Through his balcony doors.
Turning, she spun around and raced back to her bedchamber, which happened to be only a couple rooms down from him.
She closed the chamber door firmly behind her and advanced on her balcony. Flinging open the double doors, she stepped out into the spring evening and looked resolutely to her left, examining the course necessary to reach Sinclair’s room.
Two other balconies loomed between their rooms, but she could reach his balcony by stepping out onto the small ledge that jutted from the side of the house. She need take only a few steps between each balcony to reach his chamber. She estimated that the length of her foot would mostly fit upon the ledge. Mostly. She hoped.
Before she could change her mind or let fear take hold of her, she found herself straddling the balcony and stepping onto the ledge.
This is madness.
As soon as the thought flitted through her mind, she dismissed it—banished it. She was no feeble lady. She walked miles of countryside every day and had climbed plenty of trees in her lifetime. She could tackle this.
Nora experienced a stab of alarm when she reached the first balcony. That had not been easy. Her skirts hampered her quite a bit and it required some careful maneuvering, but she managed to swing a leg over the railing and drop down, her palms scraping slightly on the chilled stone.
She blew out a breath and shoved to her feet, dusting off her palms. She should have changed, but too late now, and there was no time to waste. She needed to keep going. He needed her. Whether he wanted her help or not, he would have it.
Bulky skirts or not, she continued. She crossed over to the next balcony and then finally reached his, arriving at his balcony door to find it unlocked, thankfully.
She pushed open the door unceremoniously, anxious to see him and verify that he was not in fact on death’s doorstep—that she had not poisoned him.
It took her a moment to acclimate to the room. Lamplight filled the chamber, but failed to reach to all the corners as it was a large space, much larger than her own, of course. It boasted a full sitting area with a sofa and a duo of wingback chairs.
The bed was easy to locate. It was a great monstrosity. The covers were rumpled into several messy piles. She stepped closer and then spotted him, spotted a single foot dangling off the bed and the long stretch of a leg leading into his hip. Naked.
All of him was naked.
Not a stitch of clothing covered his person. His face was turned from her, facing the opposite wall.
She cleared her throat to alert him of her arrival so that he might cover himself.
His head whipped around on the bed and she gasped.
His dark eyes were like obsidian fire. They fixed on her with hot-eyed focus. “Nora,” he growled in a voice she had never heard from him before. “Go! Get out!”
Her heart clenched. He was in pain. She had done this to him. She had brought him to this.
“What’s amiss?” She stepped forward.
“Stop!” She ignored him and continued forward, forcing her gaze on his face. Not his body. At least she tried . . . and succeeded. Mostly.
“Don’t come any closer, damn it!” His face contorted as he lifted his voice.
She halted at the force of that command, frowning. It was not like him to shout.
“Sinclair . . . Constantine,” she said slowly, softly speaking his name . . . enjoying far too much the feel of it on her tongue. “You need to let me examine you.” She held up her hands as one does to pacify a wild animal, to illustrate that she meant him no harm.
“Did you not hear me? You need to get out of this room, woman. Now!”
She flinched at the bark of his voice, but did not back away. “I’m not leaving you. I’m here to take care of you.”
He laughed and the sound was broken and tormented, as jagged and sharp as broken glass. A dreadful sound that tore right through her. There was no way she could leave him in such a state.
The tendons in his throat worked as though struggling to swallow. “You can’t help me with this. You were . . . right . . . about that.”
She had not wanted to be right. She had hoped she would be wrong because now she was faced with this—with him like this. And he was her responsibility. Even if he had insisted on taking the tonic and ignoring her advice.
She lifted her chin with forced bravado. “I am the person most equipped in this house to help you, good sir. You must know that.”
He groaned as though someone had stuck a hot poker to his flesh—his lovely manly flesh. Tight and smooth flesh stretched over a body that was muscled and well formed. Especially the curve of those buttocks. They were nicely rounded and tight, flexing in a tantalizing manner with his movements.
Her eyes widened with the realization that she was ogling him. She wrenched her gaze back to his face.
“Be gone, woman! Do you see me? Do you see this?” He rolled fully to face her then, lying on his side so she had a full frontal view of him. “Do you see? You cannot help me.”
And she did see.
She saw everything.
Every shocking thing.
Chapter 20
There was no staring at his face. Even as handsome as it was, such a thing was impossible. His very erect manhood jutted out from between his legs. Of course she could look nowhere else.
Saliva flooded her mouth. Her lips parted and she worked her jaw, searching for something to say, but it did no good. Words were insignificant. Her mouth was watering as though she’d just scented a nine-course feast replete with all her favorite foods.
She may be a maid still, but when one worked in the business of healing, one observed a multitude of unclothed bodies—even in this era of moral correctness.
Working alongside Papa, she had seen plenty of naked bodies and observed more than one man’s phallus. And yet no body had ever affected her like this.
No man’s member had ever looked like this. To begin with, they had all been flaccid. This was a far cry from that.
His rod was . . . large, dark plum in color, the head swollen and angry-looking, ravenous for its release. His hand shot there, gripping it, seizing it in a punishing grip. The sight should have made her cringe, but she felt only a violent tug low in her belly in response. She had the mad urge to brush his hand aside and replace it with her own—to wrap her fingers around him and learn his texture for herself.
She suddenly felt as though she were afflicted with a fever, all of her overly warm, parts of her strangely achy.
She took several halting steps toward the bed.
His liquid dark eyes went wide. “What are you doing? Get out!” Clearly he had thought the sight of him like this would send her fleeing . . . as it would have done for any other gently bred female.
She knew what this was. She’d witnessed her sister Charlotte at its peak, lost to the agony of desire. She knew it would get only worse. Unless he reached his release.
“Are you in a great deal of . . . discomfort?”
He made a choking sound. “Your sister was not exaggerating its power.”
“But I cut the dose in half.”
Dear heavens . . . what had her sister endured?
As though he read her mind, he choked out, “I pity how your sister must have felt for this is misery.”
Or perhaps it worked differently on a man if half a dose resulted in this? Or perhaps it varied simply per individual?
He arched his neck on the bed with a moan and tightened his grip around his manhood. The swollen head went darker and she felt another tug low in her belly, deeper than before. Deeper and pulsing, begging for the pressure to be assuaged.
The lean lines of his body were stretched taut on display, muscles bunching, sinew pulling. He was a fine specimen. She told herself this was only a clinical observation, that she was not admiring him in a licentious way even if she was feeling the telltale signs of arousal herself. Even if she was suffering from shortness of breath. Even if she was imagining putting her
hands on him. That was simply a physiological response. As a scientist she could appreciate that.
Nora took a bracing gulp of breath. This was not about her. She was not under the influence of various elements. She was a healer and he required healing. It was as simple as that.
She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat.
She could help him. That was what she did, after all. Where she excelled. She owed him that much.
She approached tentatively, stopping at the edge of the bed.
His dark eyes fastened on her as a spasm rolled through his body. He still gripped his member, pulling and tugging on it in a way that made her cringe. “Go away, Nora.” Then quieter, “Please.”
“I can’t do that.” She eased down on the bed. “Let me help. I owe you that.”
His nostrils flared as though the sudden nearness of her was too much.
“Mr. Sin—” She stopped, catching herself. At this point it was just silly to address him so formally. “Constantine—”
He moved then, sprang to life like an unleashed jungle animal.
She gasped as he snatched her up and flung her back on the mattress as though she was weightless, a feather, a bit of fluff to be tossed and maneuvered for the pleasure of his big, unrestrained body.
He came over her, his nose deeply inhaling before descending and finding her throat, rubbing against her suddenly sensitized skin.
Heavens. He was . . . feral.
She should struggle. Protest.
Open her mouth and scream for help.
And yet as his nose buried in the crook of her neck, she turned her head and arched her throat, exposing more flesh for him. Offering him more. All. Everything.
Her gaze landed on one of his arms, braced taut and quivering beside her head. His nose and lips moved, grazing the line of her neck and she couldn’t stop herself. She reached out and wrapped her fingers around his arm, curling her hand around his warm bicep, gasping at the singe of his flesh under her fingers, at the reciprocity of touch between them.
He jerked at the sensation of her hand on him, pulling his head back with a hiss and looking down at her with a mixture of astonishment and anguish. “No,” he croaked.
“Constan—”
“No,” he said louder, firmer. He shook his head once, twice, side to side. “No. Don’t touch me. I can’t if you . . . just put hands on me.”
He flung himself away from her, landing on his back on the bed with a defeated groan. “You need to go. Now!”
She sat up and looked down at him, flipping her loose plait back over her shoulder. His long, lean body was sprawled amid the jumbled sheets like a splendid sacrificial offering. He flung his arm over his eyes as though needing to shield himself from the sight of her.
His manhood was still swollen, suffering and angry-red from neglect.
Enough of this.
“I am going to touch you.” Ignoring his objections, she lifted her hand toward him. Until a thought seized her and she froze. “I don’t repulse you, do I?” She bit her lip in consternation. She could not imagine touching him, subjecting him to her touch, if he found her repulsive. She could not bring herself to inflict that—herself—upon him.
His arm lifted from his eyes to stare at her in wonder. “God, no.”
She exhaled. “Good.” Her hand resumed its descent. She was almost to his abdomen. The skin there looked soft. Firm and soft.
Suddenly his hand shot out to seize her wrist. “Nora.”
Her gaze locked on his, but it wasn’t his hand that stopped her and held her in check. It was his intense gaze and the sudden doubt filling her.
He needed this like a starving man needed food, but he was unwilling. Not physically, but in every other way. Could she touch him knowing that?
Heavens. She hated that she had done this to him, that something she had created had done this to him—reduced him to this state. She felt wretched . . . as wretched as he looked twisting in agony upon the bed.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “This is all my fault.”
“I asked for it.” He nodded once in brave acceptance.
“But I knew what it could do to a person.” She paused and shook her head. “I just didn’t want to believe it could happen again.”
His fingers around her wrist started to shake, as though his control was slipping, a rope unraveling from its mast. “I won’t ruin you. You need to go.”
“Is that what worries you?” She glanced back down to his manhood. It was still erect, pulsing before her very eyes, matching the swift beat of her pounding heart.
How long had he been like this? How long could he continue in this condition? It must be unbearable.
“What if you won’t compromise me? What if I merely take care of your . . . er, situation?”
Merely? Nothing about this was merely.
Since Charlotte’s marriage, Nora had seen fit to educate herself on matters of intimacy. She had always embraced knowledge on any subject, and she did not like knowing there was a gap in her range of knowledge, so she had researched to fill that chasm.
She had two married sisters and a houseful of females, especially since moving into Haverston Hall. Staff members gossiped and they didn’t always pay attention to who was lurking about. Information abounded. She’d only needed to ferret it out.
Now, after much eavesdropping and snooping, she could say that she understood the basic mechanics of sexual congress. She even knew beyond basic mechanics. She knew there were ways to stimulate outside of traditional coupling.
She had learned there was more than one way to achieve release. Her sister had actually provided her with that gem of knowledge when explaining how the tonic had affected her. Nora was above all a scientist and demanded all details necessary to conduct her research.
“Come now,” she coaxed. “Let me relieve your suffering.”
His fingers loosened around her wrist and she knew he was relenting.
“What if I can’t stop?” His voice came out choked. “What if this tonic makes me . . . insistent. What if I become . . . rough?”
“I don’t believe that will happen.”
A pained grimace crossed his face. “What if I don’t care . . . and take you like a beast regardless of your wishes?”
At his words, her skin broke out in gooseflesh. Her stomach gave a sharp twist that she felt all the way to her core. What was wrong with her? She fidgeted, pressing her thighs together and trying to ease the sudden throb. The suggestion of Sinclair taking her like a beast should not elicit a response and fill her with dark cravings.
“You won’t. Not without my consent. I trust you. This tonic can’t change your character. You’re a decent man. No beast. You respect others too much.”
His body jerked with another spasm. A fresh grimace passed over his face.
“Allow me.” She pushed a little bit more, her voice dropping a pitch—sounding almost seductive. Except she knew she was not capable of such a thing. Seduction and flirtation were beyond her. Other people knew how to do those things. Not Nora.
Still, she persisted. She had to do this for him. “Let me help you.” She scooted closer on her knees, looming over him. Releasing a determined breath, she instructed, “Now no more fussing and worrying. I am going to end your suffering.”
Resolved, she nudged his hand aside and touched him. Closed her fingers around his throbbing shaft before the outrageousness of what she was doing chased away her resolve.
She was touching a man’s member. His manhood. A . . . cock.
Yes, that was another word she had learned in her quest for knowledge. Just the sound of it in her head rang wicked and crude.
She was not touching just any man though. A man she had drugged with mind- and body-altering medicine. A man who affected her, who intrigued her on a cerebral level. And there was also the way he made her feel. Physically.
He made her feel physically.
That was new and profound.
She’d
watched her sisters fall in love. She’d seen them blush and quiver when their husbands looked at them. Nora had thought it all stemmed from ridiculous sentiment, but now she knew sentiment had nothing to do with it. She was not in love with Constantine Sinclair.
But she wanted him. Her body quivered for him.
There could be lust with love. And lust without love. These two truths could coexist together.
That was a revelation. As was the way he felt in her hand. Like silk on steel. Incredibly, it felt as though he was growing, thickening in her grip, and she had never felt so empowered in her life. She flexed her fingers around him and a hissing breath escaped from between his teeth.
She stilled, her gaze shooting to his face. “Am I hurting you?”
He shook his head, his dark hair falling across his forehead in charming disarray. He looked vulnerable, almost boyish—a marked contrast to the stern duke-to-be with never a hair out of place. Her heart squeezed at the sight. She longed to reach out and brush the strands away from his face. “Only when you stop. Please. Move your hand on me. Like this.”
His hand came over hers, his long fingers wrapping around hers. He moved them together, his hand covering hers, sliding, rolling her palm and fingers up and down his silky length in a steady rhythm. He moaned and dropped his hand away from hers, letting her continue on her own.
She shifted and fidgeted, seeking the best position to appease her body’s own burgeoning aches, especially the one between her legs. Nothing helped to achieve that, however.
“Are you still in pain?” she asked.
“The sweetest pain,” he breathed, his eyes fluttering shut as though he were savoring her ministrations.
Nora settled down to recline on the bed, stretching out beside him, aligning her body to his and enjoying the contact, the brush of her breasts against his bare chest. She wished she were without her nightgown and robe, too, so that she might have the full experience of their skin rubbing together.
Truthfully, she was quite enjoying herself. The sensation of him in her hand was not at all what she had expected. She had thought to only bring him pleasure. She had not expected to find such pleasure in this act for herself.
The Duke Effect EPB Page 15
