Lady Be Bad

by Megan Frampton

  “Talk to me,” she said in a throaty whisper, pushing back against him. Now she could see the appeal of his saying precisely what he felt at any moment. She relished his blunt speaking.

  “Yes, I will,” he said, now thrusting so he was halfway in, the movement of the carriage making his body move back and forth, farther in with each lurch. “Do you want me to tell you how it felt as you came under my hand? Or how tight and welcoming you feel around my cock?”

  “Oh!” she moaned, dropping her head down as she got a stronger grip on the carriage seat. “I want you to—to do that,” she said, moving back against him so she could feel his strong thighs against the back of her legs, the carriage pushing them together. Her breasts swayed with each movement, still so sensitive from his touch. Every motion of the carriage made her body quiver. His hand was at her hip, his other clutching the carriage seat.

  He took his hand away from her body, and then he pushed inside her, his fingers touching her as he guided himself in.

  “You’re so tight,” he said as he thrust forward, so far in that his body touched her bottom, his hand now reaching around to touch her there, there where he’d touched her before, bringing her to such heights of pleasure.

  “Tell me,” she begged him, pushing back, hearing him grunt as their bodies made contact.

  “Tell you what? How it feels to have my cock sheathed inside you? How I want to bury myself in you forever? How I wish we were traveling in this carriage for the rest of our lives so I could fuck and fuck and fuck you?”

  “Yes,” she moaned, his fingers moving again, bringing her to that brink of ecstasy again. So soon, and he hadn’t even had the pleasure of whatever feeling this was once. He must have known what he was doing, since he eased his movement to concentrate on her, his fingers speeding up their rhythm. He was leaning over her, his mouth on her shoulder, and he bit her just as his fingers brought her to that edge and flung her over again.

  She felt wrung out, but also as alive as she’d ever felt, and he was still inside her, a throbbing reminder of just what they were doing.

  “God, Eleanor,” he said, pushing himself faster and faster inside her, his motions faster than the carriage itself, his hand cupping her sex, the slap of his body against hers an erotic accompaniment to his heavy breathing.

  And then he gave one final thrust and moaned, both hands coming to her hips to hold on as she felt something warm spill inside her.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, feeling sated and boneless and marveling at both herself and him. “That was wonderful.”

  He kissed her shoulder again as he eased out of her, and then he helped her sit down again, his fingers busily putting her back to rights. She allowed him to do up her various laces and smooth fabric, just watching him as he kept at his work.

  “You’re good at this.” It felt odd, to know that he might have done this same thing with some other woman, but it wasn’t as though she thought he was just as inexperienced as she—his previous actions in the back room of the bookshop were clear indications that not only had he done it, he was also quite skilled at it all.

  He must have picked up on what she was thinking, since his fingers stilled and he brought them up to turn her face to his. “I have done this before, Eleanor, but it feels new with you. It feels . . . overwhelming. You overwhelm me.” And then he leaned forward and kissed her, softly, so tenderly she felt her chest tighten with emotion.

  “Oh,” she replied, reaching up to push that lock of hair away from his forehead, feeling his fingers tighten on her jaw as they kept their gazes locked on one another.

  The first thing she was going to do when she arrived home was to toss her list. She had adventures to embark on, not just to tabulate and hope for, and she didn’t need anything to urge her to be bad. She just was. She was also brave, strong, stubborn, opinionated, and in love.

  “If you’d only already told her,” Ida whispered emphatically in Eleanor’s ear.

  They stood, all four of the Howlett sisters, in the Duke of Marymount’s ballroom. It was an “intimate gathering,” their mother had said. “No more than one hundred people,” all of whom were members of either the Howlett or Carson families.

  The purpose was to get the families acquainted before the official betrothal announcement. The party had been planned and the invitations sent while Eleanor and her sisters were meeting with the Carson brothers, and so here they were, all four of them in attendance since it was not a formal affair.

  And if it continued, and her father said something, even though nothing was yet official—they were still working out the terms of the settlement—then it wouldn’t matter when Eleanor said no, the word would be out that she had jilted Lord Carson and the Howlett sisters would be even less desirable.

  “What are we going to do?” Olivia said in a frantic squeak.

  Lord Carson and Alexander were walking toward them, no doubt with the same questions in their minds. But she knew Alexander hadn’t been able to find time yet to speak to his father, who was conversing with her father at the edge of the room. Not yet announcing anything, but likely on the verge of it.

  No, no, no, no, a voice chanted in Eleanor’s mind. Not that the voice was any help, not at all, but it was there nonetheless. If only voices in minds did useful things like suggest ways to avoid having betrothals announced in public settings.

  Pearl’s eyes were enormous in her face, and she just stared at Eleanor, looking precisely the way Eleanor felt. Did she have the same voice in her head too?

  And now she had more questions and no more answers.

  “I don’t know what we’ll do,” Eleanor said, glancing to where her mother appeared about to say something. Please let it be about what she had for dinner, or how terrible it was that she had only been able to fit seven feathers into her hair instead of ten.

  Eleanor drew her spectacles out and put them on. If she was going to be publicly sacrificed, she at least wanted to see it occur.

  Her mother began to speak. “I would like to welcome everyone to our home, all of our family and friends, to this very informal gathering.” Informal even though the best gold plate was out, the champagne was circulating, and there had been no expense spared on the food, which Eleanor would have normally enjoyed, but not now, not when she couldn’t eat.

  “And I would like to discuss a few things that are of import at this critical time,” Ida interrupted, stepping up to their mother’s side. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity, Mother,” she said with a regal nod in the duchess’s direction. As though she were a queen herself, and the duchess was just another peon. “We all know that our modern society has made it possible to see in the nighttime, with gas lighting, but do you know the history of gaslight?” She took a moment to look at the guests, as though waiting for a response.

  Some of them shook their heads, which Ida took as a sign to continue.

  “The first man to explore the possibility of gas lighting was William Murdoch, who saw its potential, lighting his own house with gas in the previous century.”

  Where was she going with this?

  The duchess was staring at Ida aghast, apparently too startled by her daughter’s demonstration of knowledge to stop her.

  Olivia and Pearl both joined their sister, one on either side of her, as she kept speaking. And speaking.

  “. . . And gas lighting has made it possible for us to read for longer”—a fact that would appeal to Ida, of course—“and for factories to have longer hours, and if we produce more, we can make more, and pay more wages.”

  By this time, nearly half an hour into Ida’s monologue, the guests had mostly drifted away. The duke’s face had flamed to a bright purple, but he hadn’t stepped up to stop his daughter’s talk. Probably thinking that his doing so might cause even more talk, talk he was paying a generous dowry to avoid.

  As Ida continued, Eleanor couldn’t help but look at Alexander, who was regarding her sister with a bemused look. And then he turned to look at her, a w
ide grin of complicity on his face. He nodded in satisfaction as Ida continued for at least another half an hour, by which time nearly everyone had made their escape.

  “I couldn’t think of what to do to stop things, so I just decided to talk.” Ida shrugged, her expression showing her pleasure at having rescued the situation.

  The sisters were all back in Eleanor’s bedroom again, the evening having come to a precipitous (and gas-fueled) close, their father nearly recovering his color, but not his ability to speak, their mother speaking in her usual exclamatory fashion, but unable to make any sense whatsoever.

  “You did wonderfully.” Eleanor grinned at Ida, who looked abashed.

  “It was so boring!” Olivia enthused, turning Ida’s smile to a frown. “Nobody wanted to stay, and so Mother couldn’t have her big moment, and our plans can proceed.”

  “Yes, that is what I was hoping for,” Ida replied in a stiff voice.

  “It was wonderful,” Eleanor repeated, meeting her sister’s eyes. “Truly.”

  “Thank you,” Ida said in a soft voice.

  “And you will speak to Mother tomorrow?” Pearl asked. “You cannot let it go any more than that, who knows what she will plan next?”

  “Probably me in a wedding gown strapped to an elephant,” Eleanor replied. “Lord Carson waiting in an elephant-tamer’s hat prepared to accept me.”

  “Elephants don’t have tamers,” Ida pointed out.

  “Or she’ll just give you tea the way you like it, and when you’re recovering from the shock, she’ll ask you if you like it, and you’ll say ‘I do,’ and then you’ll be married.”

  Eleanor laughed at the thought, only partially rueful at the impossibility of her mother getting her tea correct.

  “I’ll speak to her tomorrow,” she promised.

  “You wanted to see me?” Alex’s father said in an impatient tone.

  Alex took a deep breath. “Yes. I need to discuss some business with you.”

  “Business, eh?” His father’s tone revealed just how little he respected Alex’s topic, at least since it came from Alex.

  “Yes. Sit.” Alex gestured to his father’s chair, the one Bennett normally used when dealing with estate matters.

  His father arched an eyebrow, but did as Alex commanded.

  “What is it? What business can you possibly have to discuss with me?”

  Alex placed his hand on the back of the other chair, but didn’t seat himself. He wanted to loom over his father, make it clear he was leading this discussion.

  “Bennett cannot marry Lady Eleanor.” Well, that wasn’t quite how he’d wanted to put it; he’d hoped to lead into it more gradually, but there he went, just saying things.

  His father snorted. “Of course he can.” He placed his palms flat on the table, preparing to rise.

  “Sit.” Alex imbued his voice with the assurance of knowing, finally, who he was, and that he could make a difference. It wasn’t the usual method of doing things, but it was his method.

  And hers. Once he resolved this, ensured that there would be no repercussions, he would ask her. He hoped she would say yes, but he would respect her decision either way.

  Though he would try to cheat when he did ask, perhaps removing his shirt as he spoke. Or giving her more books of mythology, and not the kind with accompanying salacious pictures. Or perhaps he would offer her those; she did seem to enjoy re-enacting some of the scenes.

  “Are you going to tell me why you are stating Bennett cannot marry Lady Eleanor, or are you just going to stand there?”

  His father’s sharp words shook him from his thoughts of the future.

  “Fine. The thing is,” he began, crossing his arms over his chest, “the duke is even more anxious to get Lady Eleanor married.”

  “Yes, I know that already.”

  His father really disliked him. But they were equal in that, as Alex returned the dislike, topped with a healthy portion of disdain.

  “And you haven’t thought to turn that to your advantage?” He spoke in a musing tone. “I would have thought a businessman such as yourself would have seen immediately what could be done.”

  “What do you mean?” Now his father sounded less dismissive, at least. Curious, but guarded. Of course. Always guarded when it came to his second son.

  “Bennett is a fine matrimonial catch, isn’t he? That is why you were able to secure Lady Eleanor, a duke’s eldest daughter, for him. Her dowry is impressive, yes, but imagine how much more you could get if you just had time to negotiate.” And here was where he gambled, again, on something that might not happen. “I have been busy working on a project that will bring in some funds. Cash in hand, enough”—or so he hoped—“to stave off the worst of the creditors and buy some time, so to speak. Time for you to go shopping for the best deal for Bennett.” Even though Alex hoped it wouldn’t come to that, again. But Bennett had insisted that Alex dangle the possibility of a higher dowry and Bennett’s marriage when Alex spoke to their father—otherwise, the marquis would never agree, and either Bennett or Eleanor would have to call off the engagement, which would be ruinous both financially and in terms of reputation.

  “Who else is out there?” his father demanded.

  Here’s where it got tricky. Even trickier. “You said yourself you made a list for me. What if you reviewed that list with an eye toward securing a bride for Bennett, one whose reputation is intact, one whose family has much more money than the duke?”

  “You mean a family in business.”

  “It could be, yes,” Alex replied, trying to ignore his father’s condescension. “Or it could be a family that didn’t have the disgrace of a runaway daughter. The thing is, there is no guarantee that this daughter won’t follow in her sister’s errant footsteps.” Which might be truer than it would have been weeks ago, now that she’d spent time with Alex. But he wasn’t going to tell his father that.

  “And if she runs off, Bennett would still be married to her, so you couldn’t just arrange another bride.”

  Alex waited as his father—not a stupid man, if he was an unpleasant one—turned the idea over in his head, his features tightening as he considered the fact that Eleanor might prove to be just as wayward as her sister. Bringing scandal to the Raybourns, as well as to the Howletts, if they were joined through marriage.

  “How much do you have now?” his father demanded, glaring up at him.

  “Enough,” he said. His father didn’t challenge him, since everyone knew Alex always told the truth.

  “How about if you marry this Lady, then?”

  I want to. Alex shrugged. “That would be up to her, of course.” He sat down in the chair opposite, pretending to think about it. “But that would be a clever solution, wouldn’t it? For your second son to secure the duke’s daughter and the dowry, leaving the heir to find a better match somewhere?”

  Unless she said no. But she wouldn’t say no, would she?

  No, she loved him. She’d told him so, even while calling him a lummox. If that wasn’t true love, he wasn’t sure what was.

  “Very clever indeed,” Alex’s father said in satisfaction, drawing a piece of paper and a pen to him on the desk.

  “Thank you, Father,” Alex replied as he rose, nearly able to take a breath.

  Now all that needed to happen was for her to inform her parents she refused to be bartered. He wished he could be there to see it, all firm resolve and fiery eyes and self-determination.

  Because he wished he could be there to see her, to see the woman she had become. Forever and always.

  He just had to ask her.

  “I need to speak to you, Mother.” Eleanor stood at the doorway to her mother’s sitting room.

  “It is far too early,” her mother replied. She glanced out the window. “And it’s raining,” she continued, as though that made it even more egregious.

  It was raining. Eleanor knew how much Alex liked the rain. Something more she knew about him.

  It was nearly eleven o�
�clock in the morning, which meant her mother had been awake for perhaps an hour. Long enough to have had her tea but not long enough to have gotten enough energy to speak nonstop all the time, which was why Eleanor had chosen this moment to say what she needed to say.

  “I need to speak to you now, Mother.” Eleanor walked into the room, gesturing to her mother’s maid to leave. “Alone.”

  “It’s not about gas, is it? I’ve had enough of that, thank you very much. You can go, Fletcher.” Her mother waved her hand in dismissal to the maid who curtseyed, then left the room, shutting the door behind her.

  Her mother sat at her dressing table, her hair undone, wearing her nightclothes and a wrapper. She looked older than she did when she was fully coiffed and done up as the Duchess of Marymount, and Eleanor felt a twinge of regret that she and her mother were not closer. Then again, her mother didn’t appear to care, so it wasn’t anything Eleanor could affect.

  Her own future, however, she could.

  “What is it?” her mother asked, drawing a brush through her hair. She didn’t look at Eleanor, instead continuing to look at herself in the mirror.

  Eleanor sat down on a small stool behind her mother, clasping her hands loosely in front of her. “I need to tell you something.”

  “Go on.”

  “I will not be marrying Lord Carson.”

  Silence. Blessed silence, then—“What?” her mother shrieked, slamming the brush down on the table. “Of course you are!”

  “I won’t.” Eleanor rose, beginning to walk around the room. Her mother twisted on her seat to look at her, her mouth dropped open.

  “But your father, and your sisters.”

  “My father barely remembers my name,” Eleanor replied, “and my sisters support me. It is terrible that Della ran away, but I cannot sacrifice my life for her mistake.”

  Her mother turned back around, looking into her mirror. “It is not sacrificing your life—it is marriage.” She made a harrumphing noise, as though Eleanor were ridiculous. According to her mother, she probably was. Who wouldn’t want to be married to the perfectly pleasant Lord Carson?