A Wicked Pursuit

by Isabella Bradford

  Until, that is, the knock on the door interrupted them, and she quickly—too quickly—hopped up.

  “That must be supper,” she said cheerfully. “Enter.”

  To Harry’s dismay, three servants marched in carrying trays with sufficient food and drink to feed an entire household.

  “You didn’t have to let them in, you know,” Harry said as the servants began setting the table with supper. “You could have sent them away.”

  “I could have,” Gus said serenely, sitting across from him at the table, “but then I recalled that you are famished, and I did not wish you disappointed or unhappy.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, thinking of how much he’d liked having her kiss him. “I’m not that.”

  But he would have to admit—not that he did—he was indeed hungry, and the food was much better than he’d expected. The chops in particular were exactly as he liked them, even down to the mustard on the side, and he silently marveled over how she’d achieved that precise way of bringing him such comfort. By the time the meal was done and the servants had cleared away everything but the wine, he found she’d made him forget everything that had spoiled this afternoon, and remember only how much he loved her. No wonder he also found his mood much improved.

  Apparently so did she.

  “You must be unfamished now,” she said, sitting across from him with a half-drunk glass of wine in her hand. Even by the candlelight, her cheeks were pink, charmingly so, and her eyes were bright and silvery. He suspected the cause was the wine, but he also hoped at least a fraction of it was due to him.

  “Altogether unfamished,” he said, “but not sated.”

  She chuckled, a deep, throaty chuckle that he didn’t think he’d heard from her before, but found thoroughly enticing. It couldn’t all be the wine, could it?

  “Sated,” she repeated, pronouncing it with relish. “That always sounds like such a wicked word, when all it really means is satisfied.”

  “Everything seems wicked to you this evening,” he said, teasing. “First this room, and now mere words.”

  “But inns do seem wicked,” she protested. “People coming and going at all hours, using false names, embarking on mysterious business and liaisons.”

  “What manner of inns does your father frequent?” he said, laughing. “All the ones where I’ve stayed have been very dull and respectable affairs by comparison.”

  She ducked her chin and sipped her wine, her amethyst earrings bobbing against her cheeks.

  “Perhaps I exaggerate a little,” she admitted. “I do not know for certain about false names and mysterious business. But once when Father had taken us down to London, we stayed in a room next to an amorous couple who were very noisy, thumping the bedstead against the wall and moaning and crying out all the night long. Papa was incensed, and banged against the wall to try to shame them into stopping. When they didn’t, he made Julia and me wrap scarves around our heads so our maiden ears wouldn’t hear the racketing.”

  “But you did hear,” he said, intrigued.

  “Of course we did.” She leaned over the table toward him and lowered her voice to a completely unnecessary confidential whisper. “Julia fell asleep, but I slipped the scarf away from my ears so I could listen. I’d no real notion of what exactly the people were doing, but I could tell they were enjoying themselves. The sounds they made were exciting.”

  “Indeed,” he said, amused and aroused by the thought of her eavesdropping on some anonymous couple’s lovemaking. “You say that as if you’re excited now from remembering.”

  It didn’t take much perception to make that guess, but the way she grinned and pressed her hand briefly over her mouth showed exactly how good a guess it had been.

  “There’s only one thing to be done, then,” he said, pushing his chair back from the table. “We must try making some noises of our own.”

  She pushed her chair back, too, and came toward him, stopping just out of his reach.

  “Because Mary has not yet arrived,” she said, beginning to unbutton the neat row of buttons on her habit’s jacket, “I fear I must undress myself. I trust you will not mind it.”

  “I’ll overlook it this time.” Damnation, he was already hard in his breeches, and all she’d shown him was the white linen blouse, cut like a man’s shirt, beneath her jacket. She shrugged it off her shoulders, turning the sleeves right-side out and beginning to match the seams to fold it.

  “Drop it,” he ordered. “To the floor. A truly wicked minx wouldn’t bother with folding.”

  She looked momentarily surprised, then did as he asked and dropped the jacket, the metal buttons clinking lightly on the floorboards.

  “You called me a minx,” she said as she unbuttoned the cuffs of her blouse. “Is that what you think I am?”

  “Most times I’ll think of you as my wife,” he said, “but tonight I believe you’re a minx. A wicked, wicked minx.”

  She laughed, pulling the shirt free of her waistband and then, in a single sweeping move, drawing it over her head and letting it float to the floor. Next she untied the petticoat that went with her habit, and the one beneath, and let them fall into a ring of crushed silk around her ankles. Daintily she stepped free, now clad only in her shift, her stays, and her hoops.

  He sighed. She would be absolutely captivating if she weren’t wearing the hoops, ugly rings of linen-covered cane that hung like drums around her waist.

  “Hoops,” he said. “Why the devil do ladies insist on wearing those things?”

  “To support our skirts to the fashionable width,” she said promptly. “Julia says I’ll be scorned as a dowdy if I don’t wear them all the time in London.”

  He sighed again. London would come soon enough, and he’d no wish to think of it just yet.

  “Since I do not wish you scorned in any way,” he said, “feel free to wear them in public. But at home with me, I would be heartily grateful if I never saw them around your waist again.”

  “Agreed,” she said, untying the hoops and tossing them onto the pile of her other clothes. “I don’t like wearing them, either. They make me feel clumsy and ungainly.”

  “Not you,” he murmured, distracted. He didn’t like hoops, but he did like stays, especially the ones she was wearing now. Covered in some sort of flowery dark red silk, they raised her breasts up for his approval, and narrowed her waist. Beneath them she wore only a knee-length shift of linen so fine that it revealed the darker hair at the juncture of her thighs, with her legs in pale blue stockings and red garters, and little shoes on curving heels.

  For the first time she stepped close to him. She turned around to present her back and the zigzagging lacing of her stays, as well as her delightfully rounded bottom.

  “I’m sorry to have to ask you to unlace me,” she said, “and I don’t know if, being a gentleman, you’ll even know how to undo the lacing knots.”

  “I’ll try,” he said, seeing little use in revealing exactly how much experience he had in unlacing stays, and quickly, too. “But I believe the light will be better on the other side of the room.”

  She twisted about to look over her shoulder. “Nearer to the bed?”

  “Exactly,” he said, standing. “And you doubted you were a minx.”

  It took him a while to reach the bed, not because of his leg, but because in the course of crossing the room she managed to divest him of his neckcloth and waistcoat, and to untuck his shirt from his breeches as well. When at last he sat on the edge of the bed, she insisted on taking off his shoes and his stockings, and had untied his splinted brace as well.

  “There,” she said, kicking off her own shoes. “Now we’re almost even.”

  “Not quite,” he said, pulling her closer between his knees and turning her around. “Not until you’re rid of this.”

  Deftly he undid the knot in the lacing, then took his time drawing it through the eyelets to torment her. At last the lace pulled free and her stays slipped forward, away from her chest. She shrugged t
hem forward from her shoulders to drop heavily to the floor, and as she did he reached forward to cup her breasts in his hands.

  She gasped, then sighed with pleasure, swaying back toward him as he teased her nipples into stiff little peaks. He kissed her nape before he trailed more kisses along the side of her throat to the sensitive place behind her ear. She shuddered with delight, her lips parted and her breathing ragged.

  “Are you feeling wicked yet, sweetheart?” he whispered into her ear.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, the words barely audible.

  “Good,” he said, tugging a little harder on her nipples as he caressed her breasts. “Now take down your hair for me.”

  She gave an impatient small shake to her head. “Now, Harry?”

  “Now,” he said. “Or else I’ll stop.”

  Quickly she raised her hands to her hair and began to pull the pins that held it in place, letting them, too, drop and scatter to the floor. Finally her hair tumbled down, and she shook it free around her shoulders, a shining curtain of hair that smelled of lavender, a scent he always now associated with her.

  “There,” she said, turning around to face him. “Now it shall be my turn to order you about, Harry. You’re still wearing far too many clothes for my tastes, beginning with this shirt.”

  She unfastened the buttons at his throat and the diamond shirt buckle besides, and the buttons on each cuff in turn. He loved how serious her expression had become, how determined she was even as she looked as wanton as a woman could, her hair loose and her shift pulled down beneath her breasts. God help him, he’d never tire of her breasts, and he reached for her again.

  “Not yet,” she said, chuckling and wriggling free. “I told you, it’s my turn now.”

  She slipped her hands beneath the hem of his billowing shirt and up his torso, her palms sliding across his belly and up his chest. He loved seeing the look of delight on her face as she explored him, and he loved even more how she touched him, her little hands eager and curious. Laughing, she finally pulled the shirt up and over his head, and he loved the greedy expression on her face, too, just before she kissed him.

  But what she began as a playful kiss soon turned into something more urgent, more raw. His kissed her hard, his mouth desperate for the tenderness of her lips. He swept his tongue deep into her mouth, his first possession of her, and felt how in response she clung to him, pressing her body against his, her breasts against his bare chest, skin against skin. That was enough for him; they’d dallied too long, and his need was too demanding to wait any longer.

  “My turn,” he said, his voice rough with wanting, and before she could protest he swept her shift over her head and off as well. He drew in his breath, stunned by how beautiful and desirable she was, far beyond his imaginings. Her full, ripe breasts rose and fell with her rapid breath, and he’d bruised her lips to ruddy fullness with his kissing. She was dusted with freckles everywhere on her pale skin, and her cheeks and chest were flushed with her arousal. She tossed her hair back over her shoulders and restlessly shifted her thighs together, seeking ease from the longing he’d built between her legs. He understood: His cock was like iron in his breeches, his balls taut with need.

  She smiled, suddenly shy, and curled her hair behind her ear, an unconsciously seductive gesture that drove him wild.

  “All you’ve left me with now are my stockings and garters,” she protested, her voice husky and low, “whilst you still have your breeches.”

  “Not for long,” he said, tearing the buttons open and shoving his breeches from his hips.

  His cock sprang free, hard and ready and done being patient. He hooked his arm around her waist and pulled her up onto the bed. She fell back with a gasp of surprise, her hair fanning out on the sheets and her breasts bouncing. She pushed herself back up on her elbows to watch him climb onto the bed with her.

  “I still have my stockings,” she said, raising one leg to begin untying her garters.

  “Leave them,” he ordered. “I like them as they are.”

  He did like them, the bright scarlet ribbons tied below her knees, red against white skin. She hadn’t yet lowered her leg entirely and he caught it, kissing the inside of her knee above the garter as he knelt between her legs.

  Watching him, she shivered and wrinkled her nose. “That tickles, Harry.”

  “Does it now?” he said, unable to resist giving her one last little nip. “Bend your knees and spread them for me, and I’ll show you something that doesn’t.”

  She obeyed instantly, her eyes heavy-lidded with anticipation, and he couldn’t resist kissing her again, his mouth grinding over hers. He took her by the hips and pulled her closer so that he was settled between her wide-spread thighs. She was rosy and wet with arousal, the proof that all their little games had been as exciting for her as they’d been for him. He rubbed the head of his cock along her opening and she sighed, her eyes widening at the sensation. Restlessly she canted her hips up, sliding along his length in invitation with a whimper of longing.

  “You’re so damned hot, Gus,” he growled, pulling her closer and setting his cock at her opening. “I want to stop and enjoy this, but I can’t hold back, not when you’re like this.”

  He grasped her firmly by the thighs, opening her wider, and settled his cock between her lips. She was wet and hot, weeping for him, and this time when he thrust into her, she gasped with only pleasure. Three quick strokes and he was buried deep, and there was no other place in Creation he wished to be.

  He kissed her hungrily, and she responded, her hands moving up and down along his back.

  “Oh, please, Harry, don’t stop,” she whispered, her expression feverish as she spurred him onward. “Please, please, don’t ever stop!”

  It was encouragement he didn’t need, not with her. He slipped her thighs over his arms and she curled her legs over his back, the silk of her stockings rasping seductively against his skin. Relentlessly he drove into her, nearly pulling out with each thrust, only to plunge back into her depths. She writhed beneath him, her breasts jolting and her hips rocking up to meet him. With each thrust she let out a breathy little cry of abandoned joy that was the most intoxicating sound he’d ever heard.

  “My God, Gus, you’re good,” he muttered, grunting with each thrust. “So good.”

  “Don’t—don’t stop,” she pleaded, panting as she clung to his shoulders. “Oh, Harry, please.”

  He could feel his cods tightening as he came close to spending, and he drove her harder, faster, as her cries came louder in his ear. The blood pounded in his head, and every muscle in his body strained. Everything narrowed to only Gus, and his desperation to lose himself in her. In a frenzy he pushed harder, and as he did, he felt her convulse around his cock.

  She cried out one last time as release swept her away, her fingers digging into his back as she arched and shuddered with the force of it. With that, his own crisis exploded as well, and with a roar, he emptied himself into her, pumping hard, until at last he sank down beside her, burying his face in her lavender-scented hair. He was spent, exhausted, as winded as if he’d just run from Norwich himself. He didn’t care. He’d found Heaven, and he was in no hurry to leave.

  Still breathing hard, he pushed himself up to gaze down on her face. Her eyes were closed, her lashes feathering over her rounded cheeks, and her own breath only now beginning to calm. He kissed the bridge of her nose, just to remind her he was there with her. Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled, a blissful, slightly crooked smile.

  “Oh, Harry,” she said, her voice a delightful croak. “I have no words.”

  “You don’t need any,” he said, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her chin. Her skin tasted salty; he thought it was delicious. “Not now.”

  Wanting to relieve his weight on her, he rolled onto his back, pulling her with him to lie on his chest. That made her laugh, and she sprawled shameless over him, letting her legs tangle with his.

  “Happy?” he asked.

  “Um
m,” she said, the picture of contentment, and idly traced her fingertip along his jaw. “I am sated.”

  He chuckled, spreading his fingers to curve comfortably around her bottom. “Sated and spent, I’d wager. I’d also wager that if we’d any neighbors in the next room, they’d have heard you the same as you heard those other lovers years ago.”

  “Hah, they’ll have heard you, too,” she said. “But it doesn’t matter, Harry. We’re married.”

  “Because we’re married, it matters very much,” he said. He took her wandering fingertip and kissed it. “Few husbands are as fortunate as I am.”

  She smiled down at him, her smile wobbling, and he reached up to brush the first tear that trickled down her cheek. “What, because you married a minx?”

  “No, Gus,” he said softly, drawing her down to kiss. “Because I married the one woman in the world that I love the most.”

  CHAPTER

  13

  It was long past nightfall when their carriage finally rumbled into Grosvenor Square, and with anticipation and a little trepidation Gus looked from the window for her first glimpse of her new home.

  They had tarried an extra two days longer than planned at the inn in Mildenhall, for the simple but excellent reason that they’d been unable to tear themselves from the bed. For those three nights and two days, they’d done nothing but make love, with a smattering of eating and sleeping. It had been the most glorious way to begin their married life together, and Gus had been very sorry when they’d finally left early this morning. She’d been even more sorry as the day and their journey had dragged on. The closer they drew to London, the more crowded the roads became and the slower their progress had become. Harry’s mood and conversation also declined precipitously as the day went on, and by the time they’d finally reached the city, he was nearly silent. She knew it was all due to his leg, and the strain of the long day in the carriage—not that he’d admit it, not even to her—but she’d enough butterflies of her own that she wistfully wished he’d been able to offer her even a little reassurance.