by Cheryl Holt
So far, his every remark had been wrong, and he stumbled for a reply. “I . . . I . . . I’m very pleased.”
She snorted. “You are the worst liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
She marched toward the door. “Silly me, but I was actually anticipating your arrival from London. I couldn’t wait for you to see what I’d done. For you, Robert. I did this for you.”
“For me? But why would you?”
“I haven’t the vaguest idea.”
With how angry she was, his plans for the evening were likely over before they’d begun. In the city, he’d been wretched without her, yet now that he was back, all he could do was quarrel. He hadn’t had much experience with women, hadn’t spent much time in their company and had spent none in their beds, so he hadn’t comprehended that an affair could be so tricky to maneuver.
He merely yearned to fornicate in the easy manner they’d managed previously, without pausing to unravel the perplexing impulses that were driving her.
“Hold it right there, Patricia Reilly!” At his sharp tone he was astonished to note that she heeded him.
She halted and whipped around. “What do you want? And I advise you to be careful lest I simply punch you in the nose.”
He approached and walked around her, evaluating the swell of her bosom, the tuck of her waist, the flare of her hips. The fabric of her dress was a dark blue that set off the color of her eyes, the rose in her cheeks. Streams of lace had been added to lengthen the sleeves and the hem, so the garment seemed even more feminine. The bodice had been lowered, thus providing him with a fabulous view of what had always been concealed.
She had on a corset, the contraption shoving her breasts up and out, creating cleavage where none had existed prior. The spectacle had him hungering for her in a whole new way. He felt as if he was about to make love to an unfamiliar woman altogether, and the prospect was thrilling.
“I haven’t had my bath,” he apprised her once he’d finished his inspection.
“So? What concern is it of mine?”
In the heat of the moment, his worries about her seeing his battered torso had vanished. He was having too much fun telling her what to do and expecting her to obey.
If she objected to his injuries, he’d put her in her place. He was a man, and he had to start acting like it. If he didn’t adjust the tenor of their association, Westmoreland would never agree to give her away.
“I will wash, and you will attend me.”
“I won’t!” she mutinously stated. “Not when you’re being a pigheaded prick.”
“If it’s your intention to be a woman, it’s my intention to have you behave as one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you’ll prepare to bathe me! At once!”
“You think to boss me about? Me?”
“Yes, and I find I rather like it.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Patricia, we’ve finally discovered who is to wear the pants in this relationship”—he pointed to her legs, then to his—“and it’s not you!”
“Hah! As if you could ever—”
“Be silent!”
With a burst of confidence, he grabbed her and spun her, pressing her against the wall and trapping her with his body. She smelled good, and she felt even better.
He leaned in, his loins flattened to her delightful bottom. Though he’d fondly caressed it on many occasions, under skirt and petticoat it seemed even more curvaceous and alluring.
The ladylike clothes produced an aura of fragility, as if she was pure and innocent, someone whom he’d just met and with whom he oughtn’t to trifle. His lusting after her felt forbidden and, therefore, extremely exciting.
He flexed against the cleft of her ass.
“What do you have on under your dress?”
“None of your damned business.” She elbowed him in the ribs.
“Now, now, Patricia, I won’t allow you to sass me.” His fingers went to her breasts, squeezing her nipples, making her squirm. “Let’s try this again: Are you wearing drawers?”
“You’ll have to check for yourself.”
“You’re being very naughty. If you don’t stop, I’ll have to punish you.” He bit her shoulder, nibbling at her nape, and goose bumps coursed down her arms. “Drawers, Patricia?”
“Yes.” She sighed and tipped her head to give him more access.
“Are they frilly things, all decorated with lace?”
“Cream colored, with little pink flowers stitched on the hem.”
“You seem taller. Have you found some heels?”
“Yes.”
“And a corset?”
“It’s so blasted uncomfortable! You’d better tell me how much you like it.”
“Oh, I do, my darling. I definitely do.”
He recalled the first prostitute he’d ever witnessed, on an afternoon as he’d tagged after Westmoreland. The woman had pranced about in her undergarments, her tiny feet perched on spiky mules, her breasts pushed up and over her stays.
Unconcerned that Robert was watching, Westmoreland had gotten his money’s worth. In Robert’s prim and proper world, he hadn’t known such decadence occurred, having assumed that the few stories he’d heard at school were figments of boys’ vivid imaginations.
When Westmoreland had finished, he’d offered to pay the extra coin for Robert to be relieved of his chastity, but Robert had been too timid to accept. However, in the months that followed, he’d had many a late-night fantasy, where the whore had been front and center.
If Patricia shed her clothes and strutted around in corset and heels, Robert would likely perish from ecstasy!
“I want a peek at those pink flowers.” He began unbuttoning her dress. The top came loose, then the waist, and he shimmied it down so that it pooled at her feet.
He slithered a hand across her stomach, gliding down to cup and fondle, and he was amazed to ascertain that she’d removed all her womanly hair! Her puss was bare! At the increased depravity his mind whirled with fascination.
He didn’t understand why, but the feel of her, all silky and slippery, did something peculiar to his insides. A wave of lust swept over him, one that was so potent he was surprised he didn’t faint.
“You’ve shaved yourself.”
“Just for you.”
“I like it.”
“I thought you might.”
How had she guessed that he’d enjoy such wickedness? He hadn’t ever suspected a woman would try such an outlandish exploit, and it was clear she knew more about his preferences than he did himself.
The antic was a mystery—a wanton, salacious, wonderful mystery—that hinted at her past life and secrets she would never share. He had no illusions: He wasn’t the first man with whom she’d ever lain, and in light of his conduct toward her, he was in no position to moralize or chastise. Yet he couldn’t help but be curious as to what other feats she might perform, what other pleasures she might bestow.
With Patricia in his bed, he’d never grow bored!
He grinned. “You’re very smooth.”
“Think of it as your coming-home present.”
“Have you any notion of how hard I am?”
“No, how hard?”
He opened his trousers so that his aching rod was rubbing against her fancy drawers, and the ticklish ruffles were his undoing. He had to rut like a stallion at mating season; he couldn’t wait.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to have you.”
“Let me—”
“No.”
She tried to shift away so that she could turn and direct the encounter. Of the two of them, she was the experienced lover, the one who knew how to seduce and beguile, but along the way, Robert had been paying close attention. He’d learned a few valuable lessons, especially those about taking what you wanted, about seizing the moment and forging on to a little slice of heaven.
He was so aroused that he had the strength of ten men, and while she fr
antically grappled for purchase, her palms braced on the plaster, he clutched her to him and invaded her tight, tempting sheath. He reveled like an animal, his balls like rocks, his phallus an insistent, demanding force between her legs.
His concentration was riveted on the point where their bodies were joined. He’d seen couples mating like this before, but he’d never supposed he’d have the temerity to attempt such a degenerate copulation himself. She simply incited him to dissolution beyond his wildest dreams.
He grew more and more frenzied, more and more out of control, his thighs slapping her shapely bottom.
With a merry shout, he came, standing on his feet, with her shoved up against a wall. He’d been rude and selfish, having not considered her gratification or comfort, and he couldn’t care less. With scant effort, he was becoming an emboldened cad. How could he not have realized that he harbored such despicable tendencies?
He savored the final thrust, pushing in, holding her; then he pulled out and collapsed onto her. With his passion spent, his knees were weak, his torso limp, and he was stunned by how much energy he’d expended. He felt as if he’d poured a bit of his soul into the act, as if he’d spilled some of himself and would never get it back.
Which wasn’t necessarily bad! He was desperate to fully belong to her, but with no funds and no prospects, and being significantly indebted to the Captain, he’d never have his freedom.
He sighed with resignation, speculating as to how matters could ever be resolved satisfactorily between them, as she wiggled around to face him. She was staring as if she didn’t recognize him, and he sympathized with her consternation.
They’d started out as two ordinary people—well, maybe with her being a man they hadn’t been ordinary—but they’d both metamorphosed in exciting ways. Where would it lead? How would it end?
“My goodness, Robert,” she said. “That was . . . was . . . quite rough and randy. It wasn’t like you, at all.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“You were so rigorous. What’s come over you?”
“I don’t know. I can’t describe it, but it feels extremely grand.”
“Is this trend likely to continue?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ll be getting more and more physical?”
“Absolutely.”
Her torrid gaze wandered down to his trousers that were barely on, his cock protruding out and half-erect. She took him in hand, and instantly the unruly appendage was stiff and impatient to begin again.
“I believe I’m going to like the new you just fine.”
“I believe I am, too.”
She stepped away from him, and she sauntered across the room, providing him with a thorough look at her skimpy attire. When he observed her in corset and drawers, her feet on those spiky heels he loved, his phallus wagged like an eager dog.
With how she was vamping, it was almost as if she was aware of his old fantasy, of how often he’d drooled over his memories of Westmoreland’s whore. He’d never divulged the incident to her, so perhaps Westmoreland had, but however she’d learned of it, he was thrilled to have the recollection become reality.
She stopped in front of him and inquired, “Do you like my unmentionables?”
“Oh yes, very much.”
She hunched forward, teasing him with how her breasts shifted in the stays. “Some men enjoy untying a woman’s laces. I wonder if you will?”
“I’m sure of it.”
She dropped to her knees. “Let me show you something else you might like.”
While in Westmoreland’s company, he’d viewed more oral copulation than a moral person ought, so he knew what she intended. But still, at the initial contact, he was unprepared for the jolt of ecstasy.
She ran her tongue over the tip, again and again, quickly and easily spurring him to a rampant edge. As she slipped her ruby lips over the crown, as she sucked him far inside, he decided that he liked the new him fairly well, too.
Whatever and whoever he’d been before, that fellow was dead and buried, and Robert wasn’t about to permit him to return.
17
Captain, there you are.”
Luke tarried by the window as Helen swept into the parlor. He was delighted to note that she’d descended from her snooty high horse and deigned to wear one of the dresses he’d purchased for her in London.
Despite how she’d opposed the gifts, once the garments had been delivered she hadn’t been able to refuse them. It had been an eternity since she’d had anything new or pretty, and he’d garnered a substantial amount of satisfaction from how much he’d pleased her.
He’d picked well, having selected the best colors and fabrics. She was a beautiful sight, decked out in an emerald shade that accented her hazel eyes, making them appear more green, her hair more auburn than brown.
The design hugged her curvaceous figure, providing ample indication of how shapely she was, but his favorite part was the bodice. The neckline was cut low to reveal her fabulous bosom, and every time he saw her, his breath hitched in a funny way he didn’t understand.
He’d never previously had any money, so he’d only recently accumulated funds that he could waste on frivolities. It was a novel experience, surprising someone with a treat. He’d fussed over his choices, had driven Mr. Smith to distraction at his dithering with seamstresses, but when this was the result, it had been worth every penny.
“You look very fetching.” His appreciative gaze roved over her. “Is that a new dress?”
“Why, yes. How sweet of you to notice.” She held out a corner of the skirt and twirled in a circle. “I have excellent taste, don’t I?”
“You definitely do.”
She’d informed the servants that she had bought the wardrobe, so no one knew the clothes had come from him. Or if they had suspicions, they kept them to themselves, which was wise. Should he be confronted with demeaning gossip about her, his reaction would be deadly.
“Mr. Smith said you wanted to speak with me.”
“I did.”
She shut the door and crossed to him, not worrying about the whispers that might be generated by their being sequestered. They were often alone, and the behavior no longer produced the raised brows or condemning glances it once had.
He lifted his arm, and she snuggled under it, pressing herself to his side as casually as if they’d always been together, as if she was his, and oddly, he felt that she was. The summer he’d spent at Mansfield Abbey had been filled with frolic and happiness, and he’d never endured another period where anything similar had transpired.
He peered out, taking in the acres of manicured garden, the forest and hills beyond. The sun was dropping in the west, the pastures tinted in hues of purple and gold, and he continued to stare, never having believed that it was all his.
Autumn had arrived, and soon the harvest would begin, the weather would turn. The seas would grow vicious, sailing perilous, and an astute fellow would be traveling south, would have the wind at his back.
“You’re awfully pensive this evening, Luke,” she observed. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” He kissed the top of her head.
“You haven’t told me what you think of Patricia.”
“She’s very grand.”
“She is, isn’t she?”
But of course, he’d known how attractive Patricia was. He’d rescued her from a damned brothel, so he’d espied what was hidden beneath the attire.
“Thank you,” he said.
“For what?”
“For helping her.”
“I enjoyed it immensely.” She nudged him in the ribs. “You might have confided in me about her.”
“About what?”
“That she was a woman.”
“Well . . .”
“That day I saw her kissing Mr. Smith, I nearly suffered an apoplexy.”
He chuckled, pondering Patricia and her dear Robert. What would become of them? Smith claimed to want her, but giving him Patri
cia would be like giving a hungry lion to a bunny. How would Smith ever manage her?
Smith had been bullied throughout his life and was a prime candidate to be a henpecked husband. When the man had had his share of so much misery Luke wouldn’t bring him more.
Then again, he and Smith were secretly sparring every night in the barn. Luke was teaching him to fight, and Smith was learning fast. He was intent on proving that he could handle and protect Patricia, so Luke couldn’t say what might happen. Of late, the world had gotten so strange that anything seemed possible.
Suddenly he couldn’t abide the stifling confines of the house. Outside, the air was so fresh and cool, the grass so verdant, the sights and smells so tempting. It seemed as if he were looking at a picture in a book, as if he could go out and step into a fairy tale.
“Would you walk with me in the yard?” he asked.
“I’d love to. Let me grab a shawl.”
While she went to retrieve it, he waited for her on the verandah. Momentarily she joined him, and he led her down the stairs and onto the path that meandered past the hedges and into the woods.
The farm was quiet, the servants finished with their chores. Suppers were being eaten, children tucked into bed. It felt as if they were the last two people on earth, with only the maid Peg loitering over by the stables and not taking any notice of them.
He had no idea where he was headed, but he’d never strolled with a woman before, and it was a memory he needed very much. In fact, there were many memories he yearned to generate, but there was no time left to produce them.
Though he’d squandered most of the summer in her company, it had been but a brief sojourn. There was so much about her he hadn’t discovered. When he was with her, he was so aroused that he couldn’t be bothered to talk to her. He’d bump into her, and within minutes he’d be removing her clothes.
They followed the path into the trees, and he stumbled on a spot that offered a tremendous view of the setting sun. A decrepit bench rested nearby, and he escorted her to it and sat down, pulling her onto his lap. She nestled with him, her back pressed to his front, her lush ass balanced on his thighs. In silence, they watched the sun disappear. As it vanished, he was nipping at her nape, toying with her hair.
