by Tarah Scott
She yanked her hand from within the bodice as the door opened and Taran filled the space. She stood frozen, their gazes locked in the mirror. He wore the same belted plaide and a clean linen shirt, but Caroline didn’t dare let her gaze stray from his face for fear the heat in her cheeks would spread down her exposed neck and give away every erotic picture that was now etched into her brain. His keen eyes dropped from her face to the rise and fall of her breasts, then lifted back to her face. He stared for a breathless moment, then strode towards her. Her pulse sprang into action like a too-tightly coiled spring when he stopped beside her, gaze still on her reflection, and wrapped an arm around her waist. He pressed a kiss to her temple. A quiver radiated through Caroline. The kiss had been chaste, but the gleam in his eye was anything but virtuous.
“Lonely, madam?” he asked, lips still pressed against her flesh.
A compulsion to bolt like a frightened rabbit shot to the surface. His arm tightened around her and Caroline attempted to pull away. A corner of his mouth twitched and she wanted to box his ears. He couldn’t possibly know what she’d been thinking…doing. He breathed deep and exhaled, his warm breath bathing her cheek. She shivered. He lifted his free hand. She jerked and he paused, brow quirked, clearly daring her to explain why the small action unnerved her. With a finger, he traced the edge of her bodice as she had. Warmth pooled between her legs and she fought the urge to fidget.
An unexpected desire surfaced to grasp his hand and guide it downward until his fingers pressed against her pussy. Even with the fabric between them, his touch would be beyond belief. His hand dropped away from the bodice and, arm still around her waist, he slid behind her. Caroline gasped at the feel of his erection pressing into her buttocks and she stood frozen as he shifted, working the hard length between the cheeks of her arse. When he stilled, grasped her skirt, and began inching it upward, her legs weakened. He pulled her more tightly to him.
At last, the skirt was high enough to hint at the curls between her legs and Taran pressed his mouth against her ear and whispered, “Show me what you want.”
Her eyes widened and she shook her head frantically. “My lord, I—”
“What do you want?” he interrupted.
He released her waist and grasped her hand. She stiffened, but he kissed her ear, then gently took the lobe between his teeth and bit down. Desire exploded through her.
She jammed her eyes shut as he guided her hand downward. “My lord.”
Her fingertips brushed her curls and he swirled the tips against the fringes, tickling her mound with the slightest of touches. Her pussy tightened an instant before her fingers grazed the already swollen nub. Caroline jerked back against Taran and jarred with awareness of his cock trapped against her arse. She leant forward and he plunged the fingers between the warm folds. She gasped at feel of the moist warmth.
“Aye, love,” Taran whispered. “Feel yourself as I do.”
He undulated his hips so that her clit pulsed against her palm while he guided her fingers into her hot channel.
“Open your eyes,” he coaxed.
She gave another frantic shake of her head.
His low masculine laugh sent a shiver through her. “Show me what you like.”
“You—you know what I like,” she burst out.
His laugh was deeper this time. “Aye, love, but I can make pleasing yourself all the better.” He moved suggestively behind her and she swallowed.
He thrust the finger deeper into her channel, then out, then in again. Pleasure radiated through her. She opened her eyes and met his stare in the mirror.
He gave a small nod. “Yes.”
In and out, he guided her movement while slowly pulsing his hips so that her clit rubbed against her palm. Pressure mounted and she couldn’t resist the urge to make the finger more rigid. Satisfaction lifted a corner of his mouth. He abruptly pulled the digit from within the warmth and began massaging her clit with it in fast strokes. He eased back. The rhythm broke and he cursed, but released her hand. He yanked the skirt higher, crushing it against her abdomen as he yanked up his plaid and stepped close again. Flesh against flesh, his steely length met the soft curves of her rear.
He grasped her hand again and urged her back into the luscious rhythm that mercilessly teased her clit. “Do not stop,” he ordered, and released her hand.
She swallowed, but continued as instructed. His gaze dropped to where her fingers worked their magic. His intake of breath startled then thrilled her. Skirt still held firmly at her waist, he grasped her hips and thrust his cock upward through the crack in her arse. Her brain flip-flopped between the pleasure her fingers brought and the feel of his cock tightening as it slid upward, then loosening with the downward slide. Her breath quickened. He abruptly threw an arm around her waist and lowered himself a few inches so that he could slide the hard length between her folds. The tip bumped against her fingers and he sucked in breath. Caroline faltered.
“Do not stop,” he commanded again as he bent her forward and, before she realised his intent, he pushed into her channel.
Fingers shaking, she rocked against the digit, her arse bumping against his belly, his cock sliding forward then back. His head fell back and he thrust with the rhythm she created. Pleasure built in her core. His grip tightened. Faster. Harder. Lust coiled tight in her belly. His hold on her hips turned iron. She slicked her fingers through the moist warmth of her folds, fingertips coming in contact with the cock pounding into her.
Memory burst forth of last night in Taran’s bed. She sucked in breath. The laudanum had clouded her brain, she hadn’t dreamed the encounter. Taran had bedded her as no husband bedded a wife. He had fucked her on all fours. Taken her as hard and savagely as he fucked her now.
“Please yourself,” he ground out.
Caroline flicked the swollen nub with a fast motion that brought a sudden flare of pleasure that sizzled along the nerves connecting to her very being. Taran pumped faster. She gulped air, body jarring with the impact of his hips to her buttocks, but he held her, thrusting harder. Pleasure splintered through her. She cried out with her orgasm. Her knees weakened, but Taran held her upright for a final thrust. He erupted, spewing his seed deep inside her. Caroline massaged her clit in another quick motion and a second, more powerful orgasm rolled through her.
“Fuck,” he growled, and thrust again, then one last time in unison with the final wave of pleasure that turned her knees to pudding. He caught her to him, breath hard and heavy against her flesh as he buried his head in her neck.
They stood for a long moment, his powerful chest heaving against her back, her body trembling. At last, his breathing slowed and his hold loosened. Mercifully, her legs held her weight. Taran released her and the lush velvet skirt fell down across her legs without so much as a tiny crease. Relief flooded her and she smoothed the fabric at hip length, twisting so that she could see the backside in the mirror.
Taran grinned. “No worse for the wear, madam?”
She paused and looked at his reflection. Male satisfaction was written on his face. “No thanks to you,” she retorted, despite the warmth that crept up her cheeks and the trickle of fluids between her thighs.
His brow lifted. “I made good on my promise.”
Caroline frowned.
“I said I could make pleasuring yourself all the more pleasurable.
She couldn’t halt a gasp of surprise or the blush that reddened her cheeks. A knowing gleam entered his eyes and a rush of fear displaced the embarrassment. What they had just done was something no wife did. Such illicit behaviour belonged in the world of the demi-monde…belonged to Aphrodite.
Chapter Nineteen
Taran scanned the ballroom for his wife. He’d last seen her on the dance floor. Their eyes had met and her expression had said she would murder him at first opportunity. He couldn’t prevent a smile. No doubt the wench was remembering another such soirée where the room had been just as stifling and she’d got herself into a pickle by giv
ing her maidenhead to the very man she was trying to cuckold.
For the first time since discovering her identity, he wondered what would have happened had she succeeded. He couldn’t halt the vision of her in another man’s arms, his mouth on her breasts, finger insider her channel as he brought her to climax before filling her with his cock. Taran recalled the previous night in his bed, her intent to cover her deception. She had tried to avoid his bed, but that was because she feared he would sense the familiarity. She had intended to hide the fact she betrayed him.
“What are you doing to yourself?” he murmured. “A woman has only that which is given her,” she had said. “I decided to take something for myself.” How could he blame her? Any woman of substance would have seen marriage to John as a prison sentence. She couldn’t know he was any different and had, in fact, done everything short of running away to get him to cry off.
Taran smiled with memory of how she had accused him of kidnapping her. He nearly had—might have—had she not melted beneath his touch. And she had melted. Her responses hadn’t been practised that night, or the next, or the next. She had intended on experiencing another man’s touch before being ruined by the brother she envisioned to be the mirror image of John. She hadn’t bargained for him. Taran laughed. He hadn’t bargained for her.
“Are you all right?”
Taran turned at the sound of William’s voice behind him. He grinned. “Better than I have ever been.”
William’s brow rose. “Seems married life agrees with you.”
“Who would have thought it?”
A shadow crossed William’s face. “We need to talk.”
Taran motioned him to follow and began threading through the crowd towards the small parlour down the hall on the east side of the ballroom. There was no doubt. William had discovered Caroline was Aphrodite and was certain the news wouldn’t bode well for their marriage. Odd, but he couldn’t have been more wrong. While Taran wouldn’t stand for another man touching her, he was immensely thankful for the woman who wasn’t willing to take only that which men allowed her. Yet, in the end, like him, she understood duty. Though, for the life of him, he suddenly couldn’t understand why duty dictated she marry a man she loathed. Etherton might threaten poverty, but Taran could see intimidation having little effect.
They reached the edge of the crowd and William came up alongside him as they strode down the hall. Once in the parlour, Taran closed the door and seated himself in the wingback chair across from the small sofa William lowered himself onto.
“Had you not asked me, Blackhall, I would keep my nose out of the whole business.”
“You have discovered that Aphrodite is my wife.”
Surprise flickered across William’s face. “How did you find out?”
Taran laughed. “It would have been hard not to see it.”
His friend’s expression turned speculative. “You sound as if it is a good thing.”
“It is.”
“And the fact she was at the masque with another man?”
“She fled your company, if I recall.”
William assented with small dip of his head, then said in a neutral tone, “You do not seem perturbed that your wife intended to fuck another man the night before your wedding.” His brow creased into a frown. “How is it that you were the man she fucked—er—made love to?”
Taran’s cock jerked with memory of Caroline crying out when he’d buried himself deep inside her.
“You two decided to consummate the wedding early.”
Taran jarred from the erotic picture and shook his head. “She did not know who I was, nor did I her.”
“By God, Taran, that bit of deceit goes too far.”
“Beware,” Taran said in a low voice.
William regarded him, then shrugged. “As you wish.”
“Things are not as they seem,” Taran said, regretting the surge of possessiveness that had forced the outburst. By God, he was a besotted fool.
“She is your wife. If you are satisfied with her, that is your business.”
Satisfied was hardly the word Taran would have chosen.
* * * *
The ball was only three hours into swing and already the ballroom was overflowing. Caroline paused at the doors leading to the rear gardens and scanned the dance floor. Anxiety burrowed deep in her stomach. This party was too reminiscent of the masque, and the wanton acts she’d committed with Taran earlier were too close to the things they had done in the gardens that night. How had the truth escaped his notice?
She slipped onto the balcony. Cool air washed over the flushed skin of her face and neck and she wished mightily the elbow length sleeves were shorter. She stepped up to the stone railing and gazed into the darkened garden. Instead of the ridiculously manicured maze of Lord Forbes’ garden, tall trees dotted the horizon beyond the expanse of lawn. Branches rose like stick phantoms that beckoned into a dark world where the night creatures’ opus rivalled the music drifting from the ballroom.
With a glance through the French doors at the crowd that seemed even larger than it had been a moment ago, Caroline hurried down the steps to the grass and across the lawn. As she entered the cover of trees, she slowed. Insects and frogs went quiet as she crept forward, guided by slivers of moonlight so skimpy it seemed she walked in a dream. She’d had little opportunity to explore such large treed gardens. Her uncle’s London townhouse garden was a small patch of land where a solitary elm stood sentinel in the middle of the tiny kingdom.
She had once visited an estate in London renowned for its arboretum, but she’d been there during a day party and had explored but a small section before being waylaid by the Baron of Lochshire. For once, Caroline gave thanks for her uncle. The baron was set on making her his baroness, but Uncle had his sights on nothing less than an Earl for a son-in-law.
Caroline halted beside a large elm. The creatures resumed their song and she relaxed against the hard wood of the tree, eyes closed. So here she was, wed to the earl of her uncle’s choosing, the one man she loved, for all the good it would do her.
Taran had given no indication that he found anything about her familiar. Perhaps Aphrodite was nothing more than a distant memory. Hope rippled on a quiver through her stomach. If enough time passed, and he noticed any likeness between her and the woman he had spent the night with in the carriage, he might reason that time had coloured the memory. She had never meant to hurt him. How could she have known he was nothing like his brother, that she would fall hopelessly in love with him, and that the crushing need for him made life without him unbearable?
Sounds of a rustle to her left caused Caroline to straighten. She gave a small cry at sight of a large figure approaching.
“Lady Blackhall.”
Caroline’s blood went cold. Lord William Edmonds.
He stopped a few feet in front of her. “Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.”
When had he arrived? Her breath caught. Had he followed her into the gardens? Why? Did he want to confront her, extract money or perhaps her charms in exchange for his silence?
“Quite all right, my lord,” she said in a steady voice.
“Gardens like these are a dangerous place,” he replied. “Would you not agree?”
Panic pushed her wayward pulse into a gallop. Did he know what she and Taran had done in Lord Forbes’ garden? Had Taran told him about their tryst? The answer hit with a sick turn of her stomach. He knew because he had been watching when Taran had pulled down her bodice and touched her breasts.
“Is everything all right, my lady?” Lord Edmonds’ voice broke the silence she hadn’t realised stretched out between them.
“Yes,” she replied. “Just tired. I believe I will retire for the evening.”
“Retire? Come now, your guests will be disappointed should you disappear so early in the evening. All you need is more fresh air.” He grasped her elbow and started deeper into the trees.
“Sir.” She pulled free and took a step back
. “It is enough we are alone, going deeper into the trees is scandalous.”
“Caroline—”
She stiffened. “Lady Blackhall.”
Her heart skipped a beat when she thought he hesitated before saying in a low, silky voice, “Lady Blackhall, surely you cannot care what these Scots think.”
Caroline gasped. “One of these Scots is my husband.”
“You need not fear him.”
“True enough,” she replied. “But you might when he discovers you tried to entice me into the gardens.”
“Entice you?” The steel in his voice was unmistakable. “I found you here in the gardens.”
“I thought I was alone.”
“Alone? That can be even more dangerous than an assignation. A lady never knows what sort of knave she might encounter in the darkness.”
“The kind my husband will run through with a sword—even if that man is a friend. He has fought duels over far less things than a man accosting his wife.”
William’s sudden laughter caught her off guard. “Indeed he has. I have never known a man to challenge so many duels and live.”
Fear tightened her chest. Was that a threat? Several heartbeats of silence passed and she had the impression he was studying her in the dark.
“Forgive me, madam. For a moment…never mind. I had better get you back inside before Taran sends a search party.”
This time, he placed a hand beneath her elbow and gently guided her in the direction of the mansion. They broke from the trees in time to see Taran standing at the balcony railing, silhouetted by the blazing lights of the ballroom. He had stated to turn back towards the doors, then pivoted back in their direction. He stilled, stared for an instant, then hurried down the steps towards them.
The light behind him kept his face in shadow, but there was no mistaking the determined gait in his stride. Over the course of the evening, Caroline had noticed the almost imperceptible way he favoured the injured leg. He made no such consideration now, and she cursed her stupidity for seeking refuge in the trees. He was furious, and if anything could trigger his memory of their night in the gardens, it would be the reversal of roles in this garden.
