Her Gilded Prison (Daughters of Sin Book 1)

by Beverley Oakley

  Her maid had already prepared her for sleep and a candle on a low table added to the glow of the one she held.

  He was conscious of his voice, intimate and full of promise—and hopefully of reassurance—when he murmured, “It sounds like you’ve had a lonely time of it in this room. Unlikely we’ll be disturbed, eh?”

  He was glad she kept her head held high rather than slumping from the inference of her husband’s lack of interest.

  With brittle pride, she said, “Humphry has visited me less than half a dozen times in this room during twenty years of marriage. No, we will not be disturbed.”

  She blew out one candle, stared at him, then seemed to banish all indecision. Nothing in her gestures now suggested this was anything other than a purely practical solution to the collective family’s problems.

  “Please turn your back, Stephen. Oh!”

  She had obviously not expected to find him standing so close. Or to be taken in his arms. He was disappointed she didn’t go limpid but he did manage to chase some of the steel from her spine as he gently massaged the nape of her neck. Still, he wanted her to throw herself into the pleasure of it. This would be no fun at all if he was unable to bring her to rapture at his touch.

  “No, don’t blow out the other candle,” he protested mildly, arresting her hand, which he placed on his heart. “Do you feel it racing?” He’d thought to place it on his cock to reassure her that he certainly found her desirable, however he feared she might find that too confronting.

  “But, I—”

  He removed the candlestick from her grasp and set it down on the table. He could see she was shivering uncontrollably when he slipped his hands beneath the silk of her shawl to hold her.

  The mattress dipped under his weight as he drew her onto his lap.

  “Put your arms around me,” he instructed softly, holding her head against the hollow of his neck. “Now,” he murmured, “you didn’t answer my question.” Again, he took one of her hands and rested it against his heart. “Do you feel how fast it beats?”

  “Anticipation for what is about to happen will affect any man like that—except my husband.”

  “There is no excitement in possessing something undesirable. Your husband clearly has no discernment.” Lowering his face, he touched his lips to hers. He drew back, surprised. He’d not expected the frisson of sensation that fizzed through him. His cock hardened even more while his anticipation notched up several levels.

  She did not respond. He thought quickly. In order to make this an encounter to remember he needed to fuel her with the same desire, otherwise it was worth nothing.

  He rose, scooped her up and lay her on the mattress. She stared up at him in her thin night rail while he, still fully clothed, caged her with his body, gently kissing her throat, her collarbone and finally, once more, her lips. Tentatively she kissed him back but she still held herself aloof, as if terrified of succumbing to the base, elemental desire that was beginning to consume him.

  His enjoyment grew. The seduction of a sweet, shy older woman who needed to be taught that love at any age was worth celebrating was more exciting than his previous hot and sweaty encounters where enthusiasm was high from the outset.

  Her skin was smooth and dewy, her breasts full and firm beneath the sheer fabric that clothed her.

  Smiling as he studied her, he slowly untied the bow of her lace-edged night rail and slipped his hand beneath. Her faint exhalation of surprise echoed his as he closed his hand over one of her glorious breasts. He began to massage the small peak until it hardened. He himself was so hard it was almost painful.

  “Stephen, you need not go to so much trouble.” He stilled. “You’re not enjoying it?”

  “Too much, but you are not obliged to pretend for my benefit.” Her words sounded as if they were forced from her, her eyes closed as if she could not look at him.

  Guilt? Was she frigid? He didn’t think she was.

  She whispered, “All I ask is that you join me beneath the sheets and we get this over with.”

  Offended, he climbed off the bed and stood, tidying his rumpled garments. “So this really is just duty for you?” He knew he sounded like an injured schoolboy but he couldn’t help himself.

  “Stephen, you don’t understand—”

  “I understand very well. You want me to give you a child but you want nothing more from me.” Breathing heavily, he promised, “If I am required to...perform without us both gaining pleasure from the bargain then I withdraw my services.”

  “I am fifteen years older than you. I am old and...certainly no beauty.”

  “Not a beauty?” He sat heavily on the bed and looked at her. In the candlelight her eyes looked luminous with fear and his anger dissipated. He reached for her hand. “You’ve been conditioned to believe it. And by whom? Your husband, who’s never looked at any woman save his mistress. No doubt Araminta has picked up her father’s contemptuous attitude. The little jade thinks she’s too pretty by half, and I’ll admit she has spirit you’ll never have—a most engaging if infuriating commodity—but your looks are far more pleasing to me than her smug self-assurance.” At her shock he went on, “Now, I’m tired of trying to make it clear to you that I’ve been dreaming wicked, carnal dreams since I unwittingly spied on you through the casement. By God, you were a luscious sight and I want to enjoy you now.”

  At her tremulous smile he laughed and threw himself onto her, demanding, “Now kiss me back or I refuse to partake in this bedroom sport.”

  * * * * *

  After that it was easy. Sybil’s reserve had never been so fully withdrawn within such a short time. No one had ever tried to cajole her into anything beyond the dry, formal relations that were the preserve of the drawing room and which, in her case with her husband, persisted so very rarely into her bedchamber.

  She’d been married at seventeen during her first season. There’d been no flirtatious encounters with potential suitors beforehand. Humphry had proposed and that had been that. He’d been handsome and charming and he’d easily won her heart. During their six-week bridal tour in Cornwall he’d visited her once a week, performed the marriage act efficiently and in silence, and while her heart had reached out to him her body had been left cold by the experience. He’d not touched, kissed or caressed her. Ever.

  Only as she grew older did she realize there was more to the act itself. Other women occasionally offered some oblique reference to which those in company might blush or titter. Sybil had no idea what they were talking about although they reinforced the suspicion that this “something more” she craved from Humphry was a physical manifestation of the affection a husband had for his wife.

  It took her many years to resign herself to the fact that Humphry felt no physical attraction toward her and that as it would not be forthcoming from her husband she’d have to live without it.

  Now, when she’d made her suggestion to Stephen on the wildest of impulses, she’d been determined to treat it in the same manner Humphry had gone about his bedroom encounters. It was the end result that was important. Not the process and she was just a foolish old woman if she thought it could be otherwise.

  Yet slowly, with the sweep of Stephen’s hands over sensitive places, a well-placed kiss, and yes, Stephen’s increasingly believable show of genuine pleasure in her body, Sybil was losing her reserve.

  In the shadows of her bedroom, as Stephen’s hand skimmed the line of her body from breast to hip, she allowed herself a tiny sigh of pleasure.

  “My first victory,” he murmured against her lips, contouring her bottom and squeezing her against him. Against his jutting erection.

  She jerked back as if stung but he just laughed and pulled her over, closer against him, whispering, “Desire is nothing to be afraid of, Sybil. Don’t you feel it too?”

  And she did. In every nerve ending, in every secret place where pleasure had lain dormant her body was reveling in the slow but steady re-emergence of new life. It fed into her veins, sending ou
t signals to her brain to relax, just relax and enjoy what this handsome young man was offering her, which was so much more than she’d asked for.

  They hadn’t made it under the covers. Sybil had planned for all the mechanics to take place in darkness and under the sheets; so when he reached down and grasped the hem of her nightgown, she gasped. He raised his arm, tugging the light linen shift with it and exposing her knees.

  “Please don’t,” she begged. “I don’t want you to see me.”

  As an older woman she at least knew how to articulate her preferences once matters had been set in motion. She remembered that as a new bride she’d been mute with the terror of it all: the quick fumbling, Humphry’s knee between her legs and the sharp thrust of his manhood into her unprepared entrance. Each time she’d braced for the cruel irony of receiving him in this most intimate manner, knowing how much he resented her for requiring him under the terms of their marriage contract to perform.

  A more congenial familiarity with one another had only been established after George had been born some years into their marriage. With the required heir, thankfully in robust health, finally installed in the nursery, Humphry had fulfilled his dynastic requirements and no longer had to force himself to perform the despised act with Sybil.

  “I’ve already seen you,” Stephen argued as he gently tugged it up past her thighs. His face gleamed. She saw that he meant what he said. “You’re beautiful. That’s why I want a closer look. Now assist me, please. Raise your arms.”

  And lie before him, naked? With the candle guttering behind her?

  Resigned, she closed her eyes, her own desire fast evaporating. What she had to offer could not stand up to scrutiny. Humphry had made his offer on the barest acquaintance and look how disappointed he’d been when forced to become intimate.

  She was not prepared for Stephen’s enthusiasm. “Oh, you are delectable, Lady Partington,” he sighed, cutting short his praise with an almost boyish gorging upon her right breast.

  “What are you doing?” she squeaked.

  Breasts were not for suckling by grown men. Surely this was not...right. Yet with his warm mouth closed over her nipple, desire was suddenly in the ascendant. It swamped her, embarrassed her with the flow of moisture between her legs and she shifted awkwardly, remembering that she’d felt like this once before and that it had embarrassed her then, this manifestation of her own prurience, for respectable women didn’t lose control of their bodily juices.

  As she glanced down she intercepted the wicked look in his eye. She realized that he’d assumed control. He’d not stop and explain every clever trick.

  It was then she decided to throw self-control to the wind. He was clearly enjoying himself, so why shouldn’t she? Within reason. She could do this. Enjoy herself, for it was the letting go that was so hard. She must simply close her eyes and give herself up to physical abandonment, let him dictate the pace and procedure. He knew what he was doing. He was the expert and neither was expecting each other’s hearts. She ought to be used to the sexual act when no deep emotion was involved.

  And yet the sensations that ravaged her almost virgin-like body when his hot, devouring mouth licked and suckled, and when he skimmed his hand up her thighs, were devastating.

  She tried not to waste her breath gasping with embarrassment or objecting when his thumb and forefinger found the juncture between her legs and began to massage the damp, highly sensitized and most intimate of places. This was obviously what he meant by giving and receiving pleasure. He certainly seemed to enjoy her responses when she squirmed and moaned softly.

  “Now I have you where I want you, Lady Partington. Completely naked and completely mine.” The devilish glint in his eye was gratifying in the extreme, as was the enormous length of his shaft when he divested himself of his clothes and once more caged her with his lean, handsome body.

  This was male perfection like she’d not witnessed at close quarters. Ever.

  She even found herself grinning back. An extreme paradox, for she was the last person she’d ever imagine participating in such wickedness—and enjoying it so much.

  “Your wish is my command.” His lips grazed her neck, his hand toying with her nipple, leaving her with an empty, deeply unsatisfied feeling in her lower belly.

  When she hitched her hips he gave a low chuckle of understanding but growled, “Not yet, my beauty. There is a great deal more pleasure to be had before I do the business, if I might speak so plainly.”

  Sybil was glad the bedcovers had already been turned back by her maid, for when without warning he slid down the bed and ran his tongue the length of her entrance, she shrieked with horror and drew the covers over the sight. This was not right.

  And yet the wicked sensations were like nothing she’d ever experienced before.

  “Mama...”

  Heady desire turned instantly to horror at the sound of Araminta’s voice, filtering in through the doorway with the light of the candle she held. Sybil froze and held her breath as she silently demanded her breathing become more regular.

  Araminta. She’d never thought...

  Araminta placed her candle onto her mother’s dressing table at the far end of the room and lowered herself onto the stool.

  “You didn’t knock?” It was all Sybil could say. Thank God Stephen was beneath the covers, albeit also between her legs.

  The heavy carved post of the bed and three yards of floor space diluted visuals. Fortunately, Araminta didn’t seem particularly concerned about her mother, who knew that her apparent lack of night rail and nightcap, not to mention disordered hair, might ring alarm bells. That is, if Araminta were not so self-absorbed.

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t hear,” Araminta excused herself. With a sigh she added, “Oh Mama, I do so want to marry Stephen.”

  “What!” It was a croak at best. Sybil registered Stephen’s horror too, somewhere in the darkness beneath the bed covers and yes, between Araminta’s own mother’s legs.

  “Yet how can I, now that Edgar has returned and is heir? Stephen is handsome and charming and he makes my heart beat faster and I know he is madly in love with me.” She gave another gusty sigh. “But with Edgar alive, Stephen has nothing. Does he, Mama?” She spoke as if desperate for her mother to refute it.

  “I...I don’t know very much about Stephen’s situation, my dear.” Sybil shifted, careful to keep the sheet up around her neck—and not to smother Stephen. Lord, she’d never felt so desperately cornered. “Araminta, it’s very late. Perhaps we should have this talk in the morning.”

  “Mama, what do you think about Stephen?” Araminta clearly considered her mother’s desire to talk in the morning of no account.

  “What do I think of him?” It was all Sybil could do just to repeat the sentence. She didn’t know if she could possibly answer it in such a situation.

  “Yes, what do you really think about him? Do you think he’s handsome?”

  “Yes, he’s very handsome, Araminta, but—”

  “And do you think he’d make a good husband?”

  Sybil swallowed. “I think he’s a very kind man. I didn’t think that at first. I thought he was young and callow and very much like so many other young blades who like to sow their wild oats and behave badly.”

  “So you don’t think he’s the kind of young man to sow his wild oats and behave badly? I think I know what you mean.”

  Sow his wild oats? Isn’t that what he was doing right now? At Sybil’s behest? Right here in Sybil’s bedchamber? Oh Lord, she had to get Araminta out of here.

  “I think Stephen understands matters more than you think, Araminta. He knows you won’t—can’t—marry him now that Edgar has returned.”

  “Do you think he will forgive me?” Araminta sniffed. “After all, I’ve broken his heart, Mama. He barely caught my eye this afternoon and I was all but begging him to understand that we must be forever rent asunder by the tragedy of this altered situation.”

  “The tragedy being that Edgar
survived that bullet after all.” Sybil’s tone was dry. She was fast losing patience.

  Of course, Araminta had never understood irony. Now she said, dolefully, “I daresay Edgar’s the only one who’s really pleased about the situation but the rest of us must make the best of it. I tried to explain that to Hetty but she refused to speak to me. She’s being awfully churlish. Please will you talk to her, Mama, and tell her not to be so selfish?”

  A muffled, choking noise emanated from beneath the covers. Araminta looked up, her brow wrinkled, and Sybil coughed violently. “It’s late, Araminta, and I was in a deep sleep. We can take a stroll in the morning and talk about it then, if you like.”

  Araminta rose with obvious reluctance. “I’ve promised to meet Edgar for a walk around the park in the morning.” She narrowed her eyes at her mother. “It looks like you’ve had a nightmare, Mama. Your eyes are quite wild and your face is all flushed. You really look quite gruesome. Shall I wake Mary and have her make you up a cordial?”

  “No, Araminta!”

  Araminta shrugged. “Just as well, I daresay. Mary gets quite crotchety when she’s disturbed in the middle of the night.” She picked up her candlestick and moved to the door. “Good night, Mama,” she said.

  “Good night, Araminta.”

  The moment the door closed behind her, Stephen’s head emerged. Sybil put her hands to her flaming cheeks. So she looked gruesome? And poor Stephen had been stuck under the covers in close quarters with her nether regions for nigh on five minutes. He’d not be able to get away fast enough.

  “Oh Lord, Sybil, she’s a minx sent to try you.” He drew in a deep lungful of air, gasping between laughter. “And this has only confirmed what a lucky escape I’ve had.” He collapsed on his back beside Sybil and rested his hand companionably on her stomach. “You handled that consummately.” He rolled over onto his side. “And now that I’m quite confident she won’t return, I think it’s time to proceed. Where were we?”