was slugging down a mouthful of brandy when she spoke, and her words gave him pause. He set his glass down on a glossy table arranged in front of two velvet-covered chairs. Her heart accelerated as she stepped closer. In his eyes was a gentleness she hoped was truly kindness.
He touched her arms, gliding down them almost imperceptibly. “I promise you, there is nothing to fear from me.”
She held his gaze for a long moment before taking a slow sip of the brandy. It was exquisite. He then took the glass from her and set it beside his own. Taking her hand, he led her across the room to a large portrait.
“My father, the Earl of Berkley. I am his second son.” He dragged his reverent gaze away to smile at her. “But I’m told quite often I’m his favorite. He has asked me to take a wife, and as there is nothing I wouldn’t do for him, I agreed. But I have neither the time nor the inclination to devote the proper attention to the task. Therefore, you are the perfect solution to my problem.”
The brandy scalded her stomach pleasingly and she felt it loosening her limbs. There was much she could endure. She knew that from experience. To endure it in what was literally a palace instead of that drafty, pest-ridden room above the shop in Whitechapel was surely a better proposition than her current situation.
“What do you wish of me, Mr. Stratton?”
A butler appeared in the doorway. “Good evening, sir. Do you require—” He froze, as though surprised by the sight of her in the drawing room. “I apologize. I didn’t realize you had company.”
“No bother, Havers. Please escort Miss Bergstrom to the Peony suite. Have the maids prepare her a bath.”
“Yes, sir.” The ancient man gestured with a hand. “This way, Miss Bergstrom.”
She followed him up a curved stairway clothed with a blood-red runner deep enough to lose a shoe in should it fall off on the way up. He walked the entire length of the wing and stopped at the second to last door. Adjacent to Mr. Stratton’s, no doubt.
Uncertainty felt like clawing fingers trying to climb out of her belly. What was she doing here? Did Bradford intend to use her, lying about needing a wife to simply take his fill of her before tossing her out? If there was one thing she knew about men, they showed the proper interest to gain what they wanted, but little more.
But what did it truly matter? Bradford was devilishly handsome, so if she was to be used by anyone, it might as well be him. And if she came away from this night, this week, or this month—whatever he wanted from her—bearing fruit, all the better. If she didn’t, she was no worse off than she started.
The butler, Havers, showed her into the grand room and closed the door behind her. It was a lovely room, decidedly feminine and comfortable. Still, she felt out of place in it. Mr. Stratton must keep this room for conquests, and she didn’t like being whatever number she was in his list. I may be poor, but I have my pride.
A grand four-poster bed commanded the center of the room, prettily decorated with a floral bedcovering and matching pillows. The floor was covered with a plush, rose-colored carpet she longed to dig her toes into.
Ilsa knew a moment of bold curiosity. She crossed the room with purpose and peeked into the wardrobe. The rod and hooks were bare, but extra bedclothes filled the shelves. She glanced at the vanity. It was also bare of feminine things. Curious.
A knock sent her heart leaping. She quickly closed the wardrobe door and darted into the center of the room. “Yes?”
Four maids entered, two very young girls carrying buckets of steaming water and two much larger, burly women, one carrying an empty cauldron. “Fer yer bath, miss,” one of them said. Another removed a screen to reveal a small anteroom, its floor paved with Spanish tiles. A large, claw-foot tub with its own pump stood in the center near a private garderobe.
A private water closet, with its own pump! In minutes the women had a full bath so warm steam rose from it.
Ilsa gasped when the two young girls suddenly grabbed at her clothes.
“Sorry, miss. Did I pull yer hair?” Probing fingers hastily removed her combs and Ilsa’s long hair tumbled down her back. She’d never been undressed by a maid before. One of the girls marched past with a stack of fluffy towels. Her whole life spent as a seamstress and she had never seen anything so fine. Another girl slipped a silken wrapper over her shoulders and Ilsa tightened it around herself to hide her nakedness. Perhaps the nobility were accustomed to being undressed by their servants, but she found the notion scandalous.
As quickly as they had appeared, all but one departed. She stood in the doorway to the bath and cocked her head. “It’ll get cold if ye wait too long.”
The water was deliciously warm, and Ilsa hadn’t imagined it would feel so good to have her hair washed by someone else’s gentle fingers. “I’m Mary. It’ll be me what comes when ye pull the bell.”
When Ilsa’s fingers began to prune like they did when she washed dishes, she climbed out of the tub and dried herself with the towel Mary offered her. It was truly wonderful, magnificently fluffy. She stepped into the wrapper Mary held open for her and belted it tightly around her waist. As ludicrous as she found it to be helped in and out of clothes by servants, she found it twice as much to be watched while she bathed.
“The bell’s here.” Mary went to the far side of the bed and pointed at the velvet swath. She turned down the bed. “Anythin’ else, miss?”
Ilsa shook her head and the girl left without another word.
A hearty fire crackled in the hearth. Ilsa sat before it and combed her fingers through her wet hair, eagerly soaking up the heat. She pinched her thigh. This wasn’t a dream. She was truly awake!
A sound from the next room caught her attention and she realized the adjoining door was ajar.
* * * * *
Bradford took a quick swim in the spring before returning to his rooms. The maids were still bathing Ilsa, so he donned a loose robe and lay down on the bed as the fire warmed his room, leaving the connecting door cracked.
When he’d presented the idea to Ilsa, he’d thought it was the perfect solution. Frederick knew this was required of him. Now though, uncertainty crept in with its cold little fingers. Though they’d discussed it, Frederick had made no secret of his aversion to the plan. Bradford suspected Frederick expected him to forget about it as soon as some project, or a new business deal, captured his attention.
Bradford’s apprehension didn’t stop there. Neither had he told Ilsa about Frederick, because tonight would be a trial of sorts. It wasn’t fair to her, but first he had to make sure that she was suitable. There could be nothing less in what had suddenly become a very complicated situation.
At the very least, he was certain Frederick would be angry Bradford proceeded without him. Whenever they’d discussed it, the talk had always been to the theme of their choosing the woman together.
He opened his robe and stroked himself, though his cock needed no urging. He rarely felt sexual desire for a woman, but it would be nice to free himself of pent-up tension.
The door creaked, and then as though catching herself, Ilsa stopped and gave a soft knock.
“Enter.”
She stepped inside wearing the silk robe and nothing else. As he’d suspected, now freed from the severe bun she wore, her hair was exquisite. It rippled over her body, hanging to her waist in luxurious, loose curls that were still damp at the ends. She glanced about the room before her gaze settled on him. He waited as her eyes trailed down his body and fixed on his cock. She watched him stroke himself slowly, up and down.
“Come.” It irritated him to have to speak the command. He decided against ordering her to suck him. She’d be horrible. No woman sucked cock as well as a ma
n, and that was a special thing between him and Frederick. This arrangement fulfilled a base purpose, it was not for desire, not for passion, not for love. Whatever pleasure derived from it was unavoidable.
But while women didn’t appeal to him in general, he couldn’t deny Ilsa was a lush beauty who intrigued him uniquely.
She stepped closer and opened her own robe. She pulled it from her shoulders and let it slip off her body. His irritation vanished. Not only did he admire her move toward the obedience she knew he expected, he admired the courage she mustered to do so.
He thought back to her vague claim about bad treatment and mentally afforded her a small amount of pity. She must be terrified, and therefore that move doubly courageous.
She seemed to have been created for sex. Though he still longed to see that lush mouth swallowing his cock—once he had Frederick’s approval of course—he knew he’d enjoy sinking himself into her ripe flesh as much, if not more. Her large breasts were high and round and a narrow waist flared to wide hips. Her long, slender legs were smooth and taut. The patch of hair at the apex of her thighs was exactly the same golden color as that on her head.
She drew a deep breath, making those heavy mounds rise and fall. Her nipples were small and tight in the cool air, deep red in color and slightly upturned.
“How do you want me, sir?” Her voice was a low baritone, underscored with an echo of fear.
The question surprised him, and washed away the memory of irritation. “My wife should call me Bradford.” He sat up and reached out a hand, but swung his legs over the side and rose to meet her in the center of the room.
How did he want her, indeed? He was perplexed. How could he enjoy her without betraying Frederick? No kissing, definitely. Should he mount her from behind? He’d loved Frederick in every position imaginable, so there was nothing new he could try with Ilsa.
He circled her, surveying her with a twinge of guilt. She wasn’t a piece of horseflesh on the auction block, for heaven’s sake. But every inch of her was more magnificent than the last, and he wondered if Kilgard was daft. Bradford supposed he understood some men’s obsession with creating an heir, but for all the world, the man had next to nothing to hand down to a son, and hers was a body to be enjoyed, procreating or not.
“Bradford, then,” she said. The words were spoken oddly and he understood he was making her uncomfortable.
“You are a beautiful woman, Ilsa. It will give me great pleasure to spend myself inside you.”
Her cheeks bloomed pink, but the corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly.
He still couldn’t decide how he wanted her. “Perhaps this first time, I’ll let you decide.”
“Oh—Bradford, I…” She dropped her shoulders. “Lie down again, if you please.”
Well now, this could prove promising. Please him it did. He returned to the bed and stretched out across the middle, pushing the blankets down with his feet. Ilsa followed and climbed on. She straddled his hips, looking down at his now-throbbing cock between her legs.
The firelight gilded her pale skin in gold. Her glorious hair spilled around her shoulders. He examined the minute details of her flesh, now pebbled slightly despite the roaring hearth and warm sheets.
Her small hand grasped him tentatively. Bradford sucked in his breath. Her grip tightened and she stroked the length of him, her fingers dancing an exploration over his sensitive flesh. He wanted to tell her to squeeze harder. Already he longed for Frederick’s firm, skilled grip, but this was nice in a different way. Ilsa must be allowed to learn him properly if this arrangement was going to work.
“You are…well endowed.” She swallowed and her cheeks grew pink again.
She rose slightly and guided his straining organ upright with her hand. The tip of him touched the petals of her sex. Pooling moisture coated him. The last hints of unease drifted away. Ilsa was aroused for him. He indulged in a private smile. Kilgard’s claim she was “as dry as the desert” was an insult to himself. The man was simply incapable of exciting her.
He resisted the urge to thrust as she guided his shaft in a circular motion, anointing him in her feminine cream and preparing herself for his possession. His engorged cock sought the divot of her flesh as though with a mind of its own, and Ilsa let it push past her outermost flesh.
She leaned forward to brace both hands on the mattress and shifted her body down, swallowing his tip. Bradford sank inside her waiting heat and closed his eyes.
A bolt of regret clapped over his head like thunder. He loved Frederick and nothing felt as right as being joined with him, but there was no doubt about it, a woman’s body was made for a man’s cock.
“Oh.” Her soft oath brought his eyes open. She pushed backward and slowly took the length of him until she was seated upon his root. He felt the tightness of her body gloving him from all sides, felt the tip of his cock straining against the end of her channel.
He touched her thighs, marveling at the softness of her skin, and slid his hands up and around her ass. Her legs trembled as she moved on him, slowly at first, driving him mad. This was all well and good, but soon—and before Frederick returned—she would have to be made aware he would expect much more from her.
But tonight, this first time, he was content to let her ride him to release. It almost pleased him more that he could not pound away to satisfaction, that there felt a certain dissatisfaction from her slow, shallow bouncing.
Before long she was gasping, tiny cries escaping her throat, and Bradford felt the heat of climax brewing in his balls. His seed erupted and, as though she could feel it, Ilsa tipped her head back and cried out.
He filled his hands with her breasts, reveling in the weight of them, and she gripped his arms.
There was no turning back now. He’d claimed her, branded her. Frederick would understand. He had to, because Bradford could not substitute one for the other.
Chapter Two
Ilsa heard Mr. Stratton—Bradford—rise and throw more logs on the fire. The hearth threw off a great amount of light despite the iron night grate standing in front. She suspected her inability to sleep was not only the unfamiliar, though magnificent bed, or the glowing amber light. It was this situation, which she could not deny was only a smidgeon less than terrifying.
She lay naked on her stomach, faced away from Bradford, and did not let him know she was awake. She did not believe he would make her his wife, but that was not the reason she had ridden up here to his beautiful home. She had done it to spite Dietrich.
She had known what Bradford wanted before she’d climbed into his fine coach, yet climb in she had. She didn’t know why he’d made such an outrageous promise. It had been unnecessary. To come home seeded with child by another man after Dietrich had used her so wickedly for all those years would be both the ultimate insult against him, and the very thing he wanted most. But more than any other reason, Ilsa now admitted to herself she’d wanted a taste of the handsome nobleman.
She’d earned the right to a bit of pleasure with all the punishment she’d endured.
A sliver of unease remained concerning the tailor. Should Bradford not keep his word, should he throw her out as Dietrich had threatened so many times, she would have no choice but to return to the shop in Whitechapel. It was the only home she had.
The bed sagged as Bradford climbed back in. He tossed the sheet over their bodies, but a moment later he eased close and urged her onto her back. Ilsa obeyed, but kept her eyes closed.
His mouth touched her bare shoulder. He didn’t lay down kisses, but his lips trailed a soft path across her collarbone to her chest. Down, down, they clasped gently over her nipple and sucked.
Tingles raced over her flesh. She didn’t want to want him, but she did. She moved, twisting her body toward him and arching her back, then realized he’d know she was awake. Large, strong hands stroked the length of her body. She parted her legs and he slipped between, his stomach firm against her blooming womanhood.
He still wasn�
��t kissing her flesh, it was licking really, but it was divine. He propped himself over her with corded arms and moved to the neglected nipple. The warm wetness of his tongue both mortified and delighted her.
He rose then, positioning himself over her, and met her wide open eyes. “Open for me, Ilsa.”
She already was, but took this as warning he was about to enter her again. She pushed away a hint of worry as she let her legs fall wide and angled her hips to receive him. He was only one man, she reminded herself, and there were surely only the two, possibly three times he could rise to take her in one night.
The firm crown of him touched her slick pussy, and then he was pushing inside her with a glorious thickness both bewildering and wonderful.
Bradford plunged with his hips, driving himself deep. The sudden force brought a bolt of fear. He must do this, she told herself. A midwife once told Ilsa her failure to breed could be that her husband didn’t plant himself deeply enough. She’d been embarrassed by the talk, but understood the logic. Then a year ago, in a tragic and painful lesson, she’d realized that in comparison to other men, Dietrich’s man tool was narrow, mostly limp and very short.
Just as she’d learned Dietrich was lacking, she now understood Bradford was gifted.
As though sensing her trepidation, he said, “I told you I’d want all of you. Accept me, Ilsa.”
He pushed deeper still, captivating her like no one else had. But the fear lingering from that horrible night a year ago drifted away. Bradford’s thick organ brought no pain, just total, encompassing captivation. He filled her completely with his heavy weight, challenging her to accept him as though there were some great prize for doing so. Indeed she’d felt it earlier tonight, the beginnings of that warm, ticklish pleasure she’d only felt hints of before, and only by accident.
Now it blossomed, unfurling from the tiny nub he rubbed his pelvis hard against and rolling into her pussy with each delicious, deep traverse of his glorious cock. The pleasure was sweet agony, and it built in waves she wanted to stoke. She clutched at his back, digging her fingers into his flesh in time with each powerful plunge.
Saving Lady Ilsa Page 2
