“I’m staying.” If he thought he could order her about like some employee, then he had better think twice. “If Fanny can help, then I can too. I want to.”
“Damnit, this isn’t for you,” he growled.
“Why—because you think I’m a useless, milk-fed chit who isn’t good for anything but looking pretty?” The words burst from her like fester from a boil.
“Where in blazes did you get that insane idea?” He raked a hand through his tawny mane, a gesture of supreme male impatience. “I never said that.”
“You think it.” Her voice trembled with accusation. “That’s why you don’t want me here. That’s why you’re always helping me while I’m never allowed to reciprocate. That’s why you let Fanny stay but not me—your lover. You told me once that you expect me to share not just my body but my mind and spirit as well. For your edification, I expect the same,”—she poked a finger into his chest—“of you.”
He stared at her as if she were a candidate for Bedlam. Then his gaze rose upward, as if searching for divine intervention. Then his hand clamped around her arm, dragging her unceremoniously toward the building.
Her feet and mind struggled to keep up. “Where are we going?”
He didn’t look back at her, just kept going. “You wanted to be part of this.”
Hope percolated through her. “You’re letting me stay?”
“Not only are you staying, you’re helping.” Opening the door, he pulled her through. “An enemy of mine has seen fit to threaten or pay off all the available midwives and quacks in the vicinity. Now I find myself with three women all on the verge of delivering their babes—and there’s me, Fanny, and a maid who just fainted at the sight of blood to handle it. Luckily,”—he sent her a sardonic look—“I now have an extra pair of hands.”
Swallowing nervously, Rosie didn’t dare say a word as he led her through a kitchen, up some stairs, and into a long hallway. Rooms branched off on either side, the layout suggesting the place’s prior use as an inn or boarding house.
A scream came from a room on the right. Rosie jerked—then jerked again when a long wail followed, this time from a room on the left. A string of unladylike curses came from some other room up ahead.
Fanny’s head poked out from the nearest room, her brown curls plastered to her forehead.
“Babe’s coming and not easily,” she said tersely to Andrew. “I need you in here.”
He rolled his sleeves as he strode over.
Rosie couldn’t seem to get her feet to move. “I’ll, um, fetch some hot water,” she said feebly.
Fanny managed to get off a snide look before she disappeared into the room with Andrew.
Sighing, Rosie deposited her cloak and bonnet on a bench and headed back to the kitchen, where she’d seen a large pot boiling on the stove. She filled a pail and lugged it back up the steps. Inhaling deeply, she entered the room where Andrew and Fanny had gone.
“I’ve brought the water…” A light-headed sensation hit her. A woman was groaning and writhing on the bed, her knees up, blood soaking the sheets beneath her swollen body…
“Leave it by the door,” Andrew instructed.
Gladly. Rosie dropped the bucket and dashed out.
In the hallway, she pressed her clammy hands to her cheeks, fighting back nausea. For goodness sake, don’t cast your accounts. You have to show Andrew that you’re equal to the task.
What if you’re not? Her inner voice mocked her. What if you are just a useless chit…?
“Please. Someone ’elp me.”
The labored voice diverted Rosie from her inner debate. It came again, and, warily, she followed it into a room to her left. A redheaded woman around Rosie’s age lay upon a cot. She wore a shift, a sheet draped over her burgeoned belly, her pretty freckled face twisted in pain.
“’Oo are you?” she gasped.
“Oh, hello there. I’m, um, a friend of Mr. Corbett’s.” Relieved at the lack of any visible bodily fluids, Rosie said, “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“More w-water.” The woman gestured to the empty glass on the bedside table.
Spotting a pitcher on the washstand, Rosie went to refill the glass. She returned, helping the woman to sit up. “Have some sips.” She held the glass to the other’s lips. “Easy does it.”
After drinking, the other sank back against the pillows. “Thank ye, miss. The pain comes in waves, but it’s passed fer now.”
“I’m glad. And, please, call me Rosie. You are…?”
“Name’s Sally, miss.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sally.” She went back to the washstand, returning with a wet towel, which she placed on the other’s sweaty forehead. “Is that better?”
“Yes, and ’aving company ’elps, Wish me ma were ’ere, but she passed.” Sally’s hazel eyes turned rueful. “Though she might turn in ’er grave if she knew I were in this pickle.”
Knowing a thing or two about maternal disapproval, Rosie squeezed the other’s hand in silent empathy.
Apparently eager to chat, Sally went on, “’Ave you known our Mr. Corbett long?”
“Most of my life,” Rosie said honestly.
“Fine gent, ain’t he?”
“Yes, he is.”
“And the best employer I ever ’ad. I didn’t catch this,”—she pointed to her sheet-covered belly—“from Corbett’s, you know. It were from another establishment. The minute they found out me condition, I was shown the door. Found myself in dire straits, I did, and it were a miracle Mr. Corbett took me in. ’E wanted to put me in the kitchens, but I told ’im, Scrubbin’ pots ain’t fer me. I got other talents.” She winked. “Turns out some coves’ll pay extra for a wench wif extra, if ye catch me meaning.”
“Oh… well.” Flummoxed at how to respond to that, Rosie changed the subject. “So, um, if your mama were here, what would she do for you?”
“She’d sing. Whene’er me or one o’ my brothers or sisters were ill, she’d give us a tune, and it’d make things—ooh.” Her grip on Rosie’s hand tightened like a vise. “Oh, Lord, it’s comin’ again.”
“Shall I fetch someone?” Rosie said quickly.
“No, don’t leave me.” Sally broke off, her face contorting.
Screams came from across the hall, and Rosie knew that Andrew had his hands full. Desperation filled her as she looked at the woman groaning in the bed, the hand clutching hers. What could she do to help?
Impulse took over; she sang the first lines that came to her:
What's this dull town to me
When Robin’s not near
What was't I wish'd to see
What wish'd to hear
When she paused, Sally panted, “That’s pretty, miss. Give us another verse, then.”
So she did. When she finished the ballad, Sally asked for more, so she sang a Scottish air. Then another song. Her recital was accompanied by Sally’s heavy breaths and occasional groans. She’d gone through half her repertoire and was starting to feel like Scheherazade when Sally bit out, “Ye got to get ’old of the babe now.”
“Pardon?” Rosie squeaked.
“Grab the babe—it’s comin’ out.” Sally grimaced, shoving off the sheet and revealing her shift-clad body. “Me water came a few songs back, and I’ve been pushing since. The babe’s ready.”
The last word came out in a howl, propelling Rosie to her feet. “I’ll go get Mr. Corbett—”
“Ain’t no time,” Sally yelled. “Get it now.”
Panicked, Rosie dashed to the end of the bed. Dear Lord.
The baby was coming out of Sally. There was no time to faint, to do anything but act. She reached out and caught the wet slippery head as it slipped out.
“I’ve got the head,” she managed.
Sally grunted, her heels digging into the mattress.
“Can you push a bit harder?” Sweat glazed Rosie’s brow. “The shoulders seem to be stuck…”
Sally gnashed her teeth and bore down. With
out warning, the babe popped out on a wave of liquid. With a shriek of surprise, Rosie caught the little body. Heart thumping, she stared at the breathing, tiny human she held in her hands.
“Is it…?”
The babe let out a high-pitched wail.
“A girl.” Rosie placed the babe in Sally’s arms, taking care not to tangle the purplish cord that still connected the two. “Oh, Sally, you have a beautiful daughter.”
“She is a sight, ain’t she?” Sally breathed.
“Sally, are you all right? I heard…”
Rosie whirled around to see Andrew rushing into the room. He stopped short as Sally, sweaty and beaming with pride, announced, “I ’ave a daughter, Mr. Corbett.”
He blinked. “I see that.”
“And I’m going to name ’er Rose—after Miss Rosie ’ere who brought ’er into the world,” Sally added.
Andrew’s gaze went to Rosie. His brows inched upward.
“I helped a little.” Modestly, Rosie looked down at her hands.
Which was a mistake.
She saw the blood—and other bodily secretions—covering her skin. Her stomach lurched as she also became aware of the slime oozing between her fingers and the smells...
A buffle-headed feeling stole over her, and the floor rushed up.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” Andrew murmured.
“Mmm grmph.”
Smiling at Primrose’s grumbled reply, he swept her golden tresses back and kissed her shoulder. They were in her bed, her back nestled against his front, the same position they’d fallen asleep in. He loved sleeping with her. His body craved the closeness of hers during slumber, and if she moved during the night, even asleep, he pulled her back into his arms. He found it a singular joy to wake up entangled with her.
He traced a finger down her arm, and her sleepy shiver hit him straight in the groin. He was already hard, his morning cockstand nestled between the plush curves of her derriere. He hadn’t made love to her last night; they’d arrived back at her house just before dawn, both of them exhausted. After a quick wash, they’d gone straight to bed.
Although he hadn’t slept more than a few hours, he felt invigorated. A burden had eased. True, he still had Todd to deal with—and, make no mistake, he would have his retribution—but all three wenches had delivered their babes safely last night.
And Primrose had played an unexpected role in that.
While he’d always known that she was brave and strong, her actions last night had surpassed even his expectations. She’d allowed her brightness and natural warmth to shine. Sally couldn’t stop singing her praises, and even Fanny expressed grudging respect.
Primrose had awed him. And she’d made him laugh.
He’d caught her when she swooned. The episode hadn’t lasted more than a minute, but her chagrin had been bloody adorable. He’d teased her for fainting after the fact.
Her pout had been priceless.
Even more precious was the fact that she’d gone to the Nursery House because she’d wanted to help him. She’d made it clear that she wanted him to share his mind, body, and spirit with her. Was it possible that this was more than an affair to her—that she might one day return his feelings?
The thought filled him with hope.
It also made him randier than the devil.
Beneath the coverlet, he slid his hand over her firm breast, the tip stiffening at his touch. As he stroked her nipple, she sighed, her bottom wriggling against his cock. With his top leg, he pulled back hers, trapping it and shifting them both so that he was on his back and she lying half on his chest. With one hand, he played with her tits while the other skimmed over her silken rib cage and soft belly to her cunny.
“Christ, you’re dripping,” he rasped against her ear. “I love how wet you get for me.”
“It feels so good when you touch me.” Her newly awakened voice was sultry.
He adored her honesty and the fact that she responded so readily to him. He didn’t mind working for her pleasure—indeed, he enjoyed it—but, God’s teeth, he counted it a blessing that he could make his lover spend multiple times and with ease. He’d never met another woman whose appetites so perfectly matched his own. He sucked her earlobe while he diddled her pearl. Her hips moved to the rhythm of his fingers, her thighs squeezing his hand as she came.
He eased from beneath her, rolling onto his side so that he could look at her. Her cheeks were flushed, her jade-colored eyes drowsy and sated.
“You’re so bloody beautiful,” he said reverently.
He brought his fingers, still wet from her climax, to her breasts and painted the tips with her own dew. His nostrils flared at his handiwork: her nipples glistened like honey-glazed berries. He bent his head, arousal pounding in his veins as he licked her taste from her tits. Soon, he craved more, wanted to drink from the source. He kissed his way downward—and was surprised when her fingers slid into his hair, stopping him.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” he said.
“I want to do something different.” Her cheeks were pink, her eyes determined.
He quirked a brow. “You have complaints about how I make love to you?”
“You know I don’t. But I want to try something. Will you let me?”
He wondered what was going on in that gorgeous head of hers, and a hot flame of anticipation licked his gut. “Be my guest.”
“Then will you please lie back against the pillows?”
He acquiesced, tucking his hands behind his head. “How’s that?”
“Splendid.” Her feminine excitement made his balls throb. “Keep your hands right there.”
She clambered gracefully atop him, her damp cunny nestling against his rock-hard abdomen. He stifled a groan, his cock prodding her arse like a poker. She leaned in to kiss him, tangling her tongue sweetly with his, and then peppering kisses over his jaw. She licked his earlobe, gnawing delicately at the tendon of his neck.
He realized that she was making love to him the way he’d made love to her. Up until now, Primrose had seemed content to let him direct their lovemaking, and although he didn’t quite understand her sudden desire to take charge, he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
When her lips closed around his right nipple, he groaned with pleasure.
“Are you sensitive here?” Her eyes held his, her finger circling the hard, flat nub.
“Yes, sunshine,” he said huskily.
She licked his other nipple, and the graze of her teeth made his hips buck, his cock sliding against the luxurious crease of her arse. She teased him some more before kissing her way down his body. His muscles flexed and quivered beneath her sensual assault, his brain turning molten as he considered where she was headed. He’d never pushed her in this regard, wanting her to explore at her own pace: she was a lady, after all.
She made a place for herself between his thighs, and her ladylike fingers wrapped around his cock. His gentlemanly consideration flew out the window. Christ, he liked her hands on him.
“You’re rather a handful,” she said breathily.
She wasn’t wrong. He was so burgeoned that her fingers didn’t reach all the way around his girth, and watching her carefully pet his veined beast aroused him even more. His prick swelled, testing the limits of her grip.
“It’s all for you. Help yourself,” he invited.
She dimpled. Her gentle frigging was a unique brand of torture, and he wasn’t complaining. She slid her fist down his shaft, moving the supple skin over the rigid core. Squeezing his thick root, she made her way back up to the tip, rubbing the slit with her index finger. His chest heaved as she drew a circle, spreading pre-seed over his sensitive crown.
“Does that feel good?” she whispered.
“How does it feel when I rub your pearl, make it wet with your cream?”
Golden lust sparkled in her eyes. “Arousing beyond words.”
“That’s how it feels for me.”
<
br /> “So everything you’ve done to me—I can do the same to you?”
Hell, yes.
“There are no rules in our bed, remember?” He couldn’t resist reaching out to tuck a silken tress behind her ear. “If I don’t like something, I’ll tell you. Otherwise, have at it.”
“I’ve always liked the idea of carte blanche,” she said with a flirty grin.
The sensual mischief in her eyes ratcheted up his desire to near perilous proportions. His stones pulsed, steamy pressure building in his shaft. Another bead of moisture formed on his cockhead, and his heart thudded as Primrose stared intently at the pearly droplet. Would she…?
She leaned forward and licked it off.
Christ Almighty.
He instantly spurted more seed, and she licked him again. A breathless grunt left him as he watched her little pink tongue flick back and forth over his swollen dome. She did this while frigging him with a feather-light touch. Prolonging the pleasure, building it this way was usually the act of someone who’d mastered the love arts, and the irony didn’t escape him that Primrose, in her innocence, was keeping him right there on the razor’s edge.
Then she fitted her lips over the tip of his cock and gave a light, awkward suck. She did it again, and he didn’t know whether to laugh or groan at the exquisite torment of being treated to inexperienced fellatio. On her third attempt, his fingers tangled in her hair, bringing her head up.
She looked adorably befuddled. “Am I doing this right?”
“If your aim is to torture me,” he said, amused, “then definitely. If you want me to come—”
“I want you to come.” Her sweet, earnest reply nearly brought about her wish. “Won’t you please show me how?”
In a heartbeat, he had her in his arms, carrying her to the blazing hearth.
“Why did we leave the bed?” she said breathlessly.
He sat in the wingchair, settling her on the carpet between his legs. He ran a thumb along her cheekbone. “It’s easier for you to suck my cock in this position, love.”
“Oh.” A sultry awareness entered her eyes. She raised herself on her knees, her hands falling lightly on his corded thighs. “What should I, um, do?”
The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6) Page 26
