by Jane Lark
When he faced her again he had a glass in each hand and, walking towards her, he held one out.
She took it, looking at the ruby coloured liquid. “Then why play, my Lord?”
“Because I find myself at a loose end. I need diversion. Please, sit, Miss… What is your name?”
He asked as though he’d only just realised he didn’t know it.
“Ellen, Lord Edward.” Her voice sounded cold even to her, and formal.
“Sit then, Ellen. Let us get to know one another.”
Perching on the edge of an armchair she felt like a mouse before a cat, waiting for the moment he would pounce.
He sat in the chair facing her and leaned back, his legs splayed slightly, drawing her attention to the physical strength in his muscular thighs.
The instinctive awareness which had ailed her earlier returned. She was attracted to him, despite all else. The room suddenly felt hot, she looked up blushingly to meet his gaze. The light in his eyes implied he saw her susceptibility, but he did not speak of it. “Your age, Ellen?”
“Women do not speak of their age, my Lord,” she snapped, angered by his ability to move her and apparently remain unmoved.
He smiled, a heart stopping expression. It set hers skipping against her ribs.
Am I really so shallow I will simply succumb to his looks?
“I am four and twenty, if it makes you feel better to know my own,” he answered, his tone relaxed. “There, it’s not so hard to say one’s age.”
“I cannot see why you care to know it.” She could remove a year, two, even claim to be younger than him, she could pass for three and twenty, but she was unwilling to lie. Her life had been so full of sin, adding another lie, no matter how small, felt suddenly intolerable.
He said nothing, waiting for her reply.
“I am eight and twenty, my Lord. Older than yourself, and now you have embarrassed me.”
“It matters not. We are adults, Ellen, age makes little difference.”
“Then why ask?” she bit back, annoyed by his languorous tone. He disturbed her, she felt hot and uncomfortable, afraid—yet not afraid. Her heart thumped; a hammer ringing upon an anvil in her ears.
“Because I cannot understand what you are doing with a man like Gainsborough. He must be twice your age. You cannot persuade me it is his looks or character which draw you.”
Spurred, anger flashed through her. Who was he to judge her? He’d bartered over her body. How could he accuse her of poor choice? Surely it was obvious why she was with Lord Gainsborough; she had no choice. But she would not admit it. Not to him or anyone. She would not face that humiliation. Instead she played the part of a woman who chose to be a man’s chattel.
“Because he was the highest bidder, my Lord, what other reason would you think?” Deliberately she edged her voice with a sultry cutting pitch. The role of harlot was now instinctive. She would act it for Gainsborough too once this was done, to placate his damaged pride.
“Are you telling me I cannot afford you, Ellen?” He was amused by her; she heard it in his voice. She imagined him laughing at her, inwardly.
Lord, the self-confidence of the man was infuriating.
“Your words, my Lord.” She took a sip of port from the glass in her hand.
“Yes, my words.” he repeated, his pitch sobering. He drained his glass, set it aside and stood. “But I do not need to pay, do I, Ellen?”
A dart of longing pain stretched through her core, confirming his words. No man had stirred this reaction in her since Paul. He was right. Her body craved his.
“Come.” He stepped towards her and leaned down. Mesmerised by him, she watched his movement, while uncertainty and fear warred with attraction.
His long, beautiful fingers wrapped about the bowl of her glass and lifted it from her hand.
Unwilling to look up, unable to meet his gaze, she heard the click of the base as it was placed on the table.
His fingers then closed around hers and encouraged her to her feet.
She was silent as he lifted the string of her fan from her wrist, stripped off her gloves and put them down beside her half empty glass of port. Then he moved closer and one hand pressed against the small of her back while the other curved beneath her chin, lifting her face.
“Ellen?”
She met his gaze, hearing a question and a statement in that single utterance of her name and somehow knew he wouldn’t force her, as others had done before. He was asking permission and offering admiration, she saw it in his eyes.
“You have such beauty. I swear I’ve never seen the like.” His gaze holding hers, his curled fingers trailed upwards, the tender, gentle touch following the line of her jaw and sweeping up across her brow, before brushing down her nose. Then his thumb rested on her mouth, running over her lips.
“Do you wish for this too?” he whispered.
There was no need to ask what he meant, her body sang with longing for his, her skin was already hot and sensitised by the flush of desire. The pressure of his palm at her back pulled her lower body hip to hip with his, making the level of his arousal blatant as the outline of his erection pressed against her stomach.
He’d said he wanted diversion.
She needed him for release. If only for an hour or two, she could escape.
Her lips brushing the pad of his thumb, she formed the single word of agreement, surrender, her arms lifting to his shoulders. “Yes.” No, for the first time since Paul, this was not surrender, this was choice.
The rhythm of her heartbeat lurched to an even greater pace, her gaze locked with his, captured by the invisible link she felt woven taut between them.
His hands fell, resting on her hips in a gentle brace, just for a moment.
His touch was like an expression of awe, not domination. His hands skimmed upwards across her ribs and then reaching the soft flesh of her breasts, his palms and fingers clenched her through the thin material of her gown. Time stopped, suddenly suspended as his gaze dropped to her lips and he lowered his head.
When their lips met, the rush of desire through her veins was overwhelming. Instinctively her fingers slipped upwards delving into his soft hair, clasping it. His tongue slid into her mouth and he tasted delicious. He drugged her senses, taking her away somewhere else, somewhere outside of her sordid, soiled self. His crooked thumb dipped into the low neck of her gown and brushed across her breast, stroking her casually as his mouth ravished hers. A pleasant spasm ran from her breast, spiralling down through her body to her stomach and into her womb. Her body already ached for fulfilment.
Feeling brazen to the core and every bit the wanton whore life had made her, her tongue passed across his lips, into the warmth of his mouth and her fingers fell to his shoulders, splaying and running downwards. They slid over the taut muscles beneath his evening clothes, revelling in his athletic physique and descended to his breeches.
An erotic, pain filled sound resonated from his chest and reached her mouth as heat. But abruptly his fingers left her breast, grasped her hand and removed it as he broke their kiss. Yet his eyes were still dark with longing as they met hers. She knew her look mirrored his.
The timbre of his voice thick with desire, he said, “I would like that, Ellen, but it is not what I want tonight, not yet. Let me lead. I want to see you gain your pleasure first.”
He wished to give her pleasure? The ice about her heart cracked and warmth seeped into her blood. This was more than lust, much more, it was longing beyond a physical need. She’d given herself to men for years, she knew what pleased them. None of them had cared for what pleased her. Pleasure during sex—was it still possible? If it had been like that with Paul, she’d forgotten.
His head bowed and his lips brushed her neck while his gentle fingers slipped the straps of her gown from her shoulders then followed the neckline of her dress, slackening the material and drawing it down. With his head lowered his hair caressed her skin as his fingers lifted her breasts free, then one taut
peak was absorbed in the warmth of his mouth. It sent a tremor across her skin and pain and pleasure reaching inside her.
He did not just want her body, he wanted her soul. It had only ever been Paul’s. But with Edward Marlow she wasn’t sure she could keep it safe. When Gainsborough touched her—when she touched him—she detached her mind. He took her body, but only her body. This man would claim everything.
He lifted away from her again and began plucking pins from her hair, watching the dark curls fall to her naked shoulders and over her breasts.
“If someone comes in?” Ellen heard her breathless words.
“No one will.” His voice was deep. He sounded as lost in lust as her. His hands rested on her shoulders and turned her to reach the back fastenings of her dress. The small ivory buttons slipped free one by one, and he kissed her exposed skin.
“You’re so beautiful.” The whisper brushed her neck as her dress fell in to a pool at her feet. Then his fingers swept her hair across her shoulders before tugging at the lacing of her light corset.
When her corset fell away too, he began stripping off her chemise, lifting it over her head and baring her breasts before throwing it aside. Then his hands reached about her and gripped together, drawing her back against him as he kissed her neck.
“You are nature’s finest art.”
Her head tilted back, savouring his caresses and his hand slid down over her stomach and then slipped under her cotton underwear. No one had ever caressed her with such tenderness. She ached for him—he made her feel—every nerve in her body was humming for his touch—it was a rising floodtide inside her. It was torment, unbearable. It stole her awareness of everything but him. She wanted to cry out, to protest and scream. She did not. He did not stop. Oh, she was afraid of it, of this unfamiliar feeling.
There was an explosion of pleasure. It rushed through her blood, a flood, racing, ripping her apart, an unearthed power she hadn’t known existed tearing into her limbs and leaving them weak. She felt him take her weight as she nearly fell and her fingers gripped his forearms. His lips brushed the skin behind her ear and he did not cease.
“Not again, please.” Her words were breathless. She was afraid of the torrent that might flow now the dam was breached, afraid of losing control. He was still a stranger. It was too hard to trust.
His answer was to turn her and kiss her. She willingly returned it, her hands gripping fists full of his hair, as the tide of his passion swept her away again and he leaned her back a little so the chair’s seat pressed against her calves until she fell back. She knew it was by design when he knelt before her and smiled and then his gaze dropped and he began loosening the ribbon securing her drawers. He slid them off, leaving her naked—exposed—while he was still fully clothed.
His warm breath brushed her breast. His eyes were glazed and his pupils wide dark onyx pools as his gaze swept over her body.
Awareness of the room, of him, refilled her. “This is not fair.” She hesitated, unfamiliar with desire. “I want to touch you.”
Amusement and compliance shining in his eyes, he released the knot of his cravat while she pushed his coat from his shoulders.
Once he was stripped of neckcloth, coat and waistcoat, she tugged his shirt from his waistband and lifted it off over his head before throwing it aside. Then she reached for the buttons of his breeches but his hands stopped her.
“Not yet.”
Why? What else could come?
Lean muscular contours rippled across his torso, shadowed by a dusting of dark hair across his chest which narrowed to a line delving into his waistband. Instinctively she licked her lips, only to be disturbed from her admiration by a sound of humour in the back of his throat.
“Careful, you’ll make me think you’ve not known pleasure like this.” His voice was low and husky, laden with lust and unexpected humour.
His hands gripped her hips and drew them forward, tumbling her backwards, and his head bent to kiss her stomach. Her muscle tightened, caught by surprise, but she was equally overwhelmed by a feeling of tenderness—care. It pierced her disordered thoughts. It was in his touch. She knew if she asked him to stop, even now, he would.
Moisture rushed into her eyes. This man is kind and gentle. Longing swelled inside her, body and soul. Desire and hope.
But he is not my rescuer. She had to push the thought away and shield herself behind denial. Her heart could not be involved in this. It was a physical hunger. He knows the art of sex better than other men I’ve known, that is all.
His fingers slid down her thighs and up again. “Relax, Ellen,” he whispered, looking up and smiling.
She closed her eyes, took a breath and tried to, but she felt so nervous and uncertain. When his lips touched her, her fingernails dug into his flesh.
She’d thought herself incapable of embarrassment after a lifetime of humiliation, yet this intimate caress made her blush. No one else, not even Paul, had kissed her there.
She clung to him, hanging on as he urged her back into the pool of sensual delight. He knew more than Paul had done, Paul had made her happy, but never like this.
This time when the flood swelled, smashing aside her sanity, Edward did not let her escape but pushed her over another wave. It was then he freed the buttons of his breeches and filled her.
An exclamation of satisfaction left her lips.
His slate-blue-eyes looked into hers and his closed lips smiled as he pressed into her again. He smiled more and she gripped the arms of the chair.
Well, she had wanted escape. He was certainly giving her that.
The sweet sensations transported her beyond the room, body and soul, and she clung to him, watching him through a haze of lust.
He was so beautiful, hard, masculine, yet gentle.
She loved this man, she had known him only moments but still she knew she loved him. He’d possessed her body and her heart.
He released her hips and held her hands, weaving their fingers together.
How could this? How could anyone stand such..? Light exploded within her.
The man was a God, an athlete, his strength, his stamina, his gallantry all spoke of it. There was no doubt.
“You are…” She stopped, hardly knowing what she said, and then her fingernails digging into his flesh she fell over the edge of reality into an abyss of sensation far below.
A virile cry escaped his throat, erupting from deep in his chest and he hastily withdrew.
When she felt the warmth on her stomach, she was plummeted back to reality and felt cheated, insulted. She was still a whore whom he would not want to bear his child. He was no hero, just another man. For a moment she hated him, even though he’d only really shown forethought and kindness. He’d reduced the possibility of a child. What good would a bastard child bring? No good, except a memory of this one night of release and him.
Ellen felt cold, thrown from a warm hearth in to snow, soiled again, naïve and foolish. She’d given herself completely, crying out. Anyone in the hall outside might have heard her. She hadn’t just let him use her, she’d let him pluck and strum her sensual strings. He had played her like an instrument for his amusement. She’d spent years under the influence of men and still she had not learnt this lesson. Men took. He simply had a greater skill and different tastes.
Yet the delicious feelings he’d stirred up inside her still ran through her blood, overwhelming her tangled senses. Without looking at him, she accepted the handkerchief he pulled from his coat and held towards her. Then she wiped her stomach, expecting him to reach for his clothes and make himself ready to leave. Instead he did something which surprised her. He handed over her glass.
“Drink, it will steady your nerves.”
She sipped the ruby liquid and as its warmth slid down her throat, she dared herself, lifted her gaze and looked at him.
His fingers slotted the buttons of his breeches into place and then he bent over and picked up her undergarments. Seeing her watching, he smiled. There w
as no hint in it that he intended to simply walk away, no rake’s art, nor aversion. He looked embarrassed too. She could see his pulse flickering at the base of his throat.
Drinking down the remainder of the port in one swallow, she waited. She wanted a word from him, an acknowledgement, something. Something to confirm his life had been changed by this, by their private interlude. She wanted it to not be her imagination.
But what could change?
Nothing.
He did not have the money to free her from Gainsborough.
She could not escape.
Just because he was beautiful and gentle and she’d engaged her heart in this, it did not mean he returned her feelings. The man was in his physical prime, he could have any woman he wanted. It doesn’t make him my hero.
She had to stop this ridiculous hope from rising to lessen the pain when he walked away.
Her stubborn heart clenched in her chest. He’d been kind. He was being kind now.
How pathetic she’d become, craving so much for kindness she would love a man after little more than an hour, simply because he’d thrown her crumbs of it.
She accepted her undergarments from his hand and rose, pulling them on while he donned his shirt and tucked it in.
“My corset?” She couldn’t tie it alone with the lacing at her back. “Would you send for Madam?”
“I’ll lace it.” He smiled, a masculine blush darkening the skin across the bones of his cheeks and took the garment from her hand. She turned.
Her fingers pressing it to her ribs, his threaded the laces at her back.
The gentle tug as he worked each lace, the pressure of her corset as he pulled it tight, the brush of his fingers as he tied it off—sent warmth racing through the heightened senses of her skin.
Daft, foolish woman to make so much of this. His skill with the lacing of a corset was testament to the level of his past experience.
He bent and picked up her dress. “Lift your arms, Ellen.” And so, she was dressed.
While his fingers worked the tiny buttons at her back into place, her senses reeled and her head told her heart over and over again, this was no more than sex.
