It was so much better that she had initiated their intimacy for her own purposes, and that she was in control of her feelings and could and would play the pleasure game as often as he wanted.
Unless she tired of him.
A delicious thought, but truly, how could anyone tire of being the object of desire? It had all worked out perfectly, she mused, tugging lightly at his hair. He had fulfilled her father's mandate to distract and divert her, and she in turn had taken the best revenge on him by becoming his mistress.
And the game wasn't over yet, she thought. Her supposed obsession with Raulton could still be in play. It couldn't hurt to make Jeremy jealous while she enjoyed what he was willing to give. While she could.
A man wouldn't hesitate. And neither would she, now that he had taught her all the tricks worldly women knew.
The reward for capitulating was enough in itself: pleasure beyond words, knowledge beyond all that was knowable, and the sensual power to make any man come to heel.
Something hot enclosed him. Something wet that pulled at the very tip of his engorged member. Something that felt so good, he didn't want to make a move lest he interrupt the steady sucking of his penis head. And those erotic little noises she was making… she loved it. He loved it, and the way her still-innocent hands kept fumbling all over his shaft and his balls…
Damn… that tongue would set off a firecracker, the way she was using it on him. No one had ever licked him and sucked him so thoroughly and with so much enthusiasm, not even the lamented Marguerite.
Forget about that.
… Forgotten.
He felt himself swelling, his penis distending, his body tightening, gathering, pointing… right there, right to the very center of all that heat, all that wet and that rhythmic erotic pull that now compressed just the turgid tip of his penis.
He wanted to jam himself into her, to see if she could encompass his length that way, her way, his way. He followed the pull of her lips and tongue, his body lifting, grinding, thrusting toward the pulsing sucking of him. Just that, just there-never never never… it was too much, not enough.
Even he… he wanted more more more, just that little more deep in her mouth, stroked by her tongue-the whole head, nothing more… nothing ever more. And she took him, right to the ridge, and it was cataclysmic, the fury with which he came, the way she pumped and sucked it right out of him until there was nothing left. He spurted. Nothing. Another gust. Over now. Drained and gone.
No. Not over. Damn and hell, she was not getting it all. Not by hell. He wrested himself from her greedy mouth and levered himself up on one arm. Oh, yes, he was still hard and hot to spume. More than enough to blast inside her. And her breasts already smeared with his cream… He wanted those breasts in his hands now… and her flat on her back.
She looked so smug he wanted to mount her right there and ride her until the sun went down.
No. He wouldn't last.
Really?
"Lie down." That was about the best he could do at the moment, and he didn't like that cat-lapping smile she gave him; but she willingly lay down, and he rolled onto her and just plunged himself between her legs.
Control. Had to keep control.
He rolled onto his back so that she straddled him, and the expression on her face was wondrous. He was even deeper now, pressing against her pleasure point, and her breasts were there before him, her nipples tight and inviting. She leaned forward to offer them, and he took each one between his fingers as he thrust into her.
Startled, she ground downward to receive him, her hands braced against his shoulders. Was there ever such pleasure? Between his fingers voluptuously compressing both nipples and the short, heated thrusts of his penis, she thought she would dissolve altogether.
She looked like a goddess, with her wild tumbling hair, her pumping hips, her round, taut-tipped breasts, and her responsive nipples that were the only way a mere mortal could contain her.
And this-he drove into her with all his violent need- this… her nakedness, his; this... her nipples, his; this… her sex, his; this... his cream, his, discharging explosively between her legs…
This…
He had to cool off. It took every ounce of strength to leave her, and even then, he wasn't sure he should have. He didn't like the look in her eye, but she could ignore Reginald no longer; it was already well after noon.
He was still primed as a pistol when he slipped down the servants' stairway, and getting in deeper and deeper. He could have pinned her and popped her until she cried for mercy the way he was feeling, and it shocked him.
Damn, damn and damn. Taking a vestal vixen like that and making her his mistress. Was he sane? And because she wanted it. For how long? And when would the recriminations start? Could he believe anything she said? Or was his penis totally in control and he didn't care?
God, he needed a drink. He needed to sit by himself and stew in his own hot blood with a tot of whiskey to tame the rampant beast.
There was always Heeton's, that bastion of male dominance, the most select club in the whole of London, where men of influence and wealth conducted the business of the nation in the hushed sanctity of shadowy corners.
That was the place for a man to ruminate on his sins and excesses. And regain what little sanity he had left.
But it was not to be. He was accosted immediately by the aging quartet known as The Four Crack Hands, who presided over the Betting Book and the Calendar, and who dispensed any information about social venues as though they were meting out water torture.
But the Book at Heeton's was the be-all and end-all of the Club. It was infinitely more exclusive than the one at White's, private, secure and sacrosanct; nothing written in the Book ever went beyond the doors of Heeton's for fear of total ostracism, and The Four Crack Hands guarded it as if it were the crown jewels.
Bodley was the Keeper. "Here's a familiar face, gentlemen"-he raised a toast-"and not a wager as to when he might reappear amongst the living after dispensing with the fair Marguerite…"
Jeremy blanched as he shook hands all around. Marguerite? After all this time? Still?
"How did we slip up on that plum pot…?" This was Berkleigh already calculating guineas lost, a sum that didn't bear thinking about. "When did you get back to Town, exactly?"
"Three days ago. I didn't snuff it, gentlemen. I've been rusticating. And now I'm back in full cry. So what's to do?"
"Oh, you're a one," Fallowell now. "You think you ain't chatter broth already? Let me disabuse you of that notion. Even if we didn't know, every matchmaking mother in Town was aware to the instant when you stepped foot back in Port-man Square."
It was so true, he had to smile. An eligible man was nothing short of a bon bon, to be savored, chewed over, and eventually swallowed whole by one or another of the beauties of the Season.
It was every man's destiny-when he wasn't being a remedy; when he wasn't educating a virgin to be a mistress. When he wasn't being swallowed whole by her.
Oh, God____________________
"Speaking of that," he said, his voice raw, "what's the Book this week?"
"You won't believe it."
"Try me."
"Raulton."
Jeremy lifted a brow. Worse and worse. Damn damn damn….
"It's true. He's been prowling the sidelines and the on dit is he's out to hang up the ladle." The amusement factor was enough to send Bodley into transports. "And there's much interest in some quarters. They're pounding deep on this one," he added, patting the Book.
"Who's the front line?" Jeremy asked, casually, he hoped.
Bodley ticked off the names. "Miss Law, The Honorable Miss Garland, Lady Olney, Miss Soames. This week anyway."
"A tidy cat-patch," Jeremy commented impassively. Re-gina's name booked? Already? Damn, damn, damn and hell.
"Your presence could kick things up a bit," the reticent Rustington suggested
"I daresay it will." Jeremy took a flute of champagne from a passing waite
r. God, if he thought he needed liquid sustenance before, it was nothing to how he needed it now. Those bettors were among the highest flyers in the land, Personages who didn't discuss their business in public. Or their vices.
Raulton's matrimonial chances would be fair game at White's within days, by the looks of it. Too many people were talking already, and that inevitably and always led to book.
Damn and hell.
He had no time at all to get Regina out of the line of fire.
"And so how did it end with the fair Marguerite?" Berk-leigh asked.
Damn again. They were as insatiably curious as women. Better he dispense the story of his congé than let them speculate. At least his version would be all around Town by morning. "As you might imagine, gentlemen. She caught a warmer scent and she rode out of town without a backward glance." That they all understood. Who hadn't been given the mitten by a ladylove whose affection was sold to whomever was plumpest in the pocket?
"Ah, poor Jeremy." Bodley again. "It is ever the way with them dashers. Damned shame, but there it is. Well, welcome back, my boy. And let us toast the indomitable Marguerite, wherever she may be." He lifted his champagne flute. "May she be dished up and dashed down and never make another man miserable again…"
Chapter Five
So there it was. She had permitted a man to touch her, to possess her in the most intimate and erotic way, and she saw nothing different about herself when she looked in the mirror.
Maybe a little different. Her eyes were brighter; her skin seemed to glow. Perhaps she stood a little taller to emphasize her breasts. She was tellingly aware of her body and her capacity for sensual gratification.
She felt strong, powerful. There was a world of knowledge in her bearing and in her gaze.
And she felt no shame. Rather, every part of her felt sumptuous, carnal, untamed. Clothed, she felt her body spurt to life at her intemperate thoughts. Jeremy must must must come back to her tonight.
But that was not to the point this morning. She was so late to breakfast, her father would already have ordered his midday meal, and there was no ducking that.
It was just that he would be over concerned about her, about the pace of their days and their social commitments being too much for her.
And now they were, she thought irritably, as she checked her hem one more time and then made her way downstairs. Now she wanted every evening free for Jeremy, even supposing he would come to her every evening; anything else seemed insipid and banal.
But this game must be played as well. And she must contain her impatience and her clamoring body, which, even as she entered the dining room, was erect to all the possibilities of the day.
"Father." She seated herself and poured a cup of tea.
"Regina. Are you all right, my dear?"
"Oh, yes." She sipped. Easier not to talk.
"And Jeremy saw to everything last night? He said you had a headache."
"He was solicitous as ever you would be, I promise you. I spent the night in bed." Not a lie. Not wholly the truth. "And I'm up to the mark for whatever's on tonight." Yes, yes. She had to be, because she saw clearly she couldn't be lolling around waiting for him. That would be the height of folly and confer far too much power on him and his prowess.
Her body stiffened.
Don't think about it…
"I'm glad to hear it," Reginald said. "It is but a small party at the Petleys'-cards, refreshments, perhaps some dancing. Nothing onerous. Everything amiable and early home. Do you feel the thing? Will you come?"
"I'm happy to," she murmured. Anything to preserve the pretense that nothing had changed.
Everything had changed, and she became more aware of it by the minute, not least her consuming impatience over the trivialities of the day. Receiving guests. The ride in the park. The hour calling on friends and acquaintances. Another half hour shopping for furbishments at Clark and Debenham. Over to Hatchard's for a book that she likely wouldn't read. A nap, fruitless by herself alone. A bath, which only served to heighten her awareness of her body.
And a sense of herself observing, taking mental notes about what she felt, what she did and how her everyday life was impacted by her new knowledge.
She had grown up and, in the course of a day, grown away from virginal pursuits. When her maid laid out her gown, her only concern was whether it was adult enough, revealing enough, something a bold and coddled mistress might wear.
And indeed, where would someone virtuous come by clothes like that? Still, her maid could quickly alter a neckline, pare down a puffed-up sleeve, damp down her thinnest under-slip, find a patch to emphasize her best attributes.
And she had to be careful, so careful, that her father found nothing amiss with her appearance. For the party at the Petleys', she chose to wear a dress of cream-colored glacé silk overlaid with lace and trimmed with silk flowers. Innocent, beguiling. A little daring around the oval neckline which was cut low. Slippers to match, shawl and gloves. Her hair done up in a knot with a ribbon of the silk flower trim banding her curls.
Not too formal, she thought critically, surveying herself in the mirror.
Not too girlish. Not too fast. Passable for a private party.
Maybe.
She wrapped the shawl around her swelling breasts. Her father couldn't forbid it if he didn't see them beforehand. And if it was too much, she would just wear the shawl all evening.
And besides, there would be no one at the Petleys' who was not over the age of forty. This wasn't a night for pleasure games. It was simply an evening in which she was accommodating her father's desire to be with old friends.
That notion stood about as long as it took them to get to the Petleys' town house in Westcott Square, where it appeared the Petleys had issued an invitation to everyone in their set. By the time Regina and her father arrived, there were at least sev-enty-five guests crowding into the refreshment room, the card room and the grand parlor, and more guests coming behind them.
"Come, come-" Lord Petley at the entryway, a large, bombastic man whose satin waistcoat strained over his belly, a man with a good heart and an open hand to his friends. "Don't stand on ceremony here; there's plenty to do, food in the anteroom, and we're getting up an orchestra for dancing. Cards? To your left. Regina, my dear. Just your night. There's a game of loo about to start in chips. Mr. Raulton heads the table. I know your fondness for it. Do you join them."
Her heart almost stopped. Raulton, here? The man was everywhere. And it meant Jeremy might show as well. What luck. What good fortune.
"I would be pleased," she murmured. "Father?"
"Don't stay on my account," her father said, too heartily. "I can easily drum up some company or a game of cards." And drum Mr. Raulton right out of this house, but that was not his purview, nor could Regina refuse to join Raulton at the card table now without seeming churlish.
Events were conspiring against him, Reginald thought furiously, as he watched Regina glide into the card room and take her seat at Raulton's table. The man was too damned slimy and ingratiating, because if he weren't, the Petleys never would have invited him for the evening.
Nor could he stay and keep an eye on Regina. It was the most damnable thing. She was out to get Raulton, and like a plump plum, everytime she turned around, he fell into her lap.
He stalked into the refreshment room, not quite sure what he wanted to do, but vaguely planning to bring Regina something to drink and then spill it all on Mr. Raulton's head.
Not too subtle, that. He almost wished Regina had been laid low by her headache of the previous night. He hoped against hope Jeremy would come. He felt as helpless as only a father can feel when his beloved child has walked into a predator's trap.
He took a glass of lemonade and made his way to the card room. There was no way to observe them unnoticed. The honest thing was to present Regina with the lemonade and withdraw.
But when he caught sight of the table, with Regina, Raulton, and six other people besides, and saw tha
t the cards had been dealt, and the first lead was in play, he changed course.
No use upsetting things. Nothing could happen there.
He needed a drink and something stronger than lemonade.
Damn, he needed Jeremy.
Jeremy was fighting his worst instincts, the invitation to the Petleys' crumpled in his hand, already a block from their town house and thinking it was the worst idea to spend an evening with all those browseabouts and bagpipes when he could be spending himself in his mistress.
But not this soon. Not after he had dressed her to the nines on the duties of a mistress to her keeper. Sheer folly to bend under the weight of his lust and give in to his clamoring penis. A man had to be stronger than that. Harder than that.
Damn hell.
A small card party with supper was just the thing to take his mind off of her. He would have to mind his manners and keep focused because Lady Petley had a great fondness for whist and for him as a partner.
Just the thing.
Maybe…?
He topped the town house steps and entered the hall. What the hell was this? A small, select group of what-a hundred?
And the noise! The music from the far parlor. The laughter in the card room. People playing cap-verses in the dining room, shrieking their clever rhymes above the din.
Typical Petley row. Damn. Hell. Now what?
He turned on his heel to leave, and just caught sight of her out of the corner of his eye. Regina… Raulton… shit-
Damn her to hell.
He eased his way into the card room, every expectation met: there was Regina, sitting across from Raulton, beautiful, breathtaking, sensual, and the bastard couldn't keep his eyes off the swell of her breasts, which, with that abomination of a dress, she of course fully intended should happen.
She knew she would see him here, he thought venomously. Maybe she had even planned it. God knew, she had had the whole afternoon to weave her little web, to convince the Petleys perhaps to include him among the guests. Damn and hell, he never goddamned should have left her.
She was booked at ten-to-one at Heeton's. Hard in the running for that man's hand. Soames was fifty-to-one, even though everyone had seen them together at the Skeffinghams'. It was thought she was a little too green in the grass for him.
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