by Robyn DeHart
He directed the driver to the correct address and cursed to the empty carriage. Damn Celeste. Had she not cornered him…or had he not allowed Agnes to walk away the other day.
The carriage slowed and Fletcher jumped from the rig before it had completely stopped. He was halfway up the paved walkway when someone grabbed his arm.
He turned and came face-to-face with Lord Somersby, who was one of the only men in London larger than Fletcher.
“Somersby,” he hissed. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here,” his wife whispered back, then slipped out from behind her giant of a husband.
“Relax, Wakefield,” Somersby said. “We’re here to help.”
“Agnes is one of mine,” Lady Somersby said. “Matilda told us what has been going on.”
Fletcher slowed his breathing. He knew he couldn’t rush in there and potentially put Agnes’s life in danger. “Are they in there?”
“There has been movement from that second-floor window,” Somersby said, nodding his head upward.
Fletcher glanced up. “I’m glad I had the carriage drop me off farther up the street.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I need for her to be safe.”
Somersby nodded. “You go in the servants’ entrance on the side and we’ll follow behind.”
“She’s trained,” Lady Somersby said. “And likely wearing a weapon of some sort.”
“Yes, I’ve seen her handiwork,” Fletcher said. “Still, this man has been escalating his intentions toward her and I don’t trust him.”
Fletcher left them in the darkness as he made his way into the servants’ entrance. It didn’t take much leverage to work the lock open and he found himself in a corridor with stairs leading up and down. He crept up, hoping that they’d lead to the right floor.
He refused to entertain the thought of losing Agnes. She would be safe and she would be his wife.
…
Agnes released a strained breath and tried again to work off the ties binding her wrists.
Michael was pacing the length of the room, his hair askew from all the times he’d pushed his fingers through it. His pale eyes were wide and crazed…wild looking.
If only she could get her hand up her skirts to reach her dagger. But the man had been clever and had tied her hands.
“Do you intend to keep me tied up forever?” she asked tartly.
His gaze landed on her and he flinched as if she’d struck him. “Of course not. You are to be my wife, Agnes. I love you.”
She exhaled slowly.
“Until you see the truth of how we belong together, how you are meant to be mine, I’m afraid I have to keep you restrained.” He moved to stand directly in front of her and he cupped her face. “You are so beautiful.”
She was so damned tired of hearing that. What had her pretty face ever done for her? It had caused her nothing but trouble. Maybe if she played along, he’d untie her and then she’d have an opportunity to escape.
“And you’re very handsome,” she said. That wasn’t even untrue. Though he was becoming increasingly uglier with every passing moment. “Why didn’t you ever make your intentions toward me known, Michael?”
“I did. I just prefer to be subtler than how gentlemen normally approach women. It is why I sent you gifts. I was wooing you, the way a woman of your beauty deserves to be wooed.”
She nodded in an effort to disguise her shudder. “You mentioned my mother.”
He flinched again, shoved his fingers through his hair and then turned away from her.
Once his attentions were diverted again she continued tugging on her hands. The tie cut into her flesh, not enough to make them bleed, but enough to irritate.
“Yes, I’m ashamed to admit that I allowed her to seduce me. But you must understand, it only happened once and, after that, I realized the error of my ways and finally understood that it was you who I’m destined to be with.”
Finally, her hand jerked free from the confines and she was able to slip it beneath her skirts and withdraw her dagger. She hid it in the folds of her skirts and waited for him to come close again.
He turned to face her. “Can you forgive me as I have forgiven your indiscretions with Wakefield?”
“Will you promise not to hurt him in any way?” she asked.
He said nothing for a moment. Then he nodded as he walked toward her. “Very well.”
When he reached her, she wasted no time in getting to her feet and holding the dagger to his chest. But he was fast, and he managed to maneuver her so that he was pressed against her back. His arm wrapped around her front, holding her wrist so that she could not move the dagger.
“There is a mirror, Agnes. I saw you get the knife.” He nodded to the mirror across the room.
She hadn’t even noticed it. Foolish mistake.
He gripped her wrist tighter, pulling her hand up so that her own knife came up dangerously close to her throat. “It doesn’t have to be this way with us, Agnes.”
“Why me, Michael?” she asked, her voice coming out in barely a whisper.
“My mother always said I deserved the best, and you are the most beautiful woman in all of London, perhaps all of England.”
“Not anymore!” She leaned down and slid her cheek against the blade, the knife slicing into her flesh, and she cried out in pain.
…
Agnes’s scream seemed to reach out and grab Fletcher by the throat. He sent a prayer up that he wasn’t too late, that that bastard hadn’t done anything to irreparably hurt her.
“What did you do?” Michael rasped. “You stupid bitch!”
Fletcher burst into the room, leveling a pistol out in front of him. “Let her go!” he bellowed. Then his eyes fell to Agnes and saw the blood dripping off her face. Oh God!
“Fletcher,” she cried.
“Drop the knife and move away from her,” Fletcher ground out, closing the distance between them.
“She’s ruined now. You can have her!” Michael shoved Agnes away from him.
Fletcher caught her and lifted her into his arms, cradling her against him.
The Somersbys entered the room and took Michael. Fletcher didn’t even care what they were planning to do with the man. He only wanted to get Agnes away from here.
He cradled her the entire ride to her townhome, then upstairs to her room. Her maid fetched him clothes and a salve for her face. Once he cleaned off the blood, he could clearly see that the cut wasn’t that deep. It would likely leave a small scar, but it wouldn’t even require stitches.
“Did he do anything else to you? To hurt you?” Fletcher asked. He smoothed the salve onto the cut and apologized when she winced.
“No. He tied me up, but I was able to get a hand free to grab my dagger.”
“Then he cut you?”
She shook her head. “No, I did that. He kept talking about how beautiful I was, and I felt so much hatred toward him. He overpowered me when I tried to threaten him with the blade.” She looked up at him, her eyes filling with tears. “I wanted to ruin my face, to make him not want me anymore. Make all of them not want me anymore.”
“Oh, Bluebell.” He pulled her to him and held her close.
“Will you stay with me?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
He wasn’t even certain he’d actually heard it, or if his mind had fabricated it because he so desperately wanted to kiss her. But she’d leaned toward him, closed her eyes, and seemed to be asking him to do this as if it would be some great gift to her.
But in reality, it was a gift to him. Every moment he spent in her warmth was undeserved. He leaned in and cradled her face with his hands, careful not to touch her injured cheek. She released a soft whimper and he gently placed his mouth across hers. Slowly he placed tender kisses on her lips, reveling in the feel of their velvety softness.
Her arms wrapped around his neck and she pulled him tightly to her, deepening their kiss. The urgenc
y in her response fueled his desire. She wanted him.
He kissed her hungrily, not holding back any of the passion he felt. Her fingers dug into his back and she arched against him. His hand moved up and pressed against her breast. He felt the nipple bead beneath his fingers. Blood surged through him and his erection pushed taut against his trousers.
He laid her back against the mattress and positioned himself atop her. Having her pressed against the length of his body was nearly his undoing. She’d offered him her virtue and tonight he would take it.
Then he leaned back to see her face. “Are you certain? There are some things that cannot be undone,” he said.
She nodded. “Yes, please, touch me,” she whispered. Her eyes pled with him. “Make love to me, Fletcher.”
It was those eyes that proved to be his undoing. She didn’t have to ask him more than once. He continued to kiss her as he fondled her breasts, slipping his hand beneath her dress and inside her shift to touch the warmth of her skin.
So smooth. So hot.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Agnes couldn’t get enough of his mouth on her mouth, his hands on her skin. She wanted more. Wanted to be even closer. His skin on hers. She started tugging at his shirt, attempting to yank it off from his body.
Eventually he pulled his mouth from hers, leaned up enough to release the buttons, then slipped from the confines of the shirt. His athleticism was more than apparent in the muscled sheet of his chest.
Brown hair curled across the wide expanse and then tapered to a thin line that traversed his rippled abdomen only to disappear beneath his trousers. Above his hips, his muscles formed an enticing V. He was a perfect specimen of male beauty.
She reached out and ran her hand down the length of his torso and watched as the muscles tensed beneath her touch. Which only fueled her desire to touch him more. She allowed her fingertips to linger at the waistband of his trousers, then looked up to meet his eyes.
She didn’t want to ask for this, she’d already asked for too much. But she did want him to take. Take her body and make it his own. She leaned up and captured his mouth with hers, all the while continuing to run her hands across his abdomen.
He reached behind her and began unclasping her buttons, trying to liberate her from her dress. She allowed her mouth free rein over his warm skin, loving the contrasting feel of the crisp hair and sinewy planes. It was an exploration unlike any she’d ever known.
She felt her dress give way, then warm hands were smoothing across her shoulders.
“Stand up,” he said.
She did as he said and stepped out of the dress as it pooled at her feet. He then unfastened and unlaced each layer of her clothing until she stood before him in nothing more than her pantaloons.
He ran his hand down the center of her torso, gently brushing each breast as he did. Her already hardened nipples puckered even more.
“You are exquisite,” he said. “Take down your hair.”
She reached up and began unpinning her hair. Curls fell one by one and brushed against her shoulders and neck, shooting chills across her sensitive flesh. When she was done, she bent and placed the pins inside one of her slippers, then stood again to face him.
He took one step and was pressed against her, kissing her fervently. His tongue slid against hers and desire coiled through her body so rapidly she nearly fell to her knees. She knew her hands were everywhere, trying to touch him all over, but she could not help it.
She closed her eyes to listen, not wanting to miss one single sound around them. He made a low groan as he pressed his erection against her and she heard herself moan in return. Their breath mingled in hot pants. She inhaled deeply to absorb their scents. He smelled of sandalwood and brandy.
One by one, she involved her senses to commit to memory every detail about this night. The way his hand felt as it grazed across her nipple. The sweet taste of him and the brandy against her tongue. His hard arousal pulsating against the thin fabric of her pantaloons.
He gave her one last passionate kiss, then he kissed his way down her face, onto her neck, across her collarbone to both breasts, onward to her belly, until he presented himself before her on his knees. With one swift movement, he brought her pantaloons to her ankles, then slowly rolled down each stocking.
She heard him suck in his breath, and for a moment, he knelt before her, hands on her legs, eyes closed, simply breathing. Perhaps he, too, wanted to memorize their experience. Did he think tonight would be their only chance?
He stood and went and locked the door, then stoked the fire until a warm, golden blaze filled the room. He turned the other lights down so that only the flames lit their surroundings. The plush red carpet was warm around her toes and she wiggled them to dig in farther.
She had said nothing for a long while. She found she did not want to ruin the moment with the sound of her own voice, but she wanted to tell him how beautiful he was. How there never had been a man in more magnificent shape than he. Her mouth would not move, though, so she hoped that her deep admiration would shine through her eyes as she let them gaze at him freely.
He came back to her, took her by the hand, then led her to the center of the room so that they were closer to the hearth. Warmth radiated to her body. She pulled him to her and kissed him, while allowing her hand to trail down his chest to the fastenings of his trousers.
She must have been working too slow for him, because he swiped her hand away and finished it himself. He removed the rest of his clothes, then pressed his body against hers so that they were skin to skin. His gaze caught her eyes and held them, the golden of his swimming with desire.
Her heart beat so rapidly, as if she’d run a thousand miles. With one hand, he grabbed her bottom and pressed her hard against him.
“I want you,” he said.
She swallowed. “I want you,” she managed in a hushed whisper.
He brought her down on the floor next to him and continued his exploration of her body. His hands and mouth were everywhere, and sensations were firing so rapidly she was certain her body would combust. She writhed and moved against his touch, fighting for release.
He inserted one finger inside her and she bucked off the rug. Slowly he moved his finger, in and out and around, finding new sensations with every movement. With another finger, perhaps his thumb, he found that sensitive nub. The two at once created a contrast of pleasure that pulsated through her, building and building until she wanted to cry out.
She bit down on his shoulder and he moaned in response. And his hand kept up its delicious torture until she was certain she could take no more, then her body froze as her climax shook through her. Her eyes closed, and she let out a cry and then it subsided.
Then he positioned himself above her and she could feel the tip of him pressing against her.
She slid her legs up until they wrapped around him.
“Agnes,” he said in a raspy voice as he pushed into her.
Sharp pain rocketed through her and she clenched around him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, then feathered kisses across her face. “I’m sorry. It will ease in a moment, I promise.”
She nodded, then wiggled beneath him, trying to adjust herself to his invasion.
“Oh God.” He panted. “You’re so tight. So very warm and wet.”
Then he began to move, slow and shallow at first, teasing her sensations between pain and pleasure. Deeper and faster he went, and her desire began to mount quickly.
Her legs tightened around him and she pulled his face down for a kiss. She forgot about the remaining uncomfortable twinges and focused on him. His lips, soft and passionate, moving across hers.
His body pressed against her. Him making love to her.
Pressure was mounting within her and she had felt something similar before. That night in the garden. Only this was deeper, further away, yet more intense. Then everything shattered and pleasure ricocheted through her body. She had barely come down from her climax wh
en she heard his guttural moans as he spilled himself inside her.
Several hours later she awoke, for the second time in her life, naked and alone in her bed. He had left her.
Again.
Agnes walked into the parlor downstairs after being summoned for visitors. She truly wasn’t feeling up to seeing anyone, but her mother would hear none of it.
“Oh, thank heavens you’re all right,” Justine said, coming forward. Matilda moved with her and they both embraced her.
“We were so worried,” Matilda said.
Agnes frowned. “But how did you know anything had happened?”
“Lord Wakefield,” Matilda said. “He was going mad looking for you. He was so very concerned.”
Justine nodded. “I had to leave before it was all over, but he and Matilda figured it out.”
She hadn’t even thought to ask Fletcher last night how he’d found her. She’d been so damned thankful he had and then he’d brought her home and she’d begged him to make love to her. Her cheeks heated at the memory of his hands and mouth on her body.
“You must be so out of sorts from your ordeal,” Matilda said.
“Did he hurt you?” Justine asked, her fingers reaching up to Agnes’s face before stopping and putting her hand back down.
“Fletcher?” Agnes asked, then realized the ridiculousness of the question. “No, of course you meant Michael.” She exhaled slowly, then had them sit where she told them an abbreviated version of the evening. Where she had run into Michael after being so upset about Fletcher kissing Celeste. Oh God, she hadn’t even asked him about that last night. She was a damned fool.
“Yes, I told Lord and Lady Somersby about everything and they readily left the ball,” Matilda said once Agnes had gotten to the part of the story where the couple had shown up to take Michael into custody.
“Is your engagement back on, with Lord Wakefield?” Justine asked.
“No,” Agnes said.
“Yes,” a voice came from the door.
