Lisette

by Gayle Eden

  “Christ no,” he sounded feverish before he pulled her up and turned her around. His hands raised her hem above her hips, her ass. He was seeking entry to her sex.

  “Oh, yes.” She bent and spread her legs a bit.

  “I have to. I have to be inside of you.”

  “Yes!” her gasp filled the space as he filled her. Tense, tight, wild and excited, she absolutely loved his fevered thrusting that followed.

  He held her hips, bent his, moving up and inside her, pumping, stroking. She groaned and murmured her pleasure even when he cursed, pulled out.

  His seed bathed between her buttocks, and he was rubbing the soft head of him between them. His handkerchief cleaned them, thanks to a bit of water a fountain.

  Elisha sat her on his lap, facing him, afterwards. His arms around her and her head on his chest. Lips grazing her hair, he husked, “You didn’t get your pleasure.”

  “I very much did.” She laughed huskily and nuzzled his skin. “But how soon…”

  “Embarrassingly soon.” He groaned on a laugh.

  Feeling him swell under her, she raised her head and touched his lips with hers for several long and deep kisses. Touches came, and grew more desperate. There was some figuring how to position themselves for the ultimate closeness. In the end, he lay his coat down on the grass for her to recline on.

  On his knees and between her thighs, Elisha lifted her hips for his deep serge. He thrust and watched her in the spill of moon light, her pleasure, her bliss, her blood getting hotter as she abandoned herself.

  Going deep and steady, her sex was stroking him so exquisitely his control nearly slipped. He felt that intoxicated miasma of eroticism wrap around them. They were making love in a garden, under a spring moon. It was earthy, sexual. She was his goddess.

  “Ummm." Her lashes opened enough to reveal that glitter and fog of being in the moment.

  “You are beautiful. Enchanting. So sensual.” He moved for his finger to rub her clit. His thrusts more shallow to accommodate his petting it.

  When she began arching her neck and sinking into a climax, Elisha could feel the squeezing on his cock.

  He found himself murmuring, “Yes, Ah Lisette…yes.” His own climax joined hers in a shuddering explosion that went on and on in the most exquisite way.

  Later, they went to the courtyard, and were seated in one of the wicker loungers. He lay on his back, his arm around her as Lisette lay on her side, against him. Her shawl covered her repaired gown, but he had put his jacket over her too.

  Smoking a cheroot, Elisha fought the pull of sleep from an early morning and full day of sports, as well as the repletion of his body. Having ached for her thorough the winter, his climax had made him dizzy. It released his muscles of long held tension. Just having her beside him too, was a certain contentment.

  Her hand on his chest where his shirt was unbuttoned, she said in a sleepy voice, “I shan't ever find a lover who makes me feel as you do, Elisha. One that I want to pleasure, just as much as you give it to me.”

  Christ. Christ. He had no defenses with her. Though he knew he should not, Elisha drew her over, so that she was atop him. He kissed her with desperate passion and emotion.

  They enjoyed intimacy one more time, with her astride him on the chaise. Lisette’s slow rise and fall, the undulations with his hands on her moving bottom or breasts, brought a dozen rasping words from his lips.

  They were drugged, intoxicated. When their gazes clung, they knew it. They exposed it. For all the reasons her beautiful body brought him pleasure, her abandonment, her savoring of him, giving and taking, burned cleared to his soul.

  Afterwards, they parted and went inside, she to her rooms and he to the apartments.

  Elisha bathed and fell to the bed with the towel on his hips. He slept soundly for the first time in months.

  Smith leaned in the doorway, grinning. Elisha looked at peace.

  * * * *

  Rising on time to have breakfast and coffee with the duke, Elisha dressed in riding clothing afterwards and rode to the Wolford estate with the other men.

  They were all in a good mood, as was he, thanks to those passionate hours in Lisette’s arms. The jesting was good natured, though the younger men were getting the brunt of it. And, Elisha found himself laughing along with the others, realizing that here, away from all other eyes, there was a brothership, a kind of trust and affection too, that showed in various ways. The men were of all types of character, yet they obviously enjoyed each other’s company.

  The lake chosen was well stocked, and it was not long before time mattered little because the company was so entertaining.

  However, half way through his fishing, a running servant not only ended his holiday—but brought reality crashing down on Elisha.

  “This came, my lord. Man said it was urgent.” The out of breath servant handed the note to him.

  Standing by the lake with all the men concerned, and now on their feet where they had beforehand been seated on jutting rocks, they were waiting while he broke the seal and read the missive.

  Elisha did not recall exactly what he said to the servant, nor did he know what his face revealed when he looked at the others—Smith, having reached his side, had taken the missive from his shaking hands.

  Elisha bowed. “Will you excuse me, my lords, and accept my gratitude for your hospitality. I must depart for my estates immediately.”

  “Yes. Of course. Is there anything we can do for you?” The duke’s frown of concern matched the look on those around him.

  Elisha said, “Thank you, your grace. Will you convey my gratitude to your wife and family?” Bloody hell, his voice was cracking as he finished. “My mother is—dead.”

  He was trying to breathe while the men immediately came to him—offering condolences, comforting words. Someone placed a hand on his back. However, Elisha could not seem to catch his breath.

  Smith noticed and subtly moved everyone back.

  Marston bent over, hands on his thighs—dragging air in his lungs. Finally sitting down on his haunches, he took a flask someone—Monty he thought, handed him. He gave it back after several bracing pulls, and got himself together. Standing finally—avoiding their eyes, if he could.

  “Your mount is ready,” Monty offered.

  “I’ll be right behind you.” Smith supplied.

  Nevertheless, Elisha scarcely felt himself walking to meet the groom and then taking the reins, and mounting.

  He was heading for the Wimberly’s.

  Before he reached it, all the men were there, riding with him.

  It would later amaze and comfort him, to know such genuine friendship was offered. In his numb and yet gut-sharp haze, he was focused on saying the right things and controlling himself until he could get to his estate.

  He dismounted. Smith was there. Elisha was saved from explaining to anyone else, thanks to the duke and Aiden, who had gone directly to the house.

  Servants were packing his trunks. A bath was prepared, and his clothing laid out, and the same for Smith.

  Elisha emerged from the manor again at some point and stood in the drive while the coach was loaded. A footman held the door opened. He turned to see everyone standing a few feet away, offering sympathetic smiles.

  He bowed again and saw Lisette as he was rising. Her face looked stark. Her eyes searched his.

  He turned away and got into the coach, somehow not surprised when before it pulled out, she was there at the window.

  Those aqua eyes held his. “Ask me to come with you.”

  He shook his head.

  Her eyes filled. “I can share this pain with you Elisha. I can help you…”

  “You can’t.” He shot his gaze to hers and said colder than he intended, because his emotions too raw to censor. “You can never feel what you haven’t experienced.”

  “I could love you.” Tears stood in her eyes.

  “Don’t.” he uttered in an awful voice. “Don’t love me.”

  H
and to her lips, Lisette moved her gaze to Smith when Marston looked away and the coach was pulling out. His gaze held an equal pain, but also sympathy. Yet all he did was shake his head, as if to say, I cannot explain what he will not.

  The coach rolled down the drive.

  Lisette realized that Haven and Juliette stood beside her. Their arms instantly went around her. She was crying but had not realized it.

  Lowering her hand, she whispered, “He won’t come to me again. He will not. I know it.”

  They turned and were walking her to the house, the others having gone in. Haven said, “Then I guess, in time, you’ll have to go after him.”

  Stopping, Lisette regarded her sister in law, and then, as they released her, looked at Juliette too. “Why did I wait too late? Why won’t he trust me, talk to me. Why—what is it!”

  Juliette cupped her face, her eyes showing that she was feeling Lisette’s pain. “Give him time. Then go after your answers. You love him, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I do not know how it happened. I don’t even know how I can, when half of whom he is, he keeps in the dark.”

  They both hugged her again.

  Lisette said, “I need some time to think. I need to cry. I—thank you, for being here for me.”

  “I wish there was more I could do.” Haven confessed sighing.

  Lisette wiped her cheeks. “I’m not sure there is anything I can. He has never been a man easy to talk to, or one who confides. I cannot imagine at this moment, what I will do if he truly won’t see me again.”

  “I pray otherwise,” Juliette said. “And if it counts for anything, I think—he does love you. I suspected so the first time I saw him watching you. Perhaps you’ll have to fight a bit harder for what you want this time, my friend.”

  When they left her, Lisette walked with no real destination, but needing to, because she had been tempted to climb in that coach and hold him—make him release some of the torment she’d seen in his eyes. Whatever it was, that past, that darkness, it was deeply tied to his mother and sister, she knew.

  But would he ever trust her enough to share it?

  She feared not. She would need help. She would get it. She was sure, from her Mama and her friends. She would fight even him, Lisette decided—because deep down in her soul she had to believe that, he wanted her to.

  Chapter Seven

  Four months later

  London…

  The rain was coming down in thick sheets, with lightening accompanying the fierce August storm. Having run out of options, time and answers, and growing tired of looking at the pile of returned, unopened missives from Marston’s townhouse—Lisette rode there in her father’s coach.

  She did not knock politely when alighting, but beat on the mansion door, uncaring if her boots were as soaked and rain drenched as her smart blue suite and hat. There had been next to nothing in the papers on his Mama’s passing, and what had been printed had been a delayed announcement that the dowager had passed away peacefully. Nothing like the detailed reports of other funerals of the well to do and titled. Nothing—for her to glean anything of Elisha from.

  She had tried—honestly, to get on with life. She partook of London’s social offerings—all the while secretly hoping she would hear something, anything, from him. She had not.

  It had been the Duchess who told her, “You are miserable, my love. Do something. This charade of parties and nights at the opera, is fooling no one. And it isn’t helping your heart, or your cause.”

  So here she was—doing something—and likely to get her heart broken even worse. However, she had heard from the servant boy she had asked to go daily and watch the mansion that Smith was there.

  She banged again.

  Finally, it opened,

  Mr. Smith stood there. His expression said he already knew why she was there. He stepped back and invited her in.

  “Where is he?” Lisette asked

  “He’s not here. You will need to get dry. Then, we will talk. I promise.” His expression appeared resigned.

  Once in the foyer, he called out for a maid, who appeared and escorted Lisette up the stairs. Although she had other things on her mind, it struck Lisette that the house was yawning and cold. It had dark furnishings, depressing hangings—and not enough light anywhere. There did not seem to be a butler or anyone besides the maid that she had seen.

  “Here, my lady, take everything off and I’ll dry it by the fire.” The maid handed her a toweling and flannel robe. “Won’t take but a moment.”

  Lisette stripped, removing even her chemise, stockings and shoes. She drew on the robe and used the toweling on her hair.

  She was shown into a sitting room and could tell it had not been used in years. It was a woman’s obviously but it had the most discomforting aura to it. She stood by a fireplace, rubbing her arms and looking around, feeling as if there were shadows lurking in the chamber.

  She muttered, “Lisette, don’t be silly.” Somewhere in the house, Marston had rooms. They were likely the only ones with any life to them. There was not any here. It felt unwelcoming and cold.

  “Here you go.” The maid came in and brought her tea.

  “Thank you.” Lisette smiled. “Have you worked here long?”

  “Only a year, my lady.” She curtsied and left.

  Lisette had the feeling it was to avoid more questions.

  She sipped her tea, absorbing the atmosphere of the house. It was not a good one. She could not explain it. The whole structure seemed—unwelcoming. This feeling disturbed her still as she later dressed in her now dry and pressed clothing, and headed down the stairs. What on earth had happened here? What kind of place was this for anyone to exist or thrive in?

  Shuddering, Lisette reached the lower floor and told herself to be prepared for anything. Here everything was well done, marble foyer, dark polished wood floors, gothic artwork—but there no life in any of it—no energy, save a negative kind.

  She was thankful, frankly, to reach the library/study. Upon her entry, she immediately felt the difference. Here at least, there was soul—some sense of light.

  Smith arose from his seat by the hearth and stood, turning to watch her enter. His smile was passive, his voice kind though. “Come, join me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At his country estate. I will give you direction, but first, you have questions. I suppose it is time they were answered. And I have one of my own.”

  Walking over to him, Lisette took the chair opposite and regarded him. He wore dun trousers and white shirt with wine boots. His hair was tucked behind his ears. She had known the moment she met him he was no secretary or servant. The bond he had with Marston was very strong and deep.

  Rain battered the windows. The fire was not much of one, but added warmth and light where the rest of the house was so….grim.

  Seated now, Smith propped elbows on the chair arms, hands lax at his waist whilst regarding her. When he began to speak, his compelling eyes showed the truth, and emotion, behind the words…He said, “Marston did not always look as he did when you met him. As a young lad, he was tall, gaunt, to the point he looked hollow. Though some called him cold, to me, he seemed a—shell.”

  He looked away and over at the rain-bathed windows, his hand coming up to rub his cheek. “We attended the same school. He was an easy mark for ridicule, being quiet to the extreme. As I was also. I observed him for a long time before I approached him in friendship. Elisha did not respond for the longest time. I wanted to know why—since he did not have an abundance of offers. And I wanted to know the why of—everything about him.”

  Smith looked at her again. “I noticed that he had a servant with him. Not so unusual for the titled and rich, but I would later discover that servant would remove the mattress from Marston’s bed, so that he had to sleep on the bare slats.”

  “Why?” She was horrified.

  “It was a mandate of his fathers. That’s why the servant was there, to report to Elisha’s father.�
� Smith waved a hand. “It’s a difficult thing to explain. Shall I tell you his story, and if you like, my own?”

  “Please.” She nodded.

  He regarded her for a heartbeat and murmured, “Do you love him, Lisette?”

  She looked him in the eye. “Yes. I do.”

  He smiled softly.

  She returned it. “It means much to me that you believe that. I know you love him too.”

  He nodded but drew in a breath and let it out slowly, his arms once more relaxed, his eyes down on the low table, as yet looking into the past. When he spoke, it was obvious too that he was trying to keep his emotions in check, “Marston’s father was a cold and cruel man, who doubtless got the trait from his own sire, and he likewise. There was none of them known for their warmth. Elisha came into the world, experiencing his father’s cruelty from his youngest age.

  The Viscountess likewise was ill-treated and not allowed to interfere. A man given to dark thoughts will devise ways to hide them from others on the outside, and making young Elisha sleep on a board or the floor—was the least of it. He once had the servants hold his head underwater, until Elisha nearly drowned, simply because he’d done his buttons up wrong.”

  “My God.” Lisette stared at him, her stomach feeling a pain of such terror.

  However, Smith went on, “It was a constant thing, the verbal and physical abuses. As he grew old enough to hear his mother’s cries and screams, Elisha would deliberately cause some distraction—so that his father would turn on him instead.

  As to his state, when I met him, it came from his father depriving him of food, making him stand in one spot for days without it. If he collapsed, he was revived by the blows from a cane on his legs.”

  “Oh Christ. Wait.” Lisette closed her lashes already feeling the tears in her eyes, having the inability to breathe. She bent over, hand to her stomach.

  Smith said softly, “Are you sure you want to know, now?”

  “I must.” She sucked in air and released it, sitting back and wiping her eyes. Nodding for him to go on, but feeling herself brace. Abuse, cruelty, my God, she would never have guessed that…