Regency Wolfe: A de Wolfe Pack Connected World collection of Victorian and Regency Tales
Page 6
“Guess,” he said, leading her up the next flight. There were no servants here.
Her heart thundering, she couldn’t speak. She had already seen her private apartments—a luxurious, feminine bedchamber and a cozy sitting room. It was the sitting room he took her to, first, and when he turned in the opposite direction to the bedchamber door, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or furiously disappointed.
“Our guests will be here any moment,” she managed.
“They may wait for just a little while.” He pushed the wall and a door she hadn’t even seen, disguised as it was to appear part of the wall, opened into a much more masculine domain.
This was his. Leather chairs, a mahogany desk, books, odd objects from his days fighting in India, Portugal, Spain and France. She gazed about her in wonder as they crossed the room to anther door, already open to show the chamber beyond.
She swallowed hard and let him lead her there, too. A huge, curtained bed dominated the room. She couldn’t take her eyes off it.
He said, “I believe it is customary in civilized marriages for a husband to visit his wife when he wishes to exert his conjugal rights. Neither of us are slaves to convention, so I want to be sure you understand something.”
With strange reluctance, she dragged her gaze from the bed and, almost fearfully, up to his face.
“Between us, there are no rights,” he said gravely. “Only desires and wishes. I will want you all the time, but you are always at liberty to send me packing. I’ll think no less of you. It is my desire to sleep every night with you in my arms, whether that is here in this room, in your bedchamber, or on the floor of some barn. Again, you may choose when that happens, where it happens, or even if it happens.”
A strange wonder began to fill her. She’d married a harsh, powerful, virile man who was strong enough to let her choose rather than exert his undoubted authority under every law and custom.
He raised her hand to his lips and softly kissed it. “I brought you here to show you that my chamber is yours whenever you wish it.”
In spite of her nervousness, she couldn’t help her quick smile. “Is that really why you brought me here?” she teased.
An answering sparkle lit up his eyes. “In part. I also want to make a suggestion.”
“What?” she asked breathlessly.
“I would like,” he murmured, “to make love to you now, before we greet our guests. I would like to give you pleasure and take my own, and make it so sweet, so intense and so satisfying that you long for me again, all through the party. I don’t want you to fear your wedding night. I want you to crave it.”
Her whole body tingled at his words. Strange heat curled through her belly. “What must I do?”
“Whatever you like. We could begin with a kiss.”
“I would like that,” she whispered, parting her lips as he bent his head.
His kiss began softly, tenderly, causing butterflies to dance and plunge deep within her. At the touch of his tongue, curling heat burst into flames and she opened wide to him, gasping, throwing both arms around him to draw him closer.
He groaned with clear delight. Rather than fearing the movement of his fingers unlacing her gown, she wriggled with pleasure at their touch. Gown, undergown and chemise soon lay in a puddle around her feet and she stood before him totally naked.
His eyes drank her in, devoured her. Her breathing came in pants. God help her, she didn’t feel remotely ashamed. Instead, she felt at once gloriously powerful and deliciously weak. With a muttered curse, he swept her up against him, his buttons abrading the sensitive skin of her breasts, and carried her the few paces to the bed.
“I want to see you,” she whispered, among the pillows as he lay over her.
“You shall,” he assured her, shrugging out of his coat. He drew her hands inside his shirt before he lowered his head to her throat, dragging his mouth downwards to her breasts. She thought she would die of bliss.
Afterwards, when she dwelled on this first coupling, she could never quite be sure of the order things happened. She was sure he was at least partly inside her before all his clothes were off. It never seemed to matter. His hot, smooth back undulated beneath her hands in the intense, sweet motion of love, showing her, teaching her, bringing her by slow, patient, oh-so-delicious stages to a blinding joy she had never expected.
Afterwards, she lay in his arms, her hair falling across his still heaving chest as she lazily kissed it. She smiled. She felt, as the English said, like the cat with the cream.
“And now,” he said, “we can join our guests. You may enjoy the party without worrying about what’s to come.”
“We can,” she agreed. Her smile broadening, she rolled herself boldly over his body, and kissed his mouth.
“Or,” she murmured against his lips, “perhaps we could do this just once more before we go down.”
“It would hurt you,” he said, closing his arms around her and tumbling her again beneath him. “And even I am not so selfish.”
Her disappointment must have stood out clearly on her face, for a rather wolfish smile spread over his. “On the other hand…” He kissed her, open-mouthed, with blatant sensuality. “On the other hand, there are many routes to pleasure. Let me show you another…”
And so it was some time before the newlyweds joined their guests for the wedding breakfast. Opinions varied as to whether the earl had been swiftly exerting his conjugal rights—after all, an heir was needed and, by tradition, the groom should be inebriated by tonight—or if his bride had thrown some kind of tantrum. Whatever, they appeared to be in perfect accord as they sat side by side beneath the portraits of more long-dead Wolfes.
“Who is that?” Elise asked him once, indicating a modern painting of an armored knight on horseback, his helmet held in front of him as he gazed fearlessly into the distance from just one eye. The other was covered by a square of black cloth.
“Our progenitor,” the earl said. “The semi-legendary Sir William de Wolfe, the first earl. A fierce, thirteenth century warlord who let nothing stand in his way, by all accounts. My father commissioned it, insisting it be painted from actual descriptions of him in surviving texts.”
“I always said he sounded like Francis,” Caroline contributed from his other side. “I’m sure that’s why Papa had it done.”
Elise regarded the picture thoughtfully. “Do you think he’d be pleased that you married an enemy?”
“France is no longer our enemy,” Warenton pointed out. He glanced up at his ancestor and smiled. “But yes, I think he would. I think he’d understand perfectly.”
Mary Lancaster’s Newsletter
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Other Books by Mary Lancaster
VIENNA WALTZ (The Imperial Season, Book 1)
VIENNA WOODS (The Imperial Season, Book 2)
VIENNA DAWN (The Imperial Season, Book 3)
REBEL OF ROSS
A PRINCE TO BE FEARED: the love story of Vlad Dracula
AN ENDLESS EXILE
A WORLD TO WIN
About Mary Lancaster
Mary Lancaster’s first love was historical fiction. Her other passions include coffee, chocolate, red wine and black and white films – simultaneously where possible. She hates housework.
As a direct consequence of the first love, she studied history at St. Andrews University. She now writes full time at her seaside home in Scotland, which she shares with her husband, three children and a small, crazy dog.
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Trusting the Wolfe
Book .5 of The Seven Curses of London
A Victorian Romance Novella
Lana Williams
Trusting the Wolfe
Book .5 of The Seven Curses of London Series
Stabbed and left for dead in one of London’s most dangerous neighborhoods, Marcus de Wolfe is astounded when a woman resembling the angel from the famous family legend saves him. Once recovered, he shoves aside his angel’s captivating image to focus on his goal of stopping whoever is smuggling cargo on his ships.
Left penniless by her wastrel father, seamstress Tessa Maycroft doesn’t trust men, especially not the handsome earl with the golden eyes she saved. To keep others from facing the fate she barely escaped, she offers seamstress apprenticeships for impoverished girls, giving them a chance for a better life.
But when Marcus appears in her shop and insists there’s a terrible connection between her girls and his ships, she agrees to help him once more. He tempts her to believe there might be more to life than she’s dared to hope.
Marcus soon realizes Tessa is anything but a simple seamstress. His angel shows him he’s not as dead inside as he believed. Can the passion they find in each other’s arms unite these lonely souls or will the plot they uncover threaten not only their new-found love but their lives?
To Kathryn Le Veque,
This story wouldn’t be possible if not for you
and your amazing stories.
Thank you for serving as such an inspiration
and inviting me to play in your world.
XO
Other Books in This Series
Loving the Hawke, Book 1 – Amazon
Charming the Scholar, Book 2 – Amazon
Rescuing the Earl, Book 3 – Amazon
Dancing Under the Mistletoe, Book 4 – Amazon
Tempting the Scoundrel, Book 5 – Amazon
Falling for the Viscount, Book 6 – Amazon
Daring the Duke, Book 7 – Amazon
Chapter One
London, England, February 1870
Marcus de Wolfe drew an unsteady breath, stunned at the pain flooding his body. Cold seeped into his bones both from shock and the stone alleyway on which he lay. Was this it then? Was this the ending of the great de Wolfe legacy? Would he die in this filthy alley in Whitechapel as dusk fell with no one the wiser?
“Damn,” was all he managed.
His attackers had long since fled, no doubt believing him already dead. Which he soon would be if he didn’t find help. Walking out of here under his own power was not an option.
With a trembling hand, he reached inside his jacket to touch the searing pain of his ribs. A warm wetness coated his fingers. The fading light revealed blood on his fingertips.
He shifted, realizing the cut along his thigh was far worse. The throbbing of the knife wound caused him to envision his blood pumping out of the long slice onto the dirty alleyway.
Fear chased down his spine as he tried to reach deep inside himself and gather the strength to rise and find help. He’d called out several times when he’d heard someone walking by, but no one stopped. Not in this area of the city where anyone lying in the gutter meant trouble.
He should’ve brought Samuel with him. His footman would be angry when Marcus didn’t return home. The burly man’s presence would be most welcome right now. Marcus had left a note explaining where he’d be, but Samuel might not find it until morning. That would be too late. Already Marcus felt light-headed from the loss of blood.
There was no doubt he’d overestimated his ability to protect himself. Then again, he hadn’t anticipated that the man he’d followed from the London docks into Whitechapel would have quite so many friends. Five against one had proven overwhelming odds, especially when they all carried knives.
Now he might never know what type of cargo was being smuggled on his ships or who was behind the scheme. When he’d first realized someone was stealing from him, he’d had no choice but to travel from his home in Northumberland to London. It had been some time since he’d ventured here. The vastness of the city had surprised him, as had the slums like the one he was lying in now.
His trip earlier today to pay an unannounced visit to his man of business had resulted in nothing. Nor had his visit to the dock to speak with the captain of one of his ships. The man had grown quite uncomfortable at Marcus’s questions, prompting Marcus to follow a crewmember from the vessel to this area. He’d hoped to question the man and see if he could be bribed into telling Marcus what was happening.
A shiver spread through him. The wet filth of the alleyway soaked his clothes, a combination of human and animal waste from the smell of it. Foul enough to turn a man’s stomach.
His eyes drifted closed, but he fought it, trying to rouse himself to call again for help. Someone paused at the mouth of the alley, but when he raised his hand so they might see him, the person hurried away.
Hopelessness filled him, though he did his best to beat it back. He propped himself up on one elbow, wondering if he could find his way to his feet. The tall brick buildings on either side started to spin. He closed his eyes at the sight, willing away the feeling. With a deep breath, he sat up, using his hands to support his weight.
But that proved a mistake. The pain was too great. He slid into oblivion, darkness claiming him.
Tessa Maycroft watched her surroundings warily as she made her way from the Hodges’ home in Whitechapel toward her own off Bond Street. This area was far from safe during the day, let alone once dusk fell. Jenny Hodges was an apprentice at the seamstress shop that Tessa ran with her Aunt Betty. The girl had fallen ill two days earlier. Now that she was beginning to feel better, Tessa had brought her some piecework to do at home as Jenny was desperate to earn money until she could return to the shop.
When two of Jenny’s younger sisters had shown signs of the same illness, Tessa had stayed to help their overwhelmed mother. Which left her walking through Whitechapel at dusk.
It wasn’t as if she never did so. After all, she lived and worked near this area. The other young girls who served as apprentices also lived here, and Tessa visited them when necessary.
She wasn’t completely unprotected. Her sewing bag hung on her arm filled with needles, various threads, and very sharp scissors. If the need arose, she would retrieve those shears as they would work well as a weapon.
Aunt Betty would be wondering what had become of her by now, but there was no easy way to send word to her as to what caused her delay. They lived in the small apartment above their shop, Madame Daphne, Seamstress. There was no Madame Daphne.
Her aunt had created the name to appeal to wealthier customers when she’d started the business soon after her husband’s death, well over fifteen years ago. The small allowance he’d left her had not been enough to live on without additional income. She’d invited Tessa to join her when Tessa’s wastrel of a father died, leaving her penniless.
Luckily, both women were quite skilled with needle and thread. More important than the alterations they completed or the dresses and decorated undergarments they made were the apprenticeships they offered. Each year, they selected four or five young girls from orphanages or workhouses, most with no mothers, who wanted to learn a skill that would keep them off the streets.
They taught the girls the basics of sewing as well as exploring more unusual needlework, from lace making to embroidery, to see where each girl’s strength lay. The life of a normal seamstress was harsh, despite the recent reforms that had passed. In order to make the barest living, one had to toil twelve to fourteen hours each day, running the risk of becoming incapacitated by sore hands, aching backs, and even blindness from working in poor light.
But their apprenticeship offered improved conditions, as well as unique and desired skills, that gave the girls a better living than mo
st.
Tessa cringed as her shoe slipped on something squishy and foul smelling. She pulled her wayward thoughts from the girls’ progress and the next day’s work to where she was walking. Heaven only knew what littered the filthy street.
A soft moan sounded from up ahead. Someone worse for drink, no doubt. The conditions of these streets and the people who lived on them were enough to drive anyone to imbibe spirits, but Tessa saw no sense in such an indulgence. She’d rather have food on the table than the brief oblivion gin provided.
She slowed her steps as she passed the entrance to an alleyway, one hand on her sewing bag in case she needed to retrieve her scissors. Again a moan sounded, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.
That was no ordinary moan but a deep groan of pain. She steeled herself from the temptation to help. Her first priority had to be Aunt Betty and herself. Not some stranger who got himself in trouble. All the same, she couldn’t resist peering into the alleyway.
“Help.” The whispered plea sent Tessa’s heart racing. Her steps slowed even more.
A man lay a short distance from the entrance. He raised his hand as though to implore her to come to him. But Tessa was no fool. She’d spent enough time in this area to know the many tricks men played. She might venture over to help him, only to be grabbed and attacked. Her sewing bag didn’t hold anything valuable to a normal thief, but it was valuable to her. Or he might want her rather than her bag.
She didn’t intend to allow either event to occur. Though part of her wanted to help, her survival instincts were far stronger. Better to stay away from the possibility of trouble. Getting involved in such situations was a sure way to end up with more problems than she already had.
With a shake of her head, she continued past. She’d nearly made it when the desperate plea sounded once again.