“Shhh,” he soothed, gently removing her hands from the places they guarded with soft, moist kisses. Her nipples tightened in painful delight against the light brush of his lips. She thought she’d go mad when he ran his fingers lightly through the thatch of dark curls covering her woman’s flesh. Reflexively she clenched her thighs.
“No, let me feel you.” His eyes ate at her, hot and dark. Using the tip of his finger, he delved into the moist throbbing flesh, rubbing firmly but gently. His reward, a new rush of moisture. His hands shook. Her hips began to jerk. He gritted his teeth, his face taut with unslaked desire.
His fingers continued to stroke and ply her flesh, parting the tender folds to explore hitherto undiscovered territory, building something inside her she had never experienced. Delving deeper, he found a piece of flesh at the apex of her feminine folds. A nudge of the nub had her hips arching high off the bed. He quickened his movements and the sensation of a band being pulled tighter and tighter gripped her, mindless pleasure growing almost unbearable. Then he lowered his head, pulled the tip of her breast to the roof of his mouth, and sucked. She exploded. The crescendo came in waves, her hips pumping frantically against his ceaseless fingers until, after one last abandoned thrust accompanied by an exultant cry, she slumped, sated, onto the bed.
She was still gasping in the aftermath when James clasped each rounded buttock cheek in his hands, squeezing slowly and using his thighs to spread her legs wider for his scorching presence. Drugged with spent passion, she turned a heavy-lidded gaze to him and watched as he guided his straining erection to her entrance. Slowly he pressed the thick head of his penis in, stretching the tight confines. The sensation of fullness she experienced from his girth was neither painful nor pleasurable, just different, its pressure inexorable.
Sweat trickled down the sides of his face, his teeth clenched, his expression strained.
“Try to relax. This is going to hurt a little.” The words came out in a labored groan. Before Missy had a chance to blink, he thrust hard, burying himself to the hilt. The pain, although not unexpected, caused her to flinch and stiffen. Her tender flesh roiled under the assault, causing her muscles to clench spasmodically.
“Oh God, be still,” he gasped, his face a picture in torture.
For what must have been a half minute they didn’t move, only pants of breaths filled the chamber. In that time, her body accustomed itself to his rigid presence and slowly relaxed, each pulse of his organ no longer discomforting.
James began to thrust, his strokes slow and long. After a minute, the pace quickened and the feel of his erection dragging against her inner walls grew to be quite pleasurable. His hands on her buttocks flexed as he held her still and thrust strongly into her. She could feel herself climbing once more toward the crescendo. Soon his hips were moving furiously, pounding into her, pushing her head and pillow up against the bedstead. Before she could glimpse the summit, he gave a hoarse, anguished cry, drove his hips into her one final time, and emptied himself, before slumping on top of her, his head buried in the crook of her neck.
Several more seconds and she was certain she would have attained the pleasure she’d experienced just a short time before. She would have loved to reach that pinnacle with him inside her.
As Missy lay beneath his heavy but welcome weight, his breath labored and harsh, she breathed in the musky scent of lovemaking. She’d never thought that it had a scent; had never particularly thought about it at all, but it did, and not only was it musky but it was salty and humid. Ambrosia.
After about a minute, when their breathing was almost normal and their heartbeats had slowed, James rolled to the side, sliding out of her in a flood of liquid. He quickly rose, trekking naked from the bed to the wash basin, and came back with a damp cloth. In silence, his expression tight and dark, he wiped the remnants of their lovemaking from between her legs and then began to pick up the strewn garments from the floor.
Missy, an innocent in such affairs, had no idea what to do.
“Here, put this on,” he said gruffly.
Not a trace of tenderness softened his tone or eased the tautness of his features. Missy immediately felt as naked as she was. She snatched the chemise from his hand and began dressing. James was dressed in no time at all, leaving her to yank on her petticoats in conspicuous silence. She balked at the idea of asking James to help her with her stays so she’d just have to do without them. Her dress, however, was another matter. She could not manage the buttons by herself. How she now wished she’d worn a dress that buttoned down the front.
She tugged the bodice into place and then peered at him over her shoulder. He watched her with a dogged intensity.
“I can’t manage the buttons by myself.” A warmth stole over her cheeks as she presented him with her back. “If you would not mind?”
The silence following the request implicit in her statement was as combustible as paraffin oil and fire.
She shot another glance over her shoulder, and nearly started at his expression. There was such a look of carnal desire in his gaze, she thought for a fleeting second he intended to pounce on her. But it was gone in an instant and he approached her with unshakable calm.
He dealt easily with her buttons, but his breathing, ragged and harsh by her ear, indicated the performance of another task far more strenuous. For a moment, when he had finished, his hands grasped her shoulders and squeezed, not hard, but with enough strength to flutter her already sensitive nerve endings. He released her abruptly and retreated several feet back.
“Is that what you came here for?” he asked in a frigid tone.
His question hit her with the force of a felling blow. She stared at him, her eyes wide and disbelieving.
“How can you ask that of me?”
“Why else would you follow me up to my bedchamber?” he bit out.
“You—you left me—I mean we weren’t finished,” she said, grappling for an answer.
“You just couldn’t leave well enough alone. You were determined to have what you wanted and damn everyone else.”
Missy sputtered. Whatever warm feelings she’d had in the aftermath vanished at his accusation. He intended to hold her solely to blame for what had occurred between them. He was heartless. Worse, she was weak and supremely stupid.
“I did not force you to make love to me,” she replied, tilting her head to stare him directly in the eyes.
He gave a dark laugh. “What we did had nothing to do with love so please don’t fool yourself. I’d have to be the bloody Pope to turn down what you’ve been offering. I was bound to succumb.” His voice held a note of self-disgust.
She reeled under the impact of his words. She turned away quickly, tears stinging the corners of her eyes. She would be damned if she would cry in front of him.
“I shall see myself out.” She exited the room and crossed the hallway to the stairway with anxious hurried steps.
Once she hit the bottom step, the butler appeared, dour and silent, her shawl and bonnet draped over one arm, her reticule and gloves in the other. She accepted them with a blind urgency, studiously avoiding his gaze.
As she stepped out into the misty London air, she glanced back into the house and a movement at the top of the stairs caught her eyes. She met James’s closed expression just before the door closed.
The journey home was a blur, thoughts of the last hour consuming her. She had just made the most foolish mistake of her life. She was ruined. No decent man would have her now. And should her mother discover, she would be positively heartbroken. The viscountess looked upon James as a son. This would be betrayal of the worse kind. And Thomas. She shivered, refusing to entertain the thought.
After Stevens handsomely rewarded the driver for his services, he and Missy entered the townhouse through the servants’ entrance in the back. Stevens ventured ahead and made certain the way to her bedchamber was clear. Missy barely managed a strained smile of gratitude before she rushed into her room and turned the lock.
> Walking toward the bed, she caught a reflection of herself in the mirror. She had the look of a woman who had been thoroughly tumbled. Her thick hair was mussed, her lips kiss-swollen and red. Between her thighs, the sharp twinges and pleasurable aches reminded her of her lost virginity. Heat spread throughout her body when she remembered how completely abandoned she had been in his arms. How the blind pleasure had turned her into a wanton, arching into his hands as he’d stroked her. And how she’d pressed his head down to suckle her and end the exquisite torture of her nipple. A familiar ache quickened within her, blood surging to pool between her thighs to create a steady thrum.
Dismayed, Missy turned from the mirror and launched onto the bed. He had scorned her afterward, practically accusing her of being some sort of seductress. It was unholy of her to derive such pleasure from the memory of their lovemaking—or whatever he wished to call it.
Like dried leaves at the mercy of a strong gusting wind, her mind whirled. Heartbreak and shame warred with the continual betrayal of her body, as it betrayed her even now. And her feelings for James? To her shame, they weathered the storm of his disparagement and scorn. She wanted to hate him; would will it if she could, but that feeling in her throat, as if her heart had lodged itself there somehow, would soon make a mockery of such sentiments.
What was she to do now? She wouldn’t tell a living soul and she imagined, neither would he. He liked his life as it was, sans wife. But what if the butler said something or one of the other servants had witnessed her comings and goings? If word got out, she would be ruined. And without a marriage, she would be shunned by Society. No respectable man would ever want her. And her family…the shame she would visit upon them would be enormous.
And James.
An anguished sound fluttered past her lips. What would James do? He had compromised the sister of his best friend, a member of the aristocracy. Propriety dictated he do the just thing—propose.
A delicious shiver coursed through her. Marriage to James would be the culmination of every dream she’d ever had. And one he would resent her for, for the rest of his life came another sobering thought. To be thrust upon him like unwanted baggage was not what she wanted. She’d rather face ruination than endure that.
Chapter Twelve
Regret was a crippling emotion, or so James found it to be.
As he’d done for the past ten minutes, he swirled the brandy with a gentle roll of his wrist and watched it slosh and circle until it settled in a serene pool of escape. But it was an escape denied him as there wasn’t enough alcohol in the world that could adequately drown regret’s effects. Sober in his melancholy, he sat silently contemplating the etched glass in his hand.
With Missy everywhere in his townhouse, James had retreated to the only place he thought to find any solace: White’s.
The club was doing brisk business, but the sounds of male revelry did not prove to be as distracting as he’d hoped. Cigar smoke hung thick in the air, glass globes sat on every table, and decorative wall sconces were staggered along the walls, lighting the room in a dim glow. Several acquaintances had approached him for amiable conversation but his marked lack of response had driven them to search out more receptive company.
He had ruined her.
The knowledge stabbed like a hot blade into flesh. He had ruined an innocent. He saw in his mind’s eye the vault door shutting on his future. There was no other recourse open to him, no place he could hide from his actions. Her chances at a good match were almost none, although plenty of gentlemen would be more than happy to take her as their mistress. His blood chilled at the thought of Missy vulnerable to the scoundrels and reprobates who preyed upon the vulnerable in Society. And further still at the thought of her being shunned by their peers. Disgraced.
No, he could not allow that; he had no choice but to marry her.
Drained from him was the acrid bitterness of rage. A rage that had caused him to lash out at her, throwing sharp barbs that had fallen with unfailing accuracy. He could not absolve himself of blame in this matter. He had been an active and most enthusiastic participant in what he could only describe as the best sexual experience of his life.
A picture of Missy, her face and lips flushed from his kisses, her hair a tousled mass of chestnut curls, her breasts, soft and firm, and the downy dark hair crowning her very essence glistening with the moisture of her desire, made his pulse leap and caused his erection to throb to life. James was grateful for the protection the table lent his growing condition.
Most men would trade places with him without a thought or a whimper, he mused, scouring the room restlessly. He spotted Caldwell, Soddersworth and Ramsey, all heirs to a title, and each of them known to be courting or had courted the fair Miss Armstrong at one time. He experienced a feeling of smug satisfaction that they would never have her, and silently, reluctantly, identified the word of that emotion…possessiveness.
His fate, which had been in question when he walked through the hallowed doors of White’s, was now clearly mapped and, oddly, the idea of marriage to Missy no longer appeared quite the prison sentence. It had required many hours and a whole host of tumultuous emotions, but once he’d accepted the new path his life had taken, the road he’d once thought littered with boulders now held only pebbles and gravel. He could do much worse than Missy, and perhaps, might never do better. Of course, they’d have a typical ton marriage. At some point, she’d be glad she wouldn’t be solely responsible to slake the constant demands of his sexual appetite. In the meanwhile, he would ensure she enjoyed the marriage bed. Certainly, if her enthusiasm that afternoon was any indication, he wouldn’t have any complaints in that respect for some time to come—even though he knew, inevitably, the time would come.
The real problem was Armstrong. Convincing his friend he’d not only make Missy a fine husband, but the very best husband made a surgeon’s job look easy. But James had no choice, for the prospect of losing Armstrong’s friendship was more than unsettling, and hung like a pall over the whole affair.
James brought the glass to his lips for his first drink, and took a deep swallow. There was little point in wasting good brandy.
After draining the contents of the glass, he shrugged on his overcoat and headed to the front door. A twinge of awareness prickled the hairs on the back of his neck and the sensation of being watched increased as he neared the entrance. His gaze darted about the crowd of smartly dressed aristocrats until he spotted the source of his disquiet.
Sir George Clifton sat at a corner table hunched over what appeared to be his fourth drink if the three empty glasses lined in regiment fashion before him were any indication. Clifton watched him between squinted eyes, making no effort to hide his scrutiny.
James paused, his brow lifted in a silent query. What had he done to cause the man to watch him with such malevolence? Clifton raised the half-empty glass clutched tightly in his hand in a decidedly mocking gesture of salutations, before downing the contents. Slamming the glass down, he dropped his head.
His state of inebriation was obvious in the heaviness of his lids and the glassy sheen in his eyes, and for that reason alone James refused to confront him right then, to demand an explanation for his blatant animosity. He sent the still, downcast figure one last lingering look before exiting the club.
Victoria never knew a person’s complexion had the ability to take on that particular hue of red—certainly not one so deep and mottled. Her mother put that fallacy to rest.
Turning back to the chamber pot holding the contents of her stomach, she gingerly wiped the sides of her mouth with a damp cloth. She came slowly to her feet, aware a tirade as inevitable as thunder after a lightning strike hovered seconds away.
“Who is the father?” The words were propelled from the marchioness’s mouth with a quiet but potent fury. No extraneous questions, no probing preamble. Victoria’s body trembled from head to toe. Her mother had gauged the situation within seconds of walking into her bedchamber to find her bent over the c
hamber pot.
For a moment, she thought to deny the truth. Perhaps, she could still find a way out of the utter shambles she had made of her life. But behind the unbridled fury, Victoria could see a ruthless determination in her mother’s brown eyes. Another frisson of alarm coursed the length of her spine.
“James Rutherford.” Unable to meet her mother’s gaze, she stared down at her feet, watching as her toes curled in apprehension.
A lengthy silence followed her admission. It lasted so long, she was tempted to raise her gaze to see what kept her mother muted so long. Shock? Murderous rage? Disbelief?
“Does he know?” the marchioness asked in a voice soft and cunning.
Victoria shook her head but still could not bring herself to look up. It would appease her mother greatly if she appeared properly chastised and repentant. Her thoughts briefly went to her older sister Lillian, causing tears to well in her eyes. She blinked furiously to check their flow. At present, tears were a weakness she could not succumb to.
“You must tell him. Naturally, he will then present himself to your father to request your hand.” Victoria risked a glance up at the marchioness’s flushed, round face. She wore the look of satisfaction, her thin lips tipped up at the corners, her eyes alight with something verging on victory.
Over the years, Victoria imagined countless women had plotted and schemed to get the handsome heir to the altar without success. She would have performed a veritable miracle in the eyes of the ton. The envy and jealousy of her peers would have her mother fairly chortling with pleasure to be able to grandstand the coveted match.
Victoria managed a stiff but deferential nod.
“When is the child due to arrive?”
“February,” she whispered.
The marchioness gave a vigorous nod. “Good. Seven or so months will not have the gossipmongers crying too loudly. But that gives little time to plan the wedding. Three weeks should be sufficient. There must be some sort of courtship and a very public betrothal announcement. Perhaps at one of the grander balls.” Her mother’s eyes sparked, appearing excited by the idea. “There will be no hushed affair this time around for this family. Everything will go according to custom, however glaring in its brevity.” She brushed her plump palms together briskly as if the entire matter was already a fait accompli. “He is a fine catch. You should consider yourself a lucky girl.” With a rustle of stiff-booked muslin and pyramid silk, her mother swept from the chamber.
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