Oh Lord, Margarita. Beatrice had completely forgotten her in her concern for Ritchie. Ignoring what must have been considerable pain, her lover came up on his elbow and together they peered through the melee of firemen, passersby and concerned parties, to the prone figure stretched out a few yards away.
Still she lay. Motionless. Lifeless. Her golden hair tumbled about a face that sat atop her neck at an awkward and sickening angle, but her eyes, staring wide open, were strangely peaceful.
Beatrice looked away, horrified. She’d never known Margarita, and the woman’s madness had caused anguish and physical pain to Ritchie. But nobody deserved to die in the street, their neck broken.
“I know…I know.” Ritchie’s voice was thin and reedy, but still possessed a quiet strength. Beatrice met his eyes, and saw in them the same confusion she was feeling. Despite his physical pain, he still felt for his lost wife, no matter how she’d damned him. “I would not have wanted this outcome either, despite everything.”
Suddenly the night seemed very, very cold, and the hubbub all about them very distant. Beatrice was dimly aware of Polly and Charlie fussing around with blankets and brandy—and Jamie, more self-possessed, dealing with the firemen—and though she must have thanked them, all she was aware of was Ritchie’s face and his hand, still held in hers.
He groaned as the doctor treated him, then seemed to quiet with a little morphia, only to ask Beatrice if she could find out if his servants were all safe. When she was able to report that, he managed a wan smile.
“My house is uninhabitable though,” he said with a sigh. “I shall have to instruct Jamie to make alternative arrangements. I’ll need somewhere to recuperate.” He nodded vaguely to his leg, now in a well-fashioned temporary splint.
Beatrice stared at him, her wounded love, and suddenly seemed to come back into the world again, and the possession of her faculties and decisiveness.
“I’ll speak to him. There’s no need. We have room at South Mulberry Street. It might be a bit of a squeeze for everyone from both our households, but I won’t hear of you, at least, being anywhere else in your condition. What better place to nurse you than in my own very comfortable bedroom?”
Ritchie’s smile became considerably less wan, even if a little drowsy, as if like she, he was suddenly making a conscious effort to throw off the darker aspects of this momentous evening and begin to embrace the future that now lay before them.
“But what about your reputation, Miss Weatherly? A man being nursed in your bedroom, what will polite society think?”
“Rats to polite society! We both know my reputation doesn’t exist anymore. What difference does it make?” She squeezed his hand, and was pleased to receive a determined squeeze from him in return. “All that matters is that I’m able to supervise your recovery and do everything possible to speed it.”
“Well, my dearest…” His voice was slurred now, as if the drug was taking a stronger effect. Which it would need to if he were to be moved soon, and without agony. “I’m not normally a man who takes kindly to being dictated to…but in this case, I accede to your wishes.” His eyelids fluttered, but before they closed, he gave her one last glance, of pure blue fire. “I’m completely yours.”
Perhaps you are now, my love. Yes indeed, I think you are.
As Ritchie’s eyes closed, she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it tenderly.
“Will you marry me, Beatrice?”
His voice was faint, barely a breath, but it hit Beatrice like a thunderbolt of joy.
“Yes! Oh yes,” she whispered, smothering the hand she held with a dozen more ragged kisses.
Ritchie murmured, “Good,” then promptly slipped into insensibility.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
At Last
“AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED to be resting, Edmund? What’s all this? How on earth have you got down here?”
Despite her worry for him, Beatrice’s heart lifted on seeing her fiancé up and about and looking so hale and hearty. Not to mention so deliciously handsome in a brand-new blue dressing gown. It was scarcely seven days since the fire at his house, yet ever the man of business, Ritchie was already directing his affairs again, with the help of Jamie and various clerks and secretaries who kept arriving at South Mulberry Street with documents and reports. The morning room now seemed to have become his new office.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Jamie and your brother assisted me down the stairs a little while ago.” From his place on the couch, he reached for her, hand outstretched. His bad ankle—only severely sprained after all, as it turned out—was resting on a cushion placed on a small stool in front of him. “I’m feeling very well now and I’m getting better by the day. Especially when you return to me, looking so beautiful and fresh and desirable, and yet so sanctified from your devotions at church.”
“Flatterer,” chided Beatrice, sitting carefully down beside him, arranging her skirts. “But I still think you shouldn’t work so hard. You did sustain a concussion as well as your injured ankle too, you know. And you lost a lot of blood from your…your wounds.”
Beatrice shuddered. It still pained her to think about Margarita stabbing him and trying her misguided best to kill the man she’d been wed to. The feelings were confused. Beatrice swung between regret that she’d been unable to defend her loved one against Margarita’s attacks and a sensation of profound pity for a woman as crazed and unhappy as the deceased Mrs. Ritchie had been.
Pushing his papers aside and sending half of them fluttering onto the carpet, Ritchie slung a decidedly vigorous arm around her waist and pulled her close to him.
“Try not to feel sad for her, darling. There was nothing anyone could do to help her, believe me.” He looked away. “There were times when I wished her dead, for what she did to Joe, but eventually I accepted it wasn’t her fault and I wished she could have been happy.”
They sat in silence for a moment, while the sweet consolation of a warm and comforting arm around Beatrice’s waist worked a form of magic, dropping a veil over the past sorrows and tribulations and illuminating the path toward bright hopefulness ahead.
The fire had proved a catalyst, changing lives as much as it had ended Margarita’s. Attending the funeral of Ritchie’s deceased wife in his stead, Beatrice had been astonished to see Eustace Lloyd there, too. The ceremony had been brief, and attended by very few people, and her former sweetheart had buttonholed her for a chat, his face somber. Without fully admitting anything, he’d confirmed her suspicions that he’d been involved in removing Margarita from the sanitarium. Listening to his evasions, Beatrice had felt a strange numbness and a peculiar lack of anger. He couldn’t hurt her now. In fact her only faint concern had been that Ritchie would act the avenging angel and hurt Eustace instead.
But it seemed an opportunity had come up. A position managing a rubber plantation, in the Malays. Eustace was leaving England to start afresh, and had even sold most of his photography equipment. Beatrice had a shrewd idea who’d made this advantageous far-off post available, and she was glad her new fiancé had chosen to simply remove her old one from the country rather than seek to do any more harm to Eustace than he could well do to himself.
Now, observing this man she loved, she marveled. A lesser individual would have wreaked dire vengeance on Eustace, given the resources and connections that Ritchie enjoyed. But instead, he’d chosen a more humane response, out of respect for her feelings.
“I still think you shouldn’t be overtaxing yourself with all these papers and decisions,” she said at length, giving him a mock frown, even though she began to melt when he gave her a shamefaced smile and the shrug of a guilty little boy.
Although not so much the boy. There was a man’s body beneath that robe. A man’s body in very little clothing, just drawers and undershirt, as far as she could tell. He was leavi
ng off trousers at the moment because getting them on over his heavily bandaged ankle was troublesome.
Beatrice adored this informal Ritchie. The one she’d first seen when he’d visited her in this very room what seemed like a lifetime ago but was barely a few weeks. Had she realized then that she’d love him so profoundly and so soon? Perhaps there’d been a hint of it, already, deep in her heart but carefully hidden.
Staring at him, her fingers tingled with the urge to touch him and explore him, but she held back. The man was still recuperating. She really should not be making carnal advances just yet. There would be plenty of time for that when they married, as they would do when he was fully well again.
Well, in that case, Beatrice Weatherly, why did you just consult your friend Sofia on the walk home from church, and discuss with her how one might best pleasure a gentleman incapacitated in a lower limb? You’re incorrigible, woman, really you are.
Ritchie, it seemed though, had no qualms whatsoever about advances. He cupped her face in his free hand, and drew his thumb across her mouth in a slow, teasing stroke, while with his other hand he clasped her waist more firmly.
“I’m not an invalid, darling Bea. Just a healthy man who’s temporarily inconvenienced by a few minor injuries.” His fingertips slid across her cheek and on around the back of her neck, beneath her hair, to draw her face to his. “All the undamaged parts of me are working perfectly, I assure you.”
“That I don’t doubt, Edmund,” she responded pertly, only to be silenced by his warm mouth on hers and his wicked tongue slipping immediately between her lips.
Oh, how wonderful! How wonderful!
Beatrice succumbed happily, flicking her own tongue around her fiancé’s in a spirited tussle. Even though they’d been sharing the same bedroom—Ritchie in the bed, and herself on a couch, to be on hand if he should be ill in the night—their dealings with each other had been platonic thus far, quietly affectionate, both of them simply grateful for the fact that they’d survived a near catastrophe and were now safe and together.
But now, she wanted more. Now, she pondered Sofia’s suggestions, reviewing how it might be possible to enjoy certain pleasures without further injuring her slightly battered fiancé. Cautiously, she slipped her arms around Ritchie and was rewarded by a masculine growl, low and husky.
“Yes, Bea…yes,” he murmured against her throat, his hand moving again now, drifting down over her shoulder and heading for her breast. When he squeezed her, she moaned, arching herself against him.
“Are you aroused, Miss Weatherly? How scandalously indecent.” He grinned at her, his hand massaging the soft orb, deftly managing to pleasure her through the layers of her clothing. Thankfully the lovely new undergarments she’d purchased with Sofia’s guidance were very much lighter and didn’t impede the explorations of a lover nearly as much. Her nipples were hard and clearly Ritchie could feel them so. “You weren’t in this condition while you were in church were you, you wicked woman? What on earth would the vicar say if he knew? He might refuse to officiate at our wedding if he knew you were such a wanton.”
“Actually,” gasped Beatrice, closing her eyes and wriggling against the upholstery. She opened her legs, unable to stop pressing herself hard against the horsehair beneath her. “It might make him even more anxious to officiate. I’m sure the sooner I’m a respectable married woman, the better, in his eyes. That way I have a proper and sanctioned outlet for my natural desire and I’m serving God’s law.”
Ritchie laughed happily, and Beatrice’s closed eyes snapped open again to find that his were dancing with mirth and provocation.
“Excellent! I’m pleased to learn that the God-fearing respectability of marriage isn’t going to interfere with your commitment to the pleasures of the flesh,” he said jovially, still plying his fingers over her breast. “But I am concerned that you might get out of the habit of it if we have to wait until after the ceremony.” He gave her a wicked look of poorly feigned anxiety. “The erotic arts require commitment. Constant practice. No slacking.”
“But what about your ankle?” She cast a dubious glance at his carefully bound limb. “I don’t want to hurt you.” Desire warred with solicitude inside her, in a titanic struggle. Her breasts ached, her puss ached…her entire body ached for him. And yet the thought of causing him pain held her back.
“Oh, I think I’ll survive,” he murmured in her ear, suddenly reaching for her hand and directing it to his groin. Through the cloth of his dressing gown and his drawers, she felt him hard. “Perhaps not a wild sweaty gallop, but I’m sure between us we can find ways to pleasure each other in a more circumspect fashion.” His lips settled against the side of her neck, feathering over her skin. “An imaginative young woman like you must surely have plenty of ideas.”
His hand squeezed hers, pressing it against him.
Beatrice smiled. She couldn’t help herself. She loved the feel of hot, hard life, the essence of her man. He might be temporarily lame, but this part of him was in prime condition and free from all impediment. Between her legs, her flesh trembled, as if calling to him.
“But the door is unlocked, Edmund,” she protested. “Someone might come in while…while we’re occupied with each other.”
“No they won’t. I’ve given instructions. Very clear instructions. Under no circumstances may anyone enter the room without knocking.”
Beatrice shivered, but not from cold. Prickles of delicious yearning surged across the surface of her skin, both the areas that were exposed, and those covered.
“Polly’s used to swanning in after just the most cursory of knocks. She might easily forget.” Distracted for a moment, Beatrice smiled, but for another reason. An astonishing development had taken place, one which she thoroughly approved, despite its unconventional nature. “Especially now.”
Two days ago, her brother had brought Polly to her in an endearingly formal manner, and announced to Beatrice and Ritchie that the two of them were going to be married soon, and henceforth, his fiancée should be treated as a member of the family rather than a servant.
After her initial surprise, it’d dawned on Beatrice that she’d been anticipating something like this. And that there was more to it than met the eye. She’d glanced at Jamie Brownlow, standing at the door, his face amused and watchful, and wondered just to what exactly she and Ritchie were giving their blessing.
Ritchie gave Beatrice an assessing look. “How do you really feel about your brother’s impending nuptials? Not outraged that he’s marrying your own former servant?” His eyes narrowed. “You do realize that there’s more than just the happy couple involved, don’t you?”
It was Beatrice’s turn to smile, giving him an arch look as she massaged his magnificent erection with a little more vigor than before.
“I’m not blind, Edmund, and I’m not entirely naive.” Delicately shaking his hand free of hers, she flipped open his robe and then attacked the buttons of his knitted cotton drawers. “I’m well aware that some people enter into somewhat unconventional relationships, and if all parties in this particular ‘arrangement’ are going to be happy together, well, I for one am delighted. Polly and Charlie will do well together. She has a keen mind and a good heart, and I couldn’t wish for a more amenable sister-in-law.” She paused, her fingertips hovering. “As for Jamie…I don’t know him very well yet, but if he has your complete trust, he must be a fine man indeed.”
“He is,” affirmed Ritchie, completely sincere, “and I believe they’ll all muddle through in their strange triangle and be content.”
For a moment, the two of them stared at each other, but after a beat or two, Beatrice had a sense of a line being drawn.
Ritchie spoke up again. “And now, can we return to our own arrangements, Miss Weatherly?” He glanced down at his tumescent groin, and her fingers so close to it. “We seem to be
at rather critical juncture.”
“Indeed we are.” Beatrice was brisk and workmanlike when she prized her fiancé’s splendid penis out from amongst the folds of his linen.
“Oh, my angel,” sighed Ritchie as she began to caress him, her fingertips as in love with the silky texture of the shiny, rosy skin that covered the hard core within as her heart was with the man in his entirety. She slid them up and down the length of him, exploring his intimate geography while she savored the low moans that issued from his lips.
There was no silent stoicism where Ritchie was concerned, and when she inclined forward and took the head of his cock into her mouth, he let out an oath of encouragement, his voice both raw and appreciative.
“Oh yes, my clever, wicked, beautiful one… That’s it, my dear, that’s it. Oh Lord, that feels wonderful.”
He chanted as she licked. He gasped as she sucked. He sighed and then groaned long and hard and heartfelt as she attempted to do both at once, as well as fondle him with her fingers at the same time. Beatrice knew that she still had much to learn about the finer arts of love, but the way Ritchie responded told her that she was at least performing this act to his satisfaction.
Especially when she found his special sweet spot…and he erupted.
“My love, my love,” he exhorted her, voice loud and intense, as he gripped her head, his fingers dislodging some of the pins that held her coiffure. Would the servants hear, Beatrice wondered vaguely as she received his silky seed upon her tongue and swallowed it down with enthusiasm and joy.
When he was finally spent, Ritchie subsided against the cushions with a long, happy gasp. His eyes were closed and there was an expression of purest satisfaction on his dear and handsome face. As carefully as she could, Beatrice dabbed both him, and her sticky lips with a handkerchief she’d had tucked in her sleeve, then returned his loins to a state of propriety.
My love. My love. You are so beautiful.
In the Flesh Page 33
