The Baroness Affair

by Jean Wilde

  Before she could respond, he continued, “I won’t spill inside you, I promise. I know you want Horatio’s child. This will only be to bring us both pleasure. You can trust me.”

  When she gave a small nod, he lifted her off him and stood. He slowly undressed before her, allowing her to see his naked body in the daylight. Her look of hunger and the obvious appreciation in her eyes stirred his own lust. When he motioned for her to stand, she quickly complied and turned around giving him her back. He unbuttoned her gown, removing her chemise and stays until she stood naked before him. Her hair remained pinned on top of her head, accentuating her long smooth neck. Piers pulled her against him, his cock nestled against the globes of her buttocks as his hands circled her waist and resumed teasing her breasts. She groaned and brought a hand behind her to rub his engorged member.

  He stifled a moan at the feel of her small, delicate hand on his shaft. So different from her husband’s, so tentative yet also so eager. “What would you like?” he rasped against her hair. “Do you want me to take you fast and hard from behind, or do you want to see my face when I bury myself inside you?”

  A shudder rippled through her before she replied, “Must I choose?”

  “Never with me.”

  Piers wondered if she understood his double meaning, but he didn’t ask as he guided her onto the narrow bed and positioned himself on top of her. When he reached between her thighs and found her sleek and wet for him, he didn’t hesitate. He pushed himself into her, never once taking his eyes off her expressive face.

  She gasped and wrapped her legs around his waist as he rolled his hips, setting a seductively languid pace. Her smooth skin and rose scent enveloped his senses. She was so damn wet for him, her body soft and inviting. He kissed her and nuzzled her neck, all the while whispering how beautiful she was and how good she felt beneath him.

  “Harder,” she commanded.

  Piers smiled, reached behind him, and unhooked her legs. Then, he pushed her knees toward her chest and buried himself to the hilt. Caroline let out a startled “oh my” and moaned as he picked up the pace. Within moments she was crying out in ecstasy, her entire body shuddering with her release, her inner muscles clenching him like a fist. He bit his lip and groaned, forcing himself to breathe slowly and not spill too soon.

  “That was—” she began, but before she could continue the sentence, he flipped her onto her stomach and pulled her hips up. He took her from behind, swift and hard, the small narrow bed groaning in protest as his thrusts grew frantic. His heart beat wildly in his chest, and he felt a surge of triumph when he felt her climax around his cock again. He drove into her warm heat one last time before pulling out and spilling his seed across her back.

  He panted, sucking in deep lungfuls of air, and willed his heart to slow. On shaky legs, he left the bed and retrieved his discarded neckcloth. He used it to wipe away the evidence of his release then lay down on the bed, pulling Caroline half on top of him. He kissed her brow and lazily ran his hand along her smooth back, reflecting on how sated he felt at that moment.

  Sighing, Caroline propped herself up and looked down at him. “I feel selfish.”

  “Selfish?” he repeated in confusion. “Why on earth would you feel that way?”

  “Because I’m always demanding things of you. Taking without bothering to ask what you want.”

  “I can assure you, I took you exactly the way I wanted. I enjoy rougher bed sport, and you gave me complete access to your body to do with as I pleased. If anything, it is I who should be thanking you.” He cupped her curved buttock, giving it a squeeze for emphasis.

  She laughed lightly and then rose from the bed to get dressed. He helped her button up her gown and tame the locks of her hair that had come loose. His clothes were crumpled, but other than the missing neckcloth, he didn’t look any worse for wear. They stepped outside the gamekeeper’s hut and reached the main path heading back toward the manor.

  “You seem to have no trouble expressing your desires inside the bedroom,” Caroline said, seeming to pick up the thread of their last conversation. “But you don’t really talk about what you want, in general that is. I’m curious, does anyone ever ask you that?”

  Her question discomfited him, so he shrugged nonchalantly to cover his embarrassment. “Well, no, not really. I’m in the business of serving others not myself.”

  “Have you no friends?”

  “Not many…only a handful are able to put up with me. I don’t need them to point out the obvious, though; I know what I want.” He paused and looked very directly at her. “I want what you and Horatio have: a best friend, a lover, and a confidante.”

  “A love match, then? How terribly gauche of you! Did no one tell you that it’s the middle-class’s attitudes toward marriage that have infected you with such ill-begotten thoughts?”

  “Well, I do work for a living, and since I have no title or money, the only thing I can offer is my heart.”

  “What about monogamy? That is, unfortunately, a requirement for a love match.”

  He gave her a wry grin. “I confess, I’ve never committed myself to one person before. It’s a tantalizing yet terrifying thought, this love business. You needn’t worry, though, I’d never try to snag your husband from beneath your nose; I’m not the poaching type.”

  She laughed. “I’m relieved to hear you say that since I doubt I can compete against your masterful skills.”

  “By the time I’m done with you, my Lady, you’ll be able to rival any resident of The Scarlet Salon.”

  Chapter 14

  It was an immense relief to everyone in the household when the Dowager Baroness Hastings finally departed for Bath. Even the servants seemed more cheerful as they went about their daily tasks. Piers continued to work with Mr. Hill, pleased with all the technical expertise the older man deigned to share with him. Who knew that building restoration could be so interesting?

  They rode together into town about once a week to purchase building materials and hire workers. As always, he deferred to the older, more experienced man in making all the business decisions, and Piers watched with equal parts amusement and fascination as Mr. Hill haggled with merchants over prices. It was during one of those trips into town, as Piers was readying himself to return to Delaval Hall, that the ominous clouds, which had been hanging low all day, decided to open up. Rain poured from the sky, soaking the streets and forcing everyone to seek shelter—including Piers. He left Titus at the stables of a local inn and stepped into the taproom.

  The Bull’s taproom was loud and crowded with the bodies of people seeking refuge from the downpour. Piers slowly made his way to the counter and ordered a pint of ale. With his drink in hand, he scanned the pub for an empty table or a familiar face.

  That’s when he saw him.

  Mr. Jonathan Miller sat at a table near the window with another young man. Piers had no difficulty recognizing the former footman. He appeared relaxed, dressed casually in pantaloons with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. As he chatted animatedly at his companion, he looked less like a villain and more like a jovial young man.

  Still, Piers knew better than to judge people based solely on their appearance. He adopted a casual air as he sauntered toward their table. The youth seated across from Miller looked up at him expectantly while his quarry stared at him sharply.

  Smiling in a friendly manner, Piers addressed both men, “Might I join you two? It’s a bit of a crush in here, and while my horse may enjoy drinking while standing, I prefer to be seated. I’d be happy to buy you gentlemen another round until this rain lets up.”

  The unfamiliar young man nodded amiably and scooted over on the bench to make some room for Piers. When he introduced himself as Andrew Miller, Piers realized he was Jonathan’s brother. A younger, chattier version of the former footman but with the same dark features that hinted at a Mediterranean background. Piers introduced himself and set out to make himself agreeable and befriend the young man seated next to him.
The elder Miller merely nodded at him from across the table, a wary expression on his face.

  After ten minutes or so, Miller finally spoke up. “Why don’t you go check on Jenny, Andrew? Make sure none of the patrons are bothering her.”

  Andrew nodded and excused himself. Piers watched him navigate his way through the crowd before turning his attention back to Jonathan. When he made no move to speak, Piers leisurely sipped his ale and turned to look out of the window, watching the rain. He was aware of the other man’s eyes boring into him, but he was used to attracting attention and simply ignored the scrutiny.

  Finally, Piers said, “I really ought to write the Royal Academy again and insist they include me in one of their galleries. If the way you’re staring at me is any indication, I’d draw the crowds in by the hundreds.”

  Miller glared at him. “You’re a piece of work, aren’t ye? A nob from London that knows nothing about the work he’s hired for and yet still walks away with a small fortune.”

  Piers cocked his head to the side. “Don’t I? Why do you think I’m not doing the work I’ve been hired for?” He was, in fact, doing exactly what he’d hired for, but Miller didn’t need to know that.

  The younger man sat back in his seat, studying him. “People talk…and you are a stranger.”

  “But you aren’t, I take it? Hmm, let me guess.” He leaned forward on the table, a small smile tugging at his lips as he studied his surly companion. “You’re a local, born and raised in Newcastle—I doubt you’ve traveled beyond twenty miles of this town. Your siblings are used to following your direction, which probably means you’re the eldest of a large brood and the main breadwinner of the family. You were forced into service at a young age and despised every minute of it. You resent the division of classes, and that disrespectful air of yours coupled with your quick temper has led you into more scrapes than you’d care to admit.”

  Much to his surprise, Miller gave him a genuine smile and leaned forward on the table as well. Mere inches separated their faces, and the younger man replied in a confidential tone, “I knew there was more to you than that pretty face of yours. You do more than just look at people, you see them. I study people too, actually. I may not have as much life experience as you do, but my instincts have rarely failed me. For instance, I can tell for a fact that you are no architect. Although, I must confess, I’m not sure what to make of you. You talk and dress like a swell of the Fancy, and you certainly seem to have been educated as one. You’re not high and mighty, though, which makes me think you work for a living. And if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say you know more about getting into scrapes than even I do.”

  Piers grinned in amusement. Jonathan was far smarter than he’d given him credit for. What else did he have up his sleeve? “Oh, I’ve flirted with trouble far more than you can possibly imagine, Mr. Miller.”

  “Please, call me Jonathan,” the other man said with a casual wave of his hand. “We’re well past the point of formalities, and something tells me what you have to say to me is not fit to be discussed in one of your damnable drawing rooms.”

  “What makes you think I have anything to discuss with you?”

  “Why is it that you’ve sought me out, then?”

  Piers shrugged. “Just seeking refuge from the rain.”

  “You’re an awful liar, sir. Are you a friend of Hastings, then?”

  “Yes, you could say that.”

  “Rather bold, aren’t ye? Going about right underneath Lady Hastings’s nose.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Miller chuckled. “You know who I am, Mr. Benson. That tells me that Hastings has confided certain private matters to you—matters that can only be discussed with a particular ilk of people.”

  Piers nodded. “Yes, I know who you are and your history with Hastings.”

  The other man crossed his arms and leaned back with a mocking smile. “So, what is it you want? Would you like some pointers on how to bend that lover to your will?”

  “I assure you, I’m far better versed at bending others than you’ll ever be. I’m not looking for pointers from you, but answers.”

  Miller frowned. “Feeling rather entitled, aren’t ye? Who do you think you are, sauntering over here and demanding answers? I don’t know you, Mr. Benson, and I sure as hell don’t need to be answering any of your questions.” With that he rose from the table.

  Piers quickly followed, catching his wrist. “You’re harboring a lot of animosity toward Hastings, and I want to know why. More importantly, I want to know if you’re going to act on it.”

  The younger man shook him off, glaring at him. “Touch me again and I’ll knock you down.”

  Piers scoffed, “I’d like to see you try, puppy. It would require very little effort on my part—one stiff breeze would knock you right over.”

  Eyes narrowed, Miller replied, “You’re quite the talker. Let’s see what your fists can actually do, you overdressed peacock. The Golden Anchor tomorrow at noon… be there.”

  He shouldered his way past Piers and left the tavern before Piers had a chance to respond. Piers felt his lips twitch. God, but he loved a good fight. He hadn’t been in a boxing match for weeks, and he was eager to work off some of his energy. It seemed almost cruel to respond to the pup’s challenge—Piers clearly outweighed him, and his skills undoubtedly eclipsed the younger man’s. But he had never backed away from a challenge, and he sure as hell would not bow out gracefully. If Miller wanted a beating to put him in his place, then Piers would gladly give him one.

  * * * *

  The Golden Anchor was a small, rather shabby establishment located near the docks. When Piers walked in just a little before noon, he was taken aback by the crowd assembled in the small space. Apparently, news of a fight between a local and a London fop had spread across town, and a large number of people had shown up eager to watch and place wagers on the match. An eight-foot square was roped off in the middle of the room with benches placed around it.

  A portly, middle-aged man approached Piers and introduced himself as Mr. Carter. “I’ll be your umpire, and Mr. Bell will be young Jonathan’s,” he added, gesturing to a burly man who was standing next to the ring chatting with a group of young men.

  Piers smiled affably and thumped him on the shoulder. “Good man, we certainly want a clean fight. Do you expect any trouble from the magistrates?”

  “Lord, no,” the other man said with a booming laugh. “They love a good fight as much as the rest of us. They’re not allowed to place wagers, though—got to keep up appearances and all.”

  Just then, Miller sauntered up to them and gave Piers a curt nod. “You ready to prove your mettle, dandy?”

  “Actually, the correct term is Corinthian, and I’m curious to see if you have any actual skill to back up your bravado.”

  The young man grinned. “Oh, I have skills. You’ll have to learn the lesson the hard way, but I assure you that by the end of this fight you will never underestimate me again.”

  Piers snorted and walked to the corner of the room where he’d seen a coat hanger. After discarding his hat and walking stick, he took off his coat, shirt, and neckcloth. Bare chested and bare knuckled, he darted across the room and leapt over the ropes into the ring, startling the crowd and his opponent. He grinned good-naturedly as the audience cheered and threw a taunting look at Miller. It was all part of the act. If there was one thing Piers was adept at doing, it was putting on a good show.

  He studied the half-dressed man he was facing off with. While Miller was certainly on the thinner side, he was excellently proportioned with a solid chest and well-defined arms. He exuded a certain confidence even though he didn’t jeer at him or even acknowledge the crowd’s cheers; he merely paced in his corner like a caged animal. Really, today’s youth has so much to learn about showmanship. Then, one of the umpires let out a shout, and the fight began.

  It soon became apparent to Piers that his opponent’s bravado was, in fact, we
ll-founded. Miller was quick, had excellent footwork, and always kept his hands up. They were well-matched, and the bouts lasted far longer than Piers was used to, but he kept moving and shouting taunts at his younger adversary. The crowd of onlookers shouted and jeered along, loving every minute of the match.

  After a few rounds, Piers quit his showier fighting moves and began concentrating on delivering blows that would cause the most damage. He was about execute his signature uppercut punch—which had felled many opponents in the past—when the lucky bastard stumbled backward just in time to avoid it. Piers mock saluted him and bowed to the roaring spectators before retreating to his corner for a drink.

  But even with the breaks between the bouts and the high energy of the crowd, Piers began to tire. It was during their twelfth round, when Miller unexpectedly darted to one side and planted a vicious blow to his ribs, that things really went downhill for him. Winded by the unexpected move, Piers let his guard down for just a second, and that’s when he saw the lightning-quick jab slam across his face. The world spun, and he hit the ground hard. Lying on his back, stunned, he was dimly aware of the sounds of cheers and the scuffling of feet around him before everything melted into blackness.

  Chapter 15

  Piers came to with a start. He lay motionless in an unfamiliar bed for several minutes as he tried to recall the events of the day. He had been knocked out! He—whose skills had earned him a solid reputation in all the pugilist saloons in London and the admiration of boxing legend Gentleman Jackson himself—had been bested by a whelp ten years his junior. It was a lowering thought!

  Suddenly, he realized he wasn’t alone in the room. An unfamiliar woman moved around quietly. He watched her for a few moments, noticing that she was more intent on tidying the room than in tending to him. She looked to be in her fourth decade, pale and thin, with dark hair that was liberally streaked with gray. She had dark blue eyes set in one of those faces that had surely been striking in its youth. Not anymore, unfortunately—but then Piers had seen many a pretty blossom wilt from years of poverty and hardship. Such a waste!