Illicit Love

by Jane Lark

  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 humor 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 humor.

  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, and 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 her, 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 was 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, foolis
h 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.

  When he returned to the task of his own attire he faced the mirror to retie his neckcloth.

  Ellen blushed, remembering those fingers, now adeptly crafting a fashionable knot, playing master to her body’s whim moments before.

  He smiled at her in the mirror.

  She caught sight of her disordered hair and her heart kicked in fear.

  Panic locking the air in her lungs, she knelt and began picking up her scattered hairpins. She couldn’t leave the room looking like this.

  In a moment he was on one knee beside her, helping her. He must have sensed her concern for he caught one of her hands and held it still. “There’s no need to worry, Ellen.”

  For you perhaps, but not for me, for me there is every need. She pulled her hand free and continued the task, but tried to make light of her fear. “Not if you can dress a woman’s hair.”

  “I can make a fair go of it.” His voice was jovial in response.

  All pins recovered they rose, her eyes meeting his. She took a breath. “Then do your best, my Lord, please.”

  His hand cupped hers and looking down he tipped the pins she held into his other palm. She shivered, remembering his touch; the things he’d done. In answer his eyes lifted, and she saw an unspoken question visible, pondering her skittish start.

  “Edward, at least, Ellen,” he admonished while one hand pressed her shoulder, turning her to the mirror. She looked at his reflection as he took a single lock of ebony hair in his fingers. Then, their sixth sense speaking, his gaze met hers in the glass. He smiled before looking away and concentrating on the task.

  His touch was soothing, light and tender. Her body bathed in it, like rain on dry ground, her heart soaking it up.

  When the job was finished their gazes collided in the mirror once more, desire burning clearly, like fire, in his. But the echo of it was in hers as she looked at her reflection too. “When can we meet, Ellen?” The question was whispered.

  She shook her head in denial then tore her gaze from his, turning to retrieve her discarded fan and gloves. There could be no repetition. Gainsborough would not allow it.

  Lord Edward will not help me. He cannot.

  His grip caught her elbow and turned her back. “Do not deny me.”

  Stiffening her spine, Ellen lifted her chin. I have to.

  As though he sensed the change in her, his hand slipped away before she spoke.

  “My Lord, there can be nothing more, I thought that was clear.”

  Such cold, unemotional words. She set her face and eyes to match them, locking him out of her heart.

  Did she imagine the sudden look of pain in his eyes? This was just sex for him, surely. He felt nothing. He would walk away unchanged. My heart is wounded. Not his. She couldn’t escape Gainsborough. Dreams were not reality. Succumbing to Edward tonight had been enough risk. She did not dare repeat it. But she did not want him to know fear held her back. Nor did she wish him to pity her. “Your agreement was with Lord Gainsborough. I am his, not yours, my Lord, Edward.”

  The look in his eyes hardening, it was not pity she saw but disgust.

  “I must go.”

  He moved, forming a wall between her and the door.

  She met his gaze and waited, without answering the accusations lying there. This was who she was. He’d known that. He could not change it, and he could hardly judge her.

  His lips a tight line, he bowed his head and stepped aside. But before she had time to reach for the door-handle his fingers caught hers.

  “Tell me your full name? At least tell me that.” His deep pitch was so full of emotion the ice she’d begun re-laying about her heart cracked, flooding her body with warmth. Warmth she longed to hold on to.

  “Ellen Harding.” Her married name, but even that she did not normally reveal.

  Withdrawing her fingers from his, she made a final plea. “Please, do not acknowledge me again if I see you, my Lord. There can be no communication beyond tonight.” But something dreadful pierced her chest as she spoke, and perhaps it showed in her eyes because his lips fell to hers, the kiss deep and fulfilling, belittling her denial. And she knew he knew it, but she could not unsay those words, she had no choice but to walk away. He cannot save me, no one can. I’m already lost.

  Setting her palms on his chest she pushed him away, turned from his grip and grasped the door-handle, refusing to look back.

  Masculine conversation spilled from the adjoining rooms and filled the high ceilinged space as she crossed the hall, broken by the occasional trill of a woman’s laughter rising above the lower tones. She kept walking, ignoring the sound of a door slamming behind her, and the heavy tread of quick masculine strides hitting the floorboards.

  Crossing into the first room she saw Lord Gainsborough seated at another card table by the far wall. He was waiting, watching. He rose. The men about him turned to follow his look, rising too. Her heart racing she took the few steps to where he stood.

  Ribald jests and jeers greeted her from the male audience who were oblivious to the reality of his little welcome scene.

  Refusing to cower she met Lord Gainsborough’s glare of accusation.

  She’d angered him, yes, but she could see he was equally enthralled to think another man had taken her but yards from where he sat. She knew his sadistic lusts must have thrilled at it, while his need for control revolted.

  A round of laughter rang from another room. The men about them turned back to their game. Gainsborough’s hand lifted.

  As she heard the front door slam shut she felt the first strike across her face. The world about her tilted, time shifting to a slower pace as her vision hazed.

  “Good God, Gainsborough, no need for that!”

  “My God, man!”

  A dozen calls of outrage echoed in her head. Reaching out blindly to stop her fall, she felt Lord Gainsborough’s painful grip catch her and haul her back, holding firm.

  “Mind your own damn business!” his bellow rang. “Out of my way!”

  Chapter Two

  Maintaining his vigil on Gainsborough’s townhouse, Edward leaned his back against the iron railings of the park at the center of Grosvenor Square. The cold air of the harsh frost seeped through his loose fitting heavy wool greatcoat and leather gloves.

  Clapping his hands together briefly, he ignored the misty vapour of his breath rising on the cold winter air. Then he tilted the rim of his hat forward and folded his arms over his chest.

  The property was a grand, lavish statement of the man’s wealth.

  Well, Ellen had told Edward bluntly she was with the man for his money. In comparison to it, Edward was a pauper. Even if he’d been heir to his father’s estates not second born, he could not have matched Gainsborough’s wealth.

  But why then had Gainsborough cheated?

  Edward watched the man descend the steps from his front door, his wife fixed on his arm, his eldest daughter and grandchild in their wake.

  For God’s sake, his daughter was a similar age to Ellen. It made Edward sick, the whole sordid bloody affair, including the part he’d played in it. When he’d woken the morning after, with a thundering head, he’d thought it a dream, and then images and senses had merged into memories he couldn’t refute.

  He was not his brother. He had no appetite for vice or excess. He did not drink, gamble, or idle away his time with women. He’d never paid for sex, nor ever would. He did not condone the immorality of it. Sex simply shouldn’t be for sale. Women threw themselves at him anyway. But none of those women had responded like her. Skill, he told himself in explanation. It was her living after all. But it was more than the sex. The w
oman had touched his insides—somehow—changed him— drugged him.

  He was obsessed—addicted.

  Lust, his brain delivered the single word to justify his feelings.

  Lust? Yes, but... He thought for a moment but reached no conclusion. God. Who knew? He’d never felt like this before. He couldn’t think, couldn’t sleep, and couldn’t even bloody breathe without want of her. It was not him. His reputation leaned towards dull and staid.

  He blamed his brother. Since Robert’s return life had become boring and Edward had been restless. It seemed the outcome was he had turned to all of his brother’s vices.

  What am I doing here? She’d made it plain she was with Gainsborough by choice. She wouldn’t meet him. She’d given herself because Gainsborough had willed it.

  But Gainsborough hadn’t willed her to say the man had swapped his cards. Protecting him was her choice. And every expression of her body as Edward had made love to her had told him she was lying. She wanted him. Her responses had been absolute truth.

  That was the conundrum disturbing his sleep. She haunted him. He could not forget her.

  Pushing away from the railings, his gloved hands curling to fists, he gave up his vigil as Gainsborough’s coachman called to the horses in the straps and flicked his whip, stirring the thoroughbred blacks into a trot. The strike of the horses’ hooves rang on the cobble, as did the iron rim of carriage wheels rolling into motion and the rattle of harness caught the frigid air.

  Edward turned away. How easily he’d been tumbled from a confident man to an infatuated youth. But God help him, he could not just leave this, he wanted more of Ellen Harding. Three nights he’d played at Madam’s. Three nights there had been no sign of her. He’d hoped if he waited here, Gainsborough would lead him to where he kept his mistress.

  And then what will I do?

  His hands plunged into the pockets of his greatcoat, his legs slashing its skirt with long impatient strides. His eyes oblivious to the blue sky and people passing him in the street, his mind sifted through his spiralling thoughts.