He stood before her, stark naked and magnificent. She swallowed a gasp of surprise as she stared in aroused disbelief.
She had seen marble statues of Herakles and Zeus on the Continent, her governess explaining that such powerful muscularity was a representation of an ideal in Greek society, an ideal that good Christian British men were meant to aspire to in their virtuous living.
The lesson had not included a word about the raw, masculine sexuality that would make her blood pump harder, flushing her skin and swelling her sex, warming her despite her own nudity. For before her was the ideal made flesh, flexing and breathing and covered in fine, light-brown hair.
Joseph too was flushed and gawking, the wonder on his face softening the brutish strength suggested by his bulk. “Sophie. You are divine.”
He pulled her into a passionate embrace, his mouth feasting like a hungry man’s, his avaricious grasp claiming her down the length of her spine to grab her buttocks.
“Get on the bed.” The brown flecks in his gray eyes darkened to a foreboding hue.
He jumped on the mattress after her, clutching her to him, delving in with a deep kiss, the new intimacy of skin on skin thrilling, warmth melding into warmth, blurring where her body ended and his began. He cupped a breast, pinched the nipple and growled a laugh when she jerked against him. He smoothed his hand down her curves to rest at the pleasure spot between her legs then rubbed gently, his strokes long and languorous, tantalizing her only enough to start that luscious climb to oblivion. His tongue in her mouth matched the slow cadence.
“God, Sophie,” he rasped, “you don’t know what you do to me. I’m trembling on the edge of desire.”
She trembled too. His hand, his tongue held her captive in a heightened state of arousal, an erotic prison from which she clambered to burst free.
“Joseph,” she moaned against his lips. “Please, I need you to…to release me. To let me have my crisis.”
“No.” He removed his hand, leaving her bereft. “Not yet.”
And then he reached over and retrieved the butter dish.
“I found this among all the other discarded bric-a-brac here. I got quite a surprise when I cleaned it up.” He held it out as if studying it. “Such a curious thing. Then I remembered this used to be where the marquesses of lore brought their mistresses and it made sense.” He brought it before her view. “If you notice, there is an intriguing erotic scene on the cover, apparently indicating what one is to do with the butter stored inside.”
A man, dressed in a style of clothing worn one hundred years ago, held his erect and frighteningly huge penis in his hand, aiming it at the exposed buttocks of what looked to be another man, who smiled.
Sophia had never seen anything like it. “Those are two men!”
Joseph chuckled. “Yes they are. But if one were to try to explain the act to one’s mistress, it would be in this context—this is how men take pleasure from each other so let’s do it too.” He raised his brows provocatively.
Sophia’s eyes widened. “You mean in my,” she began, then lowered her voice as if someone else might hear, “arse?”
Joseph grinned with excitement. “Yes, love.” He placed the dish on the mattress.
She looked down at his jutting erection. He too was huge, although not so out of proportion as depicted on the porcelain cover.
“Will you fit?”
“I’ll take that as a compliment to my manhood.”
She giggled at his naughtiness. “Will you enjoy it?”
“Every damn second, darling. It is extraordinary.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You’ll enjoy it too. Trust me.”
“All right.” She nodded.
His expression of pure joy shot a shiver of excitement through her. He retraced the tracks of his touch with his mouth, pecking, licking, nipping from her neck to her mons, pausing at her breasts to suck her yearning nipples, turning anticipation into craving. Once at her excited clitoris, his tongue nimbly stroked it as had his finger, awakening her desires once again to that maddening point just before the climb to the peak. He fumbled with the butter dish then lifted her hips off the mattress, reaching under her.
He prodded her tight hole. She yelped.
“Shh, shh,” he consoled her. “Just let go and feel it.” He recommenced his torment of her clit.
She relaxed upon realizing the reason for the butter. He lubricated his way into her most forbidden of places, one finger circling around the orifice, spreading the rich cream. Then ever so slowly he pushed in and pulled out, one finger joined by a second then perhaps—but she wasn’t quite sure—a third.
Because by that time she was absolutely lost in a new oblivion, a place where she relished being trapped in an unfulfilled state of arousal.
“Darling, do you want me?” His low, sultry voice rumbled up her core.
“Yes, Joseph.”
He sat on the mattress on his knees, reached for another scoop of butter then massaged his formidable cock until it was glossy. He grabbed two pillows from the head of the bed. “Lift up,” he directed, indicating her hips.
He put the pillows under her buttocks, raising her, then positioned himself at the entrance. “Darling, it will hurt for a moment. Take deep breaths when you feel pain. Let your body release the tension with every exhale.”
And then he pushed in. Slowly.
A slight pinch was followed by a sensation of luscious fullness. She wanted more and tilted her hips to give him better access, thrusting forward in encouragement. He held her gaze as he advanced further.
A jolt of pain seared her core. She choked.
He paled. “Breathe, Sophia, breathe. Calmly, slowly.”
She puffed breaths, releasing her grip with every exhale, enabling his further entry until he was deeply embedded. A wave of sensuality flooded over her. She gasped.
“Darling?” His forehead wrinkled.
She moved her hips. “Is there more?”
He chuckled and pulled out, only to push in again, steadily, gradually increasing his rhythm, his concerned gaze continuing to track her expression. Her hips undulated to his cadence and his lips curled in satisfaction. He reached down and caressed her clit.
The familiar torment began, now juxtaposed with a new pleasure, a pleasure tinged with pain, delicious pain, like the exquisite burn from the swats on her behind. He drove into her, his ragged breaths laden with groans and oaths, mingling with her moans of joy, her utterances encouraging him to give her more, for she was climbing, climbing to the peak again, and he with her, the exertions of their bodies synced to reach the goal together.
She was there a second before him, the sensuous assault too much for her virgin sensibilities. Her body tensed as she screamed a growl, thrusting her hips up and holding them in the air as she shook and continued to shatter.
He came with a barking cry, thrusting deeper, piercing a tight muscle, shooting a searing shock of pain to tear through her, a pain that only heightened the incredible climax to another level of orgiastic delight.
He dropped onto her, exhausted, his heart thudding against hers, his chest heaving from his exertions. His cock slackened as he calmed and he pulled out from the intimate connection.
“Sophie, my Sophie.” He kissed her cheeks, clutching her to him. “Darling, please tell me you’re all right.”
She was more than all right. She was stunned into elation. “Joseph, that was simply amazing.”
He chuckled softly. “Would you believe me if I told you the same. We’re perfect together.”
They were perfect. She had nothing to compare such intense intimacy to, but it was perfect. She wrapped her arms around him more tightly. “We are, aren’t we?”
“Oh my sweet—”
An insistent knock on the front door resounded through the studio. They froze.
“Sophie? Are you in there?”
“Henny!” Sophia gaped at Joseph in panic.
He placed his finger over her lips to silence her then got u
p and put on enough clothes for propriety’s sake and threw the rest on the bed. Don’t worry, he mouthed, then closed the bed curtains.
Chapter Nine
Henny stood outside the door of the wrought iron folly, concerned her knock had yielded no response. The windows were shrouded by drapes as was usual to ward off the chill that burdened the space even in spring, but the door was locked. If someone was inside, there were few reasons why they would lock the door.
And if the occupants were Sophia and a certain handsome American, there could only be one reason.
She had looked everywhere for Sophia but couldn’t find her in any of the usual places so headed for the studio. As she had approached the ornate structure, hope and fear had swelled her heart. She trusted Sophia but running off at midnight during a crowded ball was one thing. Disappearing in the middle of the day when sins could be too easily exposed was quite another.
She was about to leave when the door opened part way. Joseph poked his head out. “Henny? Come inside.”
He seemed abashed, not his usual self. He was in a state of disheveled undress, much like the first night she met him only more so. His unbuttoned shirt hung outside his trousers, his cuffs flapped loosely around his wrists.
She flushed from embarrassment. “Joseph, if this is a bad time, I apologize. I’m looking for Sophia. Well, her mother is and I offered to help.”
He remained before her, befuddled, shifting his weight. He raked his fingers through his hair. His very messy hair.
An acrid scent lingered in the air. She had intruded on a very private interlude indeed.
She flicked her gaze to the old curtained bed in the back of the space that Joseph had set up in part to humor her. He slid his hand down his face as he let out an exhale.
“Henny, please believe me, we haven’t done anything we should not have done. I mean we have but look, see Sophie’s still, well she’s still—”
“Intact?”
He colored and nodded.
She had wanted Sophia to explore a bit. But to be starkly presented with the afterglow of a sensual scenario was rather shocking.
“Please don’t tell Arthur, whatever you do.” He looked at her pleadingly. “It would ruin everything.”
She shook her head. “I have no intention of telling Arthur. I’m partly to blame here.”
The curtains around the bed rustled and the mattress squeaked with movement. A moment later Sophia peeked out. She grinned.
“Henny!” Sophia ran to her, dressed only in her drawers and chemise, and flung her arms around Henny’s neck.
“Oh my dear, dear Sophie.” Henny kissed Sophia’s hair, put her hands on either side of her head and looked her in the eye. “Get dressed, darling. Since you really should not be here unchaperoned, say you were walking in the old birch copse. I’ll tell your mother I couldn’t find you.”
“Thank you, Henny.”
Sophia returned to the bed, stopping to grasp Joseph’s hand, to gaze at him. He gazed back with a twinkle in his eye and a smile curving his lips. They were dangerously in love. And Henny was foolishly elated for them.
“I’ll leave you two now,” she said, turning to go.
“Henny, wait,” Joseph called.
She stopped.
“Look, if you see Arthur, say you came here and found me just woken up. I was drawing and felt I needed a rest. That covers us both—you don’t have to lie completely about coming here and I have an excuse why I’m a little tardy with the copies.”
In their rumpled state, Joseph with his arm around Sophia’s shoulders, she nestled comfortably against his chest, they appeared a perfect picture of young love. Her heart broke—there was no future for them.
“Yes, Joseph. If he asks, that’s what I’ll tell him.” She smiled and left, her only cheering thought that if Sophia did have to marry Royston, eventually he’d tire of her. And Joseph would be waiting.
* * * * *
Arthur swirled his port, the liquor’s sweet bouquet mingling perfectly with the intoxicating fragrance of Henny’s perfume. She had come to his study that afternoon agitated and wanting the release only physical intimacy could bring. It was risky doing such a thing in the light of day but it was oh so wonderful.
She cleaved to his side in the drawing room after dinner. Dinners with his family could be pleasant respites from bachelor meals in his apartments but were more diverting when Henny and her mother came to stay. This time, though, Royston was visiting as well and Arthur wanted to avoid the man. But Henny insisted Arthur attend every damn dinner while all three were visiting.
At least Henny had insisted the men take their port with the ladies in the drawing room—a modern arrangement to be sure. She knew he could not stand to be in such limited male company. The presence of the women would dull the sting of the duke’s caustic remarks.
And the duke was always ready with a caustic remark.
“How is this little project of yours faring, Petersham?”
If anyone other than Royston had posed the question, Arthur would have felt compelled to answer politely with a hint of intrigue to spark the man’s interest. Instead the purpose of the statement as a condescending jab was altogether apparent.
“It is faring quite smoothly, Your Grace,” he responded noncommittally.
“I’m sure it is easy to sway the novice investor with fantastical stories of America, the land of plenty and possibilities.”
“Really, Your Grace,” countered Father, “I think Arthur has found some good men. I know Thuxton is very interested.”
How unexpected that Father would show even a modicum of support.
“Thuxton? Well that’s impressive,” the duke responded rather indifferently.
“Indeed it is, Your Grace,” said Henny. “It seems every scheme the earl involves himself in becomes a success.”
Arthur smiled behind his port. Thuxton and Royston were rivals in business, Royston having lost a bundle far too many times just because he felt the need to be stubbornly contrary. Arthur could not understand such antagonism. If a scheme was good, it was good. Unfortunately Royston had become a barometer for bad investments, just as Thuxton had become the measure of good ones.
“Well by all means then, I should pay more attention to his habits,” Royston responded acerbically. He turned to Arthur. “Perhaps I’ll think about joining your little venture.”
Arthur did not want a ha’penny from the man. “Well initial investments are quite high to ensure complete commitment.”
“Didn’t I hear you recently sold your fleet of carriages, Your Grace?” Henny’s honeyed voice dripped with scorn. “I’m sure you have something left over from whatever debts were paid with the proceeds from that.”
“The carriages were worn and broken down and really only appropriate for a bachelor,” Royston replied with a glance across the room at Sophia. “I’m in the market for something more family oriented.” He downed his port with repressed annoyance.
The sound of Sophia’s gleeful laughter turned all attention to her. Arthur was glad for the distraction.
Henny took his arm. “Let’s join your sister, darling, to see what all the fuss is about.”
“Yes, love,” he responded. “Thank you,” he said under his breath.
Sophia, Mother and Henny’s mother Lady Bloxholme surrounded Joseph while he drew at a writing desk.
“No, ma’am, I really do not know anyone who got rich off gold,” Joseph said to Mother. “I’ve heard that most of the money was made by those selling shovels and pick-axes.”
“Oh dear.” Mother smiled. She had become less aggrieved by Joseph’s habit of not calling her by the proper form of address.
“What’s so funny, Sophia?” Henny asked.
“Mr. Phillips drew a picture of a cattleman in the Wild West. He called him a ‘cow-boy’ and said I could have it.” She held the drawing out for Henny. “Look at the wonderful cows.”
“Ooh,” Henny chirped. “And that precious calf.”<
br />
Joseph had sketched a charming picture, something Arthur rarely saw from his friend since he spent much of his time drafting mechanical plans. The women were agog over his drawings of what looked like scenes and people from the western United States.
“And he said he could only draw a certain type of Indian,” Sophia said to Henny, “because some of them walk around with barely a stitch of clothing!”
Henny gasped and the two women giggled.
“Let’s see what you got there, Phillips,” Royston said, barging in.
The duke shuffled through the drawings, grunting and humming dismissively. “Not quite good enough for the Royal Academy but rather quaint.” He placed them back on the desk. “Where did you learn to draw?”
“Oh here and there,” Joseph responded politely.
“Didn’t you say artists would come to one of the houses where you took lessons?” Sophia piped in then blushed.
“Yes, that’s true, Lady Sophia. I was allowed to take such lessons with the other children of the house.”
Royston sneered. “So you have no academic training?”
“Nothing as formal as that,” Joseph agreed.
“Yes, well I can tell,” concluded the duke. “It definitely shows with some of this unpolished line work over here.” He waved his hand casually over no particular part of a landscape.
“Oh pshaw, Your Grace,” Lady Bloxholme countered. “Mr. Phillips is quite skilled and you know it. The Royal Academy would be pleased to have him exhibit with them.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Joseph said bashfully.
“Well you’ll have your chance to compare, Your Grace, soon enough,” Father rumbled.
Joseph raised a brow at Arthur.
“The Season opens with the Royal Academy Exhibition,” he explained. “Next week.”
“Oh! We’ll take you to the exhibition, Mr. Phillips.” Henny smiled. “We’ll make a young persons outing of it, just the four of us.”
“Four?” queried Royston.
“Why me and Arthur, and Mr. Phillips and Sophia.”
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