by Elisa Braden
She hadn’t thought he could be more handsome. She’d been wrong.
Drifting toward him as though caught on a Holstoke-bound breeze, she peered at his hands, which penned tidy, organized notes arranged similarly to his most formal garden—in squares.
Good heavens, how his squares made her smile.
“What are you doing in here, Eugenia?”
Her eyes flew to his, which were stern and remote. “Exploring the gardens. And you?”
A muscle flickered in his jaw. “Research.”
“About?”
“Plants which might mitigate the effects of Hyoscyamus niger.”
“High what?”
His eyes were darkening, flickering down to her mouth repeatedly. “Henbane.”
She set her shawl on the table between his notes and an odd-looking potted plant. She ran her fingers over the thick, waxy spikes. “What is this?”
“Aloe.”
She traced her fingertips over the page where he’d divided his notes into squares. A smile tugged. “You are peculiar, Holstoke.”
His hand covered hers. Gripped her fingers. Refused to let go. “You should leave,” he murmured, his voice rasping as though he were parched.
She wetted her lips and wondered at the sensations he evoked wherever her skin touched his. “I should like to conduct research of my own, I think.”
“Eugenia.” Her name was nearly a groan. “This … this is not the time.”
Letting her gaze linger upon his hands then rise up his chest to his throat and then to his mouth—that defined, handsome mouth—she moved closer. “I like your gardens, Holstoke. Very much.”
“Bloody hell.” The two words were scarcely a whisper. He braced his free hand against the table and bent at the waist as though he were in great pain or having trouble standing upright.
Her smile grew. The shivers went everywhere, from her toes to her scalp to the tips of her breasts. Her skin felt alive with them, especially the place where his hand gripped hers as though she were holding him at the edge of a precipice.
“Perhaps tomorrow you can show me everything,” she said, her own voice acquiring a bit of rasp, too. “For now, however, I should like another experiment. Our first was quite successful, wouldn’t you agree?”
Those pale green eyes lowered, his lofty cheekbones flushing. Was he looking at her bosom? She thought so.
She wasn’t very good at kissing and such, and Holstoke was always a bit difficult to read, but she recognized lust when she saw it. His pleased her greatly. While he might not love her, she could make him want her. Perhaps that would be enough.
“You should leave,” he repeated. “I don’t have … I am not altogether …” His chest heaved before settling into a fast, roughened pattern. “It has been a long day.”
Glancing at the glass around them and the darkening twilight beyond, she asked, “This is where you conduct your experiments, is it not?”
“Eugenia.”
She tossed her bonnet on the table beside her shawl. “I experimented a bit, myself, earlier.”
Holstoke went rigid. His hand tightened on hers. “Did you?”
“Mmm. I was roaming about your herb garden and spotted a lovely plant labeled ‘balm.’” She managed to free her thumb and stroked the back of his hand. “Tender leaves. I like the texture, rough and nubbly.”
His grip eased. “It is part of the mint family.”
“I recalled you saying you take it in your tea. So, I thought I might have a taste.”
“Bloody hell, woman,” he breathed. His other hand came up to squeeze her waist. He drew her into his hips until a hard ridge pressed her belly.
Oh, yes. He wanted her.
She grinned up at him. “I liked it, Holstoke. Almost as much as I like your gardens.”
“Take down your hair.” His eyes were molten and dark, the black centers nearly swallowing the green.
“Is this part of the experiment?”
He did not smile. Instead, his face lowered until his lips hovered a breath from hers. “This is me telling you to leave for the third bloody time. Because if you stay, I will take you, and I want your hair down while I do.”
*~*~*
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“The question is not whether the thin veneer of civilization will hold against the barrage of primal instinct. The question is what precedes the downfall of the former and the reign of the latter. For some, it is a tide. For others, a whisper.” —The Dowager Marchioness of Wallingham to Lady Dunston in response to said lady’s intention to limit sweet indulgences to a more sensible quantity.
Nothing was left of rationality. Only blackness. He scarcely recognized his own voice, let alone his thoughts.
Eugenia was his tormentor. Pert and glowing. Soft and strong. Sweetly gowned in rose silk and dusk’s light. It hurt to look at her. It hurt to touch her hand. The grinding need had sharpened into incessant pain sometime during luncheon, when he’d realized she intended to tour the castle on her own rather than retire to her bedchamber or his or any bloody place where he could claim her and ease the maddening ache.
Now, she stood before him in this place—his place—and seduced him with an imp’s smile. God, he’d never felt this kind of arousal. There was only one explanation: His wife knew precisely what she was about.
How else would she know complimenting his gardens might turn him harder than stone? Even he hadn’t suspected it. How else to explain the sheer incitement of telling him she’d tasted lemon balm and found it to her liking?
The only thing she hadn’t guessed was how much he longed to see her hair. It was not full daylight. It was not rosy dawn. But if she was determined to seduce him, he would gladly take what she gave.
“My hair?” she asked, blinking slowly and swaying into him.
Her breasts brushed his chest. Her belly pressed against his cock. He groaned. It sounded more like a growl, but his control was frayed to a thread. Only one thing prevented him from taking her like a brute—the thought of those who had been there before.
His wife might not be pure, but she was now his. And he wanted her obsessed with the pleasure only he could give her.
“I thought you might kiss me again,” she murmured, her lips forming the faintest pout.
“I will. Take down your hair.”
She reached up and plucked out her pins, then ran her fingers through the thick mass. Gleaming and rich, mahogany satin tumbled in waves over her shoulders and back. One curl circled the center of her right breast. This was the vision that had plagued his dreams. Except that she’d been naked. She was not now, but she could be.
And he could be inside her.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered. His heart was going to beat him to death. His cock was going to explode. “I’ll obsess you later.”
A puzzled pucker formed between her brows, but he couldn’t stop to explain—not that he would wish to. His lack of control where she was concerned was humiliating enough.
“I am going to lift you onto the table now.”
“I suppose that would be—oh!”
There. That was better.
He drew his shirt over his head.
“Oh. H-Holstoke? This is most”—she swallowed—“unexpected.” Her fingertips stroked his chest, lingering over his nipple and leaving streaks of lightning behind in a glittering trail.
He cupped her jaw and kissed her fully—no playful laps of his tongue or teasing hesitation. He was claiming her. Now. His wife.
Her lips were soft and her mouth delicious. She hadn’t lied. She tasted of lemon balm. God, he wanted to devour her whole.
She, in turn, cupped his neck, her thumbs stroking the hinge of his jaw. “Mmm.” She panted against his lips. “I’m too hot. I need …” She licked her lips and gazed up at him with transparent arousal. “Kiss me again.”
He did, but he did not stop with kissing. Rather, he put his hands to work, finally able to touch her mystifying hips and tiny waist and bountiful b
reasts. His palms skimmed her nipples. They were hard and likely painfully swollen. They needed his attention.
His fingers flew down the front closures of her gown, unfastening three before he lost patience and tugged, not realizing how much force he’d used until he heard something tear.
She didn’t complain. She’d busied herself kissing his chest and returning again and again to circle his nipples with her thumbs.
He shoved her corset lower and reached inside to lift out her breasts until they perched high and round. Her skin flushed the prettiest pink. Her nipples, on the other hand, were red—the red of her gown. Like a midsummer rose, the hard points bloomed and flushed with her desire.
He took one in his mouth and suckled hard.
Eugenia squeaked, the sound rusty. But her fingernails dug into his scalp, and her hips worked against the table, and her arm wrapped forcefully around his nape, pulling him closer.
Everything about her drove him deeper into obsession. Her nipples against his tongue, her hands upon his face and neck. Her panting breaths and little needy grunts. He wanted more. More and more and more.
He suckled harder. Used his thumb to stroke the ripe little tip he hadn’t yet tasted. He would save it for when he was inside her—which had to be soon if he didn’t want to embarrass himself. Seconds later, he gripped behind her knees and spread her thighs. Then, as steadily as he could manage, he raised her skirts. He didn’t want to release her nipple, but to see her thighs and the place where he would claim her, he must. So, reluctantly, he did.
She was panting. Trembling. Every breath shook those round, heavenly breasts. He raised her skirts past her hips and glanced down.
White thighs trembled, too. She wore stockings but no drawers, only petticoats. And between those thighs, which he’d spread quite wide, were the wet, shimmering petals of Eugenia. Red as her nipples. Ready for him.
He spread her with his thumbs, exposing her sweet, swollen bud. She glistened there, furiously aroused and needy. With a whispery touch, he teased her with his fingertip. Watched her beautiful red petals quiver and flush darker. Eugenia’s entire body undulated as she threw back her head and moaned. He’d never seen anything so exquisite. He would taste her. Devour her. Spend hours making her bloom for him. God, how he wanted that. But he was dying. And he could not delay any longer.
It took only a moment to release his fall, grip his cock, and place himself there. On the precipice. He paused. Met her eyes. They were wide and oddly startled, but she reached up and drew his mouth down to hers before he could ask why.
He kissed her. Plunged back into her mouth and gripped her mystifying hips. Slid his hands down to grasp her thighs, yanking her forward into his thrust.
The sound she made should have stopped him—a smothered cry blended with a gasp. The way she stiffened should have stopped him, for her fingernails dug into his nape and her back went rigid.
But she was so. Bloody. Tight.
And he’d waited so. Bloody. Long.
And his skin thrummed and drummed and hummed like lightning.
So he thrust again, not yet far enough inside her. He felt the tightness give beneath his pressure. He needed to be deeper.
Her arms encircled him, her breath panting against his throat.
Tight, hot silk. Tighter than anything he’d ever …
Nothing had ever fit him so …
Something was different. But he couldn’t place it.
He was burning. He needed to go deeper. So, he did.
Eugenia clung to him, her moans muffled against his skin.
He pulled her closer. Closer. Sank deeper and thrust higher. Felt her nipples drag against him and slid his hand between them to raise the neglected one to his mouth. He suckled and thrust. Suckled and thrust. Pulled her hips tighter and suckled and thrust.
This time, her moan was longer and punctuated with a gasp. Her gasps increased to match his tempo, and her sheath squeezed until he thought he might die from the pressure.
She wriggled, her thighs gripping his hips. He braced a hand on the table and went deep. Hard. Buried his face in her neck, breathed violets and the sweet, unmistakable scent of his woman. He needed her pleasure. He needed to see it and feel it rippling around him.
He slid his hand to where they were joined. Found the little swollen bud amidst her petals. Sank in fully and stroked her there, hoping he could last. She gazed up at him, cat-like eyes soft and black at the centers.
“Come for me,” he panted.
Again, a crinkle of confusion.
By God, if she did not come soon, he was going to leave her behind. He pressed and stroked, moderating the angle of his thrusts to give her more. The pressure building from his spine and into his cock was winding like a spring, tight enough to drive him mad.
A small ripple was his only warning. Then, Eugenia threw back her head and let out a startled yelp followed by a sobbing groan. Thereafter, he lost his mind.
Her sheath seized him in a slick, silken grip, demanding over and over that he give her everything he had. And so he did.
The explosion came in a repeating flood, launching him past glass walls and into the star-filled sky, where the pleasure pounded over and over like waves battering rocks. And Eugenia was with him, holding him so tightly, he could scarcely breathe. For a moment, he wondered if he’d lost consciousness, for he’d never experienced anything like this. The release. The relief. Filling his wife. Taking her and being taken in return. Even now, minutes after his peak, the tension of his lust had not fully dissipated.
He shuddered and breathed into her neck. Felt the satin of her hair catch against his jaw then slide away. His spine tingled, especially at the base. His hands clutched at her still, afraid she would disappear.
“Hol—Holstoke?” The tremor in her voice, the uncertainty, gripped something deep and low inside him and twisted hard. “Was that … normal?”
No. Far from it. But the fact that she had to ask chilled him. She’d been so tight. And now that he considered it, less practiced than he’d imagined. He swallowed, his blood going colder, his suspicions digging in.
Slowly, he drew back until he could see her eyes. They were lit with the question she’d asked, part wonder and part worry. God, she was beautiful. He ran his knuckles over her brow. Kissed her lips gently.
Then he withdrew, and the moment he felt her wince, he knew the truth. The small smear of blood on her thigh merely served as his accuser.
His wife, the woman everyone thought dallied freely with footmen, the one they called the Huxley Harlot, had been a virgin. And he had taken her like a man starving.
Which he was.
Damn and blast. The blackness wanted her now more than ever. It preened and roared its triumph. Demanded he take her again.
Instead, he lowered her skirts. Tucked himself away. Donned his shirt. Raised her bodice and helped her down.
“Why did you not tell me?”
She shook her head. “Tell you what?”
“That you never lay with a man.”
She scoffed. “Really, Holstoke. I already explained that I do not enjoy the attentions of other men. Did you suppose I would complete the act, despite being repulsed? So much for your vaunted logic.”
He rubbed his nape, turned, and paced to the end of the table.
“You know, I’m feeling a bit drowsy,” she said. “And my legs are not altogether steady. I will ask Mrs. Green to serve supper on trays this evening. Also, a bath would not go amiss.”
Bracing himself against the wood, he squeezed the edge and focused on regulating his breathing. “Tell me what happened, Eugenia.”
Silence. Then, a sniff. “Well, I have done a great deal of walking today. And, as you’ve discovered—albeit a bit late for a man of your intelligence—I am unaccustomed to such intimacies as we engaged in here.”
He gripped the wood until it burned against his palm and fingertips. “What happened with the footman?” His voice was harsh. Guttural. He could not so
ften it, for the blackness had regained command.
Behind him, he heard her approach. Then, she circled around to face him, her hands on her hips, her chin tilted at a challenging angle. “I told you already. What in blazes is the matter with you?”
Her hair—that lustrous, dark mahogany hair—cascaded upon her shoulders and breasts. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks still blushing.
“Tell me again,” he rasped.
She released an exasperated breath. “I lured him to Lord Reedham’s conservatory.”
“How?”
“We flirted a bit. I suggested he help me repair my hem. Honestly, I don’t remember everything. I was in my cups at the time.”
“You let him kiss you.” He gritted his teeth. “Touch you. Then what?”
“Well, you know how drink sets me off balance. Within minutes, I had decided my experiment was a failure, and so I began to push at him. He ignored me, so I shoved harder, and he let me go, but it was sudden. I remember falling backward and grasping something. His shirt, I think. Next thing I knew, I was on my back, he lay atop me, and my skirts were … higher than they should have been. Evidently, he’d mistaken my little topple for passion. Once I’d regained my ability to draw air, of course, I told him in no uncertain terms that I wanted him off of me, but by then, we’d been spotted from the garden by Lady Gattingford and her band of fellow gossips.” She glanced at the glass surrounding them. “Next time, I should like proper walls, Holstoke. And a bed, preferably.”
He gazed upon this woman who rarely hid her thoughts yet frequently surprised him—and wanted her. It was not lust, after all. It was deeper. He wanted to hold her. Before he could think better of it, he reached out to do just that. Took her in his arms. Gathered her close. Sank his hands into her hair. Raised it to his nose and breathed violets and a faint hint of cherries.
“Er, Holstoke?” Her hands patted his back.
He held her harder, his arms fully around her now, pressing her softness against him. Taking comfort in her warmth, in the contact from her hips to her shoulders.
