Seduced in September

by Genevieve Turner

  If she left it on, her chemise wouldn’t dry. The point of this was to dry her clothes.

  She blew a low breath, reached for her hem. It took some wriggling to get free, but soon enough her chemise was off and she was entirely naked. She slipped into the dressing gown quick as she could, all of her rising in anxious gooseflesh. What if he came in and saw her like this?

  But he didn’t come in, and she settled into the dressing gown easily. It was overlarge, true, pooling on the floor at her feet and the sleeves going well past her hands, but it was comfortable. Enclosing. The fabric slid across her skin the way his hands had, her nipples coming to tight attention as she remembered. And imagined entirely new things for his hands to do, dressed as she was.

  She went for the door, then stopped dead at the sight of herself in the mirror. Flushed cheeks, mouth parted, a large triangle of skin bared by the collar of the dressing gown… she’d never looked so shameless.

  Her hair was a disaster, with the storm’s temper writ in the knot half sliding down her head and the tendrils plastered to her neck. That would never do, no matter how undressed she was. She pulled out the few pins that had survived the dash to his cottage, her hair falling in a wet, heavy mass between her shoulders. She picked up his brush, examined it. A curiously intimate thing, to use the same hair brush he did. Beyond wearing his clothes and being in his bedroom, of course.

  The first pull through her tangles was difficult. But she kept at it until her hair spread all about her shoulders, smooth and knot-free. She set the brush back, studied her reflection once more.

  Her expression was too solemn to be that of a temptress, her hand clutching too tightly at the opening of the dressing gown to be inviting. But a high color stained her cheeks, and her lips seemed plumper than usual. As if she were dreaming of kisses.

  Well, she was. His kisses.

  She crept through the door shyly, not quite ready to look at him. But when she reached the middle of the room, she had no choice. He’d removed his jacket and waistcoat and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the scars there. Her gaze ran down the rest of him. He’d taken off his boots and his—

  She snapped her gaze back to his face, her face burning. She’d never seen a man’s bare feet before. They certainly weren’t beautiful—they were too rough-hewn for that—but the sight of them made her smolder with more than embarrassment.

  “Do you want to change?” Too softly spoken, she knew, but her throat was tightened past her control.

  “No. I only have the one dressing gown.”

  Which she was wearing. At his small, quick smile, she looked away, gripping the dressing gown close.

  “You have a very charming house.” There, there was a bit of her old self. Polite, well mannered.

  “Thank you.” He picked up a plate of something—likely his supper—and took the cover off. “I find it comfortable.”

  She took in the room more slowly, lingering on details she’d missed before. A pastel of an older couple, perhaps his parents. Some letters strewn across the sole table. Two volumes of… She peered more closely, straining in the low light. Shakespeare. Two volumes of Shakespeare. And a single rocking chair placed close to the fire. Really, hardly enough furnishings to fill the place.

  “It’s quite large,” she offered.

  His eyes sparkled. “Too large for a single man?”

  She slanted him a look. He read her too well. “Perhaps.”

  He took his place at the table, picked up his fork. “The old duke wanted me to be happy here. So…” He gestured at their surroundings. “A too-large cottage to keep me satisfied and in his employ.”

  When Mr. Ford had said that Mr. Coyne might want to leave for the Duke of York or the Earl of Grafton’s employ, those hadn’t been empty words of comfort—Mr. Coyne could have his pick of situations. She hadn’t fully understood that until she stood amidst the physical proof of the old duke’s regard for him. Even so, this place could use the touch of a wife. Some prettier curtains in the windows, a cloth on the table and some flowers upon it… and another chair, to sit beside the lone one at the hearth.

  “You’re imagining yourself as the mistress of this house.” The words were wry. “Imagining yourself as my wife.”

  She spun to face him. “How do you know?” Defensive, challenging—she wouldn’t let him guess he could read her so plainly.

  “I’ve spent the past few months instructing you. I’ve learned to interpret your expressions.” He leaned back in his chair, beckoned her over. “Come. Let me show you how I would treat a wife.”

  Out of everything he’d done, that was the most confusing—for it wasn’t lustful, it wasn’t lascivious. It was simply an invitation to her imagination.

  You tempt me without mercy. And never more than right now. So she went and sat upon his knee.

  “Comfortable?”

  She shivered at his voice in her ear, his thighs hard beneath hers, his arms brushing hers as he reached for the silverware. Knowing her voice wasn’t up to it, she nodded in reply.

  “Good. Now, my wife won’t have to worry about the cooking and the housekeeping—Tilly takes care of that for me.” He speared a carrot and brought it to her lips.

  She took it and chewed. Cold, but still enjoyable. “Did she make that bread as well?”

  He laughed, a darkly amused noise. “No.”

  The tease behind that meant he wouldn’t elaborate further. “And your wife will eat from your hand as well, like a trained bird?” She let him know what she thought of that with her arch tone.

  “No, not unless she wants to. But eating off the same plate makes for one less plate to clean. More economical that way.”

  She huffed. “So this is your notion of helping with the housework, Mr. Coyne?”

  “Oh, I don’t think my wife would call me that. She’d call me Ned, like everyone else.” His chest brushed her back as he leaned in. “Or perhaps she wouldn’t call me Ned, not when everyone else does. No, she might call me Edward, when we’re all alone like this.”

  She might call him Edward. One could draw that name out, make it scolding or sultry or imploring, depending on the mood.

  “Well then, Edward”—she tested it on her tongue; yes, she would most certainly call him that—“it seems that you’ve spent quite some time sketching this imaginary wife.”

  He took a bite for himself, then gave her one. “I have in fact. Not much else to do here of an evening.”

  She swallowed, and he promptly sent the last bite her way. Odd, to sit on a man’s lap and have him feed her. But pleasantly odd—if this ever became familiar, she might enjoy it entirely.

  “And now,” he said, pushing the plate away, “time for dessert.”

  All of her went to taut, sustained attention. “Oh?”

  He brushed her hair from her shoulder. “It curls,” he said wonderingly. “I should have known that it would.”

  Ah. So he couldn’t guess at all her secrets. She allowed a small smile to take hold of her lips.

  He breathed on her shoulder for a moment, the heated wash of it letting his intentions be known. And then: “I’d kiss my wife, here.” But his lips didn’t meet her skin.

  He was asking permission. He wasn’t trying to tempt her or lure her—he was asking her.

  “I’m not your wife.” She didn’t mean it as a rebuke, more as a reminder to herself, but he pulled away.

  They sat for long moments, suspended as they were between this intimacy and the deeper one he was asking for. The one she wanted as well but had been trained not to desire.

  “Why did you give me the bread?” She wanted to know why, and she could have that particular want.

  “I thought you would enjoy it.” He didn’t move closer, but the sincerity of those words landed on every inch of her skin.

  “And the rest? The touching, the teasing?”

  He slid an arm around her waist. “When you looked at me, that first time—that look—I knew there was more beneath
. I wanted to see it. With each remark of mine, each improper word I managed to slip beneath that mask of yours, I saw a crack form. Until I was desperate to have it shatter entirely.”

  “I thought…” Her voice faltered. “I thought I’d been so careful. That no one could see.”

  “You were careful. Painfully so.” As if it hurt him to see her hide herself.

  She’d shown him more of herself than any person alive. More than she’d ever intended to show anyone. “And now that you’ve seen beneath the surface?”

  “I want to make you my wife. Not only pretend.”

  She sucked in a breath. No, this, this was the most confusing thing he’d done so far. And shocking. “But… But you hardly know me.” Even so, a tingling took hold of her at the thought of being joined to him, of having the freedom of a wife with him.

  “Really? How many people know of your past?”

  “None.” At least none living. Which made him her closest confidant, in a way. “All right,” she conceded, “you know about my past, why I am as I am. But I know nothing of your past.”

  Marriage had two sides and this relationship—if it was one—was decidedly lopsided on her end. Although she did know that he had a rare talent for divining her hidden thoughts, and he’d known that a gift of bread—real bread—might please her best.

  “Born to a tenant farmer in Cork,” he rattled off. “I was a groom from a very young age. Had a talent for it, but more importantly, I developed that talent. And I love the work.” His arm slackened around her. “You’ve seen my scars. Do you want to see the rest?”

  She twisted in his arms so that she might see his expression. Solemn. Rather sad. “No, I don’t want to see more of your scars.”

  “If course you don’t,” he said, hurried and pained. “Why would you? They’re no sight for a lady.”

  She put a finger to his lips. “I want to see more of you.”

  He kissed her then, deep and needy. She kissed him back just the same, her reserve, her resolve utterly obliterated under the want surging through her. His tongue slipped between her lips, soft yet demanding. So she yielded, even as she clutched at his shoulders, pulling him closer.

  “I want,” she breathed against his lips. “I want.” Such a relief and a joy to confess that.

  “I know.” Of course he did. He saw her better than anyone. “I want you too.”

  That inflamed her, burned away the last fluttering shred of inhibition clinging to her conscience. She slipped a hand down his front, all hard, straining muscle, and found the buttons of his trousers.

  “Wait.” He caught her wrist, but gently. “That can wait for another time. Tonight, I want to show you what you’d expect as my wife.”

  Perhaps not all of her inhibition was gone, since his words sent panic through her as she fought his grip. “I can’t—”

  His mouth found her bared shoulder and stole her breath and the rest of her protest. “I know. I know you’ll need to take all this back with you and think on it. Let me give you one last thing to think on.”

  Now that was temptation.

  “Very well.” But soft, to let him know that she was willing enough, for all that she couldn’t utterly give in just yet.

  He rose from the chair, taking her with him—such strong arms he had—and then reversed their positions. Her in the chair and him kneeling at her feet, that blue gaze gravely worshipful. He did nothing for long moments but grip her knees and watch her. She lifted a hand, ran it across the pale skin of his jaw. Smooth skin stretched over hard bone, sparks flitting across her skin as she traced the lines of him. Up to his ear, the fine dark hair above it tickling her fingertips. Then back to his chin, a perfect frame for that teasing smile of his.

  But he wasn’t smiling now. He was inching her legs apart, gathering the length of dressing gown into his fist as he did, opening and exposing her all at once.

  She knew he wouldn’t harm her, but her limbs tensed anyway, wanting to resist. Breathe. And with that breath, came clarity: she didn’t want to resist—she wanted to want. That’s what this was about. No more fighting her desires. She spread her thighs further, of her own volition. This was for her and she would take it, every last bite of it, just as she had the bread.

  He pushed the dressing gown up all the way to her waist, leaving the most indecent parts of her entirely bare. She shivered at the sight of her nude legs. And the hair between them—

  “Cold?” he asked.

  Gentle enough, but she jumped anyway. “No.” She was anything but cold.

  He set his bare hands on her calves, just behind her knees. “Can I speak while I do this?”

  “Speak of what?”

  “Of you. How you feel under my hands.” Wickedness took hold in his gaze. “At least during the portions where my mouth is unoccupied.”

  Dear God. “What—what will you do with your mouth?” Her body tightened, her back sliding up the slats of the chair.

  “It’s a surprise. Just like the bread.” His fingers encountered the hollows of her knees, the nerves there sparking. “Do you trust me?”

  She was in his house, wearing his clothes, her most sensitive bits bared to him. “If this isn’t trust, then I don’t know what is.”

  Such a slow, roguish smile. And delighted. “You’ll have to use that tone on me again. Severe governess does such interesting things to my insides.”

  “Perhaps your imaginary wife might use such a tone when she’s instructing you on curbing your temper.” Not that she suspected he displayed such a temper more than once a decade or so.

  He raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. If I’m fortunate.” He lowered his head, brushed his lips across the inside of her knee, sending a shock rattling through her. “But enough about my fondest wishes—this is your time.”

  He kissed up the inside of her thigh, lightly, with no lingering. But it was such a torment, she had to sink her fingers into his hair to keep from thrashing out of the chair. “You’re not talking,” she gasped out, if only to buy herself a few moments to recover from the sensations shuddering through her.

  His lips left her skin, but he stayed close, his breath washing over her, eddies of heat touching the folds of her sex. She closed her eyes, tried to remember her composure. But there was only sensation left within her skull, raw, jittering awareness of him and herself.

  “Your scent, here,” he said. “I like it.”

  Her eyes fluttered closed. What carnality. Half of her wanted to snap her legs together, hide away the source of that scent. The other half, the half she’d done so well to conceal all these years, wanted to spread them wider and invite him to taste.

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t speak,” she got out. Not if mere words could scramble her senses even worse than his mouth had.

  “Perhaps you’re right.” His lips touched the very center of her.

  No, that was certainly worst of all. Her entire being collapsed into that one specific point, right where his mouth connected with her. His tongue caressed her, tasted her, and she thought she might combust. At the very least, her bones were going to melt.

  His mouth worked magic upon her, a twisting, wild magic that had her gripping his hair tightly, urging him on even as she writhed beneath him. The sensations were flattening her, driving everything from her but a grasping need, and still she welcomed them, craved more.

  In this moment, she was as wanton as she’d always feared and still she wanted more.

  He gave it to her, his hard grip on her thighs anchoring her to earth even as his tongue sent her soaring when he played with a particularly sensitive spot. The sensations pushed and pushed and pushed until she feared she must fall—until she absolutely must fall, lest she shatter.

  When his teeth closed on that sensitive bud, she did. Fell and fell, but with no fear of hitting bottom.

  Because he was there to catch her.

  She floated back to herself on a haze of pleasure, the world languidly reassembling itself into solidity as she did. She o
pened her eyes to find that he’d pulled the dressing gown back over her legs. His forearms rested on her thighs as he gazed up at her.

  “Was it a nice surprise?” he asked.

  She threw her head back and laughed, giddy, drunken delight taking hold of her. He rose and gathered her close to him, the both of them laughing together. It might have been the nicest moment of her life. Except for maybe the moment just before.

  After a time, he released her. “The rain has stopped.”

  So it had. The idyll was over. A weight settled on her—not quite shame, but the joy of the encounter was slipping away, obligation coming to take its place. “I must get back.”

  Her absence might yet have escaped anyone’s notice. But only if she hurried.

  He nodded. “Will you be all right on your own?”

  It would be madness to ask him to walk her back. Anyone might see and guess at what they’d been up to. So she said, “Of course.”

  He pressed one last kiss to her forehead, a chaste one this time, then released her.

  The ache from that separation would fade, she told herself. After all, she’d spent almost her entire life in a kind of isolation—to return to it would be as nothing.

  She almost believed it as she dressed in silence and prepared to leave him.

  Chapter Eight

  Adele supposed it was only by the grace of God that no one saw her journey back to her empty room. The house was quiet and still in the rare few hours between the servants putting the household to bed and preparing to wake it once more.

  Her disgraceful behavior, worthy of a dismissal, would remain hidden. Even so, her steps were heavy as she made her way to her room. First, a quick peep into Thomas’s room, to be certain he was well. He was fast asleep, arms tucked under his head, the scene hushed. And when she arrived in it, her own room was as quiet as ever.

  Usually she welcomed the peace her room afforded as a refuge from her duties. But tonight it seemed too small. Too lonely.