by Eliza Lloyd
Her eyelids fluttered, trying to open but weighed down by the gentle lethargy of loving. He didn’t seem to be in a hurry for her to do anything but let him do as he wished. She might have been riding a boat upon the gentle waves of the tide. The pleasure ebbed and flowed, she arched under his touch and moaned his name.
The first release rolled gently over her. She pushed her heels into the mattress and lifted her bottom from the bed as if suspended before she came crashing down. Again Mark applied his mouth and hands to her body. Katrina clasped his larger hand where it worked between her legs, wanting to feel the perfect way his fingers soothed her throbbing need. The breast he sucked was tender but he applied still more attention. He leaned over her then, taking her other breast deep in his mouth while his chest rubbed across the wet, overly sensitive tip he’d just abandoned.
She could die from such pleasure. And she did. Only to find Mark waiting for her when she finally opened her eyes.
He whispered, “Your carriage should be ready.”
She groaned. “Oh, it can’t be time, can it?”
“I’m afraid so. As you requested.”
She breathed deep and closed her eyes. Fleeting, as the waves upon the shore. Strange, wonderful tides.
Even the night knew it could not linger. Dawn peeked on the horizon. Katrina hurried from the bed, dressed and departed to the safety of home and family. The next bed she crawled into, she would find heavenly sleep.
* * * * *
Mark woke the next morning in a mood. A rasher of bacon and three eggs did not help. A second cup of black, bitter coffee, laden with cream and sugar, did not help. He couldn’t put a point to it, so he sent a man for his horse, figuring a brisk ride through Hyde Park would liven his spirits.
He had never realized how he had relied on John, his older brother, for a quick game of cards or a gossipy conversation whenever he had needed it. His brother’s disability had kept him in the house night and day—Mark had never acknowledged how he had taken it for granted that John would always be available.
He glanced around his room as his valet propped up one of Mark’s boots. This home and family had had a great, tumbling fall over the past few years, albeit mostly private. They’d weathered a severe financial storm, endured John’s death, celebrated the return of Christina’s child’s father to England and the subsequent marriage to her dark marquess.
Just when it seemed everything was righting itself, Susannah had died.
He was tired of treading upon this precipice of catastrophe.
Which led him back to waking alone and agitated.
Once Mark had settled upon Susannah as his wife, he had felt peace about the decision. He could see himself as a respectable husband and decent father and, in fact, felt a family would enable him to embark on this course of his life with dignity and contentment.
He had anticipated the joy of children. His sister Grace was amassing a brood and he was always entertained by them, but then they always had to go home at the end of a visit.
It had been thirty days ago this morning Susannah’s lady’s maid had hurried to the library to tell him his wife had died.
“The child?” was all he could mutter before she shook her head. And so ended his contentment. Three days’ worth of drink hadn’t made any of the surreal heartache dissipate.
He braced his hands against his knees and stood once his other boot was secured.
“What time shall I tell Cook to prepare lunch?” his valet asked.
“I think I will eat at the club today.”
Thoughts of Lady Klee wafted through his mind as if a dream were still haunting him. Her ethereal beauty along with her charming and enthusiastic abilities should have made him the happiest man in London.
But he still woke up alone. Maybe the preponderance of recent evidence suggested one must grab unto what happiness was available since it could be snatched away so quickly.
The air was brisk, the clouds hanging low with the occasional break that teased one into believing in the myth of sunshine. There were a few other riders, trotting and galloping along Rotten Row. He put his stallion through its paces and then headed toward the paths along the Serpentine, keeping the horse at a slow trot, which did not suit the animal as it pawed and bucked, wanting to run.
Honestly, he was not looking for Katrina, but when he spied her walking with a servant, he dismounted and waited for her approach. Yes, he knew she strolled in the park often, as did many a fine lady.
They had parted ways only six hours ago, but she was coifed and dressed to perfection. He’d never seen her cast in anything but a perfect setting. Her blue walking dress, her matching pelisse, her jaunty feathered cap—all of it spoke of a woman who knew what she wanted.
What mood he had experienced was replaced by a light-hearted humor. There was a certain guilty pleasure at seeing her—his mistress—when all of London was oblivious to their budding affair.
When she saw him, her brows winged, but she gave no hint of being displeased. Discretion did not include open rendezvous at the most populous park in London.
He removed his hat and bowed. “Lady Klee.”
“Lord Compton, you are about early.” She stopped and took her curtsy. The maidservant hung back several paces.
Mark turned, horse reins in hand, and walked with her. “You are well?” he asked. He tried not to dwell on the night passed, his face buried between her legs.
“Is it wise to be seen so open with your mistress?”
“Many men take their mistresses to balls with them and their wives are in attendance.”
“That seems rather gauche. I’ve always thought such a liaison was meant to be private, for the personal pleasure of those two involved. And this would not be happening if you were married. At least not with me.”
He smiled.
“When you become betrothed, you will inform me, please,” she said. “I will not be the reason such a relationship becomes tarnished.”
“And you will hand me my congédiement when you become enamored of another?”
“It is only reasonable. However, I am not looking.”
“Yes, I’ve heard you wish to return to Russia.”
“If such a personal desire is widely known, you understand my concern about being so openly seen with you.”
“This is done all the time.”
“With casualness that astonishes me.”
He stopped and glanced at her. She fingered her parasol, causing it to turn slowly.
“But we all have our reasons,” she said without looking at him.
“What were yours?”
“Mine?” Her brows arched and she tilted her head slightly. “Is it not enough that I said yes—now I must share my reasons for doing so? Let us just assume it is for the oldest reason of all. Money.” She raised her brow at the suggestion. He smiled, knowing after last night that was probably the last reason for her decision.
They continued walking, he following her lead while his horse snorted in displeasure.
“Perhaps I would shock you,” she said, “if my real motivation were known.”
“I doubt it.”
“Perhaps not then. I’m just not used to such open discussion of something meant to be secret.” She confirmed her lady’s maid was a good distance back before she spoke again. “Are you such a curious man, Lord Compton?”
“At times, Baroness,” he said, wondering more about this woman now that he had seen her naked. “I have given you permission to use my name,” he reminded.
“Yes, but that was only because we were naked and about to be intimate.”
He laughed boisterously.
“I still do not know you well enough to be familiar.” She leaned toward him and whispered, “If I used your name, would not that announce to the world we have a close association? You understand, I’m sure.”
“I don’t think I do, but continue on. I find myself growing interested.”
“All right. I will shock you then. I wi
ll shock you by telling you my primary reason is pleasure.” She smiled up at him, with the faintest hint of dimpling on her cheeks. “Does that not seem like a wonderful reason to engage a lover? The pursuit of pleasure, given freely, returned in multiples and with no expectations. I find it very liberating.”
“So, I could have engaged you without cost?”
“Oh, my dear Lord Compton, nothing is free. You are paying me for my time, not what we do with that time.”
“An unusual perspective,” he remarked.
“If a man were to pay for the privilege of physical intimacy, would that not make it a chore for the woman? A duty?”
“You mean like marriage?”
She burst into laughter. “Oh, my lord, you are most astute. And most blind. If you think that is the only reason for marriage, you have been lied to and manifestly deprived.”
“You place value in the institution?”
“A very high value. But I can understand why you might not. It is sad how often only one person in the marriage carries the weight of it. Now, do you not see how our short time together was most enlightening?”
“Yes, and I am suddenly regretting we do not have more of it.”
They had come to a curve and Lady Klee came to a stop. “Whereas you should be thankful I do not make nagging demands that you spend your time with me.”
Bowing politely as he took his leave. “Until we meet again.”
Mark mounted his horse and set his hat to his head before nodding politely at her. He reined his horse away. A warm thread of desire coursed through his chest, ending right at his cock. He did not feel such a weight of ennui as he had this morning; in fact, he was quite looking forward to Friday and Saturday evening.
Helping the Baroness in her pursuit of pleasure.
Chapter Three
Katrina wasn’t a young girl who should be nervous about meeting a potential beau, yet she trembled as she waited for the carriage door to open.
Thursday had passed with relative normalcy, except for those moments alone when thoughts of Mark intruded with relentless purpose. An aching womb and throbbing nub were the physical price she had to pay for allowing her imagination free rein. English vocabulary did not have the words to describe the state of near arousal, the delicious need and the unsatisfied want that came with a body attuned to fulfillment. Well, not for ladies anyway.
His man opened the carriage door and held a hand out as she descended and looked up at the townhouse, now lit with candles. Her gaze went to the upper floor, where she believed Mark waited. She would not need any advanced play to induce her into a loving mood. Moisture already pooled between her legs.
She’d had a lover for two days and they’d yet to have intercourse. Anticipation swelled more than her emotions. Her breasts felt heavy and tight in her bodice. There would be no tender teasing. Tonight, they would join and she would see her needs met. Tonight, she would experience the fulfillment of her unspoken desires with a man unrivaled in the ton.
For Mark Turnbow was a man in every sense. He lacked the studious nature of her husband, but she wasn’t here to read Robert Burns’ poetry. She was here to caress the contours of Mark’s strong shoulders, arms and chest. She was here to taste him, enjoy him, worship him.
Katrina instructed the footman to remove a small valise that contained a simple muslin dress, a pair of stockings and flat slippers, along with a robe and rail. A mistress might also be inclined toward extras—she’d placed three of her diletto inside—especially if she might be considered experienced. On the first night, she had not given thought past the negotiations and then she had not thought past what he would do next with his mouth.
While it was possible to be abed and naked for several hours, she could not imagine all their time would be in a state of undress, humorous as that seemed while she was sneaking into her lover’s home. She was well read and intellectual bordering on inappropriate by ton standards. She’d read nearly all the Russian classical literature, in the original, and she suspected few could converse with her about such great works.
Would that she could find an equilibrium with Mark. A physical and mental companionship, where they could connect by firelight—first in body and then in soul. An aggressive firing of flesh and then a quiet kindling of thoughts and dreams and wishes.
A smile crossed her lips, one that was out of proportion to her inane thoughts.
Mark stood in the foyer, dressed in superfine, his cravat perfectly tied, as if he too had gone to a ball and snuck away. His hands were behind his back.
She wore a black, full-length cape. Tugging at the ties, she separated the piece and the footman took it and her valise—the scene repeating itself—except Mark did not speak.
His jaw seemed clenched tight and his gaze was hard and direct.
He strolled toward her, her breath hitched as his arms encircled her waist. He leaned toward her. His mouth descended upon hers, rough and demanding—hungry, as she was.
Taste wasn’t something she thought about as it pertained to a man, but she tasted him—his maleness, his aggression, his need. All of it combined to make her want, driving her mindlessly onward.
“I want you inside me,” she whispered, sounding decadent and naughty to her own ears. And truthful. What did that make her? Offering herself? Demanding he service her?
“The stairs aren’t carpeted yet,” he said against her neck, as he trailed his mouth over her skin, finally licking over the curl of her ear.
“Anywhere,” she said.
He pushed her against the wall next to the newel post. The thud vibrated through her. She thrust her hips into his groin, coming into hard contact with his erect member. His mouth seemed fastened to hers. She battled with his tongue, nipped at his lips, tore at his cravat.
Mark’s hands worked at her hips, gathering her skirts in a bunch at her waist. He gripped her thigh and lifted her leg around his waist. She’d known undergarments were unnecessary, but the brush of his bare cock along the wet seam between her thighs had her squirming. He’d been busy freeing himself while she seemed only to be losing control.
“This may hurt,” he said.
Did he think she was a virgin? She turned her face away from his kiss, gasping for air.
The sweet touch of his cock against the pulsing entrance of her sheath was followed by a hard slam against her body as he shoved into her—deep, unforgiving, desperate. She groaned. Mark’s body pressed hard into her, pinning her to the wall and holding her firmly in his will.
He trembled against her, trying to still his need. His hot breath burned against her neck. She wanted to blaze with him.
She listened to the sound of their panting and the crinkling sound of her dress as they moved. Fever consumed her.
“Is that all you?” she gasped. Glorious, hard cock filled her. She had missed this, more than she remembered.
He slammed into her again, settling her, making her feel weak against his superior sexuality and strength.
“Again,” she said. She clutched her arms about his neck, lifting her bottom, giving him room to move again. He drove into her, groaning as he did so. Between her thighs, she felt his hips cant and plunge as he started a rhythmic, mesmerizing in-and-out movement that seemed to touch every nerve, fulfilling every hungry need.
She trembled with the force of their joining. What would it be like if she cared? If his lips kissed with a gentle purpose greater than just driving demand? Her limbs, already weak, grew heavy under the lethargic spread of pleasure.
His mouth found hers again, and she answered him kiss for kiss. The tension in her body spread in tender waves until she felt taut, ready to break but determined to hold fast to the pleasure coursing through her.
Tightness spread low in her back. She threw her head back and Mark pushed deep, holding her in an intractable lock against the wall. She convulsed—hard, racking spasms shot through her and gripped at his cock.
He groaned, and she relished that he spilled his desire dee
p into the recesses of her body. Sponges allayed most concern for pregnancy—an unromantic, practical thought as his cock eased from her body.
Mark’s heaviness squeezed against her. His warmth surrounded her, his hand still braced her thigh. The disconcerting drip of semen slid down her leg.
Somehow, they untwined without much embarrassment. Her skirts floated downward, and he worked at the placket of his trousers but left his cravat loose about his neck. Replete with desire and weak at the knees, her will was the only thing keeping her on her feet.
His arm slid around her waist again, a welcome support. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, feeling the strangeness of casual conversation with him. Not that they couldn’t find common ground, but to discuss the mundane after such cataclysmic interaction seemed a waste of words. Should they not now lie beside one another and spill their secrets, or recite the poetry she’d so recently ridiculed, or discuss philosophical treatise? Oh, they must. She would learn everything she could about him.
In the end, she would be the mistress he’d forever remember.
“Come. There is wine in the bedroom,” he offered.
Wine. The solution to every awkwardness.
“That is just what I need,” she said, and placed her hand to his arm as he escorted her up the stairs as if they hadn’t just rutted with animalistic fever.
Inside the room, she saw her valise near the armoire and her cape neatly hanging beside it, making her feel more at ease. Mark stepped away from her and worked out of his jacket. His white linen shirt appeared stark against the grey-black of his waistcoat. He poured a drink, but did not remove his hand from the tapered neck of the bottle.
She proceeded to undress, working at the buttons at the back of her gown. He stood still on his side of the room and she glanced at him from the corner of her eye. Mark Turnbow was very finely made, she thought. She knew she wasn’t alone in her admiration and turned to display the best of her bosom.
She’d chosen the dress for its effect—tight fitting at the waist and then flaring outward. Lady Price-Russell’s ball required that she dazzle before she quietly took her leave. On the dance floor, she had completed two full sets including a waltz. Mark had not shown himself. Would she have acknowledged him if he had?
