She cleared her throat. “Do you think Mr. Sherwood was right? That Lord Hampston has been wrecking the garden in order to make you sell?”
“I don’t know that I should trust anything that little prick says,” Asa said, but then he shrugged. “It makes as much sense as anything, though.”
Eve stared at him. He had a smudge of soot across his cheek and he looked both exhausted and very dangerous. “What will you do?”
He glanced at her, his green eyes gleaming. “If it is Hampston, I’ll make him regret the day he was born.”
“But…” She licked her lips. “He’s a viscount.”
His mouth kicked up and he turned back to the window. “And I’m just the disowned son of a beer brewer?”
It was the truth, wasn’t it?
His smile wasn’t pleasant at all. “There are ways for even plebeian men such as I to find revenge, luv.”
Eve swallowed at that and turned her attention to Henry, who was attempting to climb onto the seat cushions, presumably to look out the carriage window. She wondered, a little sadly, if he missed Dove.
She did.
Eve couldn’t help a relieved sigh when she stepped down from the carriage in front of her own little house. At last she could get Jean-Marie some help.
Behind her Asa was silent, though his big broad shoulders were beginning to droop.
Eve nodded to herself, making up her mind. She turned to the carriage driver. “Please fetch the doctor who lives around the corner.” She gave an address only streets away. “Tell him he must come at once.” She looked at Bob, one of the footmen riding the carriage today. “Bob, I’d like you to help Jean-Marie to his bed.”
Beside her Jean-Marie made a protest that was so feeble, Eve was even more alarmed.
“At once, if you please,” she said to Bob.
He jumped down with alacrity.
“And Bill, please tell Ruth to fill the bathtub in my dressing room.”
Bill nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” He trotted up the front steps.
He had been gone only moments when the front door flew open again and Tess came running down the steps, her face so white the freckles on her cheeks stood out like spots of blood.
Jean-Marie held out his good arm. “Do not fret, ma chérie.”
Eve watched as Tess and Bob helped Jean-Marie up the steps.
Then she turned to Asa.
“Come,” she said, and led him, big and prowling, to her sitting room. Henry trotted after them cheerfully.
They ate a simple dinner of fish and potatoes—the supper Tess had already had warming in the kitchens—as Ruth filled the bathtub and reported on the progress of the doctor.
Afterward Eve went down and consulted with the doctor, a young man in a white bobbed wig.
He darted sharp dark eyes at her as he washed his hands in the kitchen. “The shoulder was dislocated and I set it. It’s bound now, but your man must rest or it may fall out of the socket again. A week in bed at the very least.”
Eve’s eyes had widened in horror when he’d mentioned the bone falling back out of the socket, and she fervently assured the doctor that she and Tess would be sure to keep Jean-Marie bedbound.
She paid him and climbed the stairs back to her rooms.
When she entered she found Asa eyeing the steaming tub as he took off his shoes. “Damn me, that looks good.”
She nodded and then hesitated. She should leave him to it, give him some privacy, but this was the man who had held her so tenderly the night before.
Was it so wrong to want to tend to him in return?
Matter-of-factly she went to him and helped him out of his coat, then laid it neatly on a chair.
She bent to unbutton his waistcoat, aware of the warm body beneath the gaudy silver brocade. He stood silently, his chest rising and falling with his breaths as she worked, and she felt herself begin to heat. He shrugged out of the waistcoat and tossed it to the chair.
She untied and unwound his cravat, pulling it from his neck. His white linen shirt was laced and her fingers trembled as she picked at the laces. How much more time would she have with him? She wanted—oh, she wanted much more than she thought he might want to give.
She wanted forever, really, with him.
He looked at her and then stepped back to pull the shirt off over his head. Swiftly he took off stockings, breeches and smallclothes, and then…
And then he stood before her entirely nude.
He watched her, silent, an amused gleam in his eye, as she stared at him, and then he gracefully stepped into her hip bath.
It was nearly too small for him. He had to fold his knees almost to his chin to sit, and some of the water slopped over the edge, soaked up by the linens lining the tub.
He let his head fall against the high back, his tanned neck elongated, his small brown nipples just at the waterline. His shoulders more than spanned the tub’s width, and he let one arm hang over the edge. She looked at him and wished suddenly that she had her sketchbook. That she could draw him like this and keep the sketch forever as a memento of this intimate moment.
Years from now she knew she would look back at this time and wonder if it had all been a dream.
Without speaking Eve picked up a small cloth and, after dipping it in the hot water, laid it over his shoulders, slowly rubbing back and forth.
He groaned quietly deep in his throat. “God, that feels good.”
She wetted the cloth in the hot water again and ran it down his arm, marveling at the vein that trailed along the muscle of his upper arm. She rubbed the cloth over his forearm and to his hand—so much larger than hers. Carefully she turned his hand over to wash his calloused palm and between each finger.
When she went to wet her cloth again she saw that he was watching her with half-lidded eyes, green gleaming slits, and she shivered in anticipation. She walked to his other side and rubbed the hot wet cloth over his neck and shoulder and down his arm, stopping to take his hand in hers, measuring her palm against his for a moment before she washed it.
When she was finished she leaned to dip the cloth in the tub again, but never got the chance to do so.
He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her against his wet naked chest before kissing her full on the mouth.
ASA PULLED EVE into his arms, uncaring if he drenched her dress with his bathwater. She tasted of the wine they’d drunk at dinner and herself—pure Eve. Sweet and tart, the most complicated woman he’d ever known in his life.
The most fascinating.
She’d frightened him this afternoon, locked in his office, the prospect of fire destroying her scowls and smiles, her quick retorts, her prim looks of reproach. The mere thought had nearly made him panic. He’d been ready to use his body to knock down that door, to batter himself into unconsciousness to free her.
Now the memory of that visceral fear made him clutch her much too tightly. He couldn’t lose his Eve, his sweet harpy. Even when she left him, he’d sleep at night knowing she was somewhere in the world, alive and petting a mangy mastiff with delicate lady’s fingers.
Eve. His Eve.
She was here with him now, all prim and proper, as he ran wet hands over the bodice of her dress, leaving lewd handprints.
He needed to ask her questions. Needed to find out what her brother planned for his garden. But for once he needed something more urgently than his business.
He needed Eve.
“Eve.” He broke their kiss, his wet mouth sliding down her neck, the water splashing as he moved to grip her waist. “Eve, let me make love to you.”
And she smiled at him, secret and bittersweet, and said, “Yes, please.”
YEARS FROM NOW, when Eve lay in a lonely spinster’s bed, she would think of this moment and weep for all she had lost. But now, right now, her sleeves growing wet from the bathwater, her breath caught behind her stays, she would live and enjoy this man.
This wonderful man.
She looked down at him, nude and wet in her bath
, and felt a kind of feminine power. Then she straightened, pulling away from his clutching hands. She stood and yanked free her fichu, unlaced her bodice, kicked off her slippers. She looked at him frankly as she pulled off her bodice and untied her skirts, letting them drop. He reached out an arm when she stood in only stays and chemise, but she shook her head and backed up a step. She slowly unlaced her stays, feeling her breasts expand. She pulled the stays off over her head and then held out a hand to him.
He took it and stepped from the bathtub, the water sliding in a stream down his body. Oh, he was glorious! He was everything she’d suspected—and feared—that first morning. His shoulders so wide, his chest swirled with wet, dark hair, his hips slim, and his sex framed by the V of muscle that ran from the sides of his belly to his groin. His cock bobbed wetly, the foreskin already pulled taut under the head. His thighs were long and bulged with muscle, and even his feet were large and hairy.
This man wanted her, and that would be the thing that surprised her to her dying day.
She went to him and wrapped her arms over his broad, slippery shoulders, pulling his head down to hers. She kissed him like a woman, fearless and frank, letting him know how very much she wanted him.
Her chemise was immediately soaked, plastered against both him and her, and her nipples peaked. She could feel the hair of his chest rasping against her breasts even through the wet fabric.
His knee pressed between her thighs, bunching the linen against her woman’s place, spreading her and rubbing into her folds.
She found herself undulating against that knee, pleasuring herself with his hard, hot, wet body.
“Eve.” He bent and picked her up suddenly, holding her easily as he walked naked from her dressing room to her bedroom like a conqueror with a prize. “Eve.”
He tumbled them both onto her bed, lying beneath her. She sprawled on him, straddling him, her legs wide as she found that she could press her open cunny against him.
“Eve,” he rasped. “Have you any idea—any idea at all? I’ve dreamed of these nipples, longed for your naked belly, your arse in my hands.” He squeezed her buttocks in his big palms.
“Have you?” she whispered, honestly curious.
She shifted until his cock was under her. She rubbed herself against him, using his hard flesh to pleasure herself.
He arched under her, this big strong man. The tendons of his neck stood out; he flung wide his arms and clutched at the bedclothes. “Eve, what you do to me.”
She watched him and slowly reached down to pull her sodden chemise up, up over her belly, over her breasts, over her head, undulating on him all the while.
“Let me,” he gasped, his green eyes nearly black. “Let me come inside you.”
She lifted herself in silent invitation and he grasped his cock, holding it upright, pushing the head through her wet folds.
She gasped as she found the right placement, as she began to push down.
“Slow, darling,” he whispered. “Slow. Don’t hurt yourself. Ah, Eve, I couldn’t bear it if you hurt yourself on me.”
She felt the pressure of his head against her entrance and it seemed an impossible act to fit him inside her, but she wanted it.
She wanted it with all her soul.
So she pressed, squirming, and he widened her slowly, slowly squeezing in. She threw back her head, half impaled, yearning, wanting, waiting to be made complete.
He held his hands on her hips, but made no move to urge her on. He simply lay there and accepted her. Let her move at her own pace. Made himself the sacrifice for her virginity.
She gasped, pivoting her hips, and looked down at him.
Sweat beaded his upper lip, but he smiled tightly up at her. “You’re doing it, sweetheart. It’s all up to you.”
She took a breath, lifting herself a little.
And shoved down as hard as she could, embedding his cock deep inside her.
He threw back his head, his teeth bared and gritted. “Damn me, Eve, did you hurt yourself?”
“No.” She shook her head and reached up to unpin her hair.
He watched her under half-closed eyes, his chest heaving. “You’re killing me, luv. Slaying me cut by beautiful cut. I’ll bleed away and die happy under you, Eve, my darling.”
She flung aside the pins and spread her hair on her shoulders. Then she placed her palms on his chest, right over his nipples, and rose up. Oh, the slide of his cock inside her! It was a pleasure so deep it was nearly pain and she ground back down again, closing her eyes, savoring this purely physical joy.
Except it wasn’t purely physical, was it? The thought that it was Asa inside her, Asa driving his hips up into her now, Asa begging her to go faster… oh, that was the addicting thought. She wanted to ride him, wanted to hide him away in her bedroom, to use only for herself.
She was jealous of every woman who had come before her. Had used this wonderful penis. Had heard his groan.
She opened her eyes. But it was the women who would come after that she truly wanted to kill.
He was hers. He should never share this part of himself with anyone else.
She threw back her head, riding him hard, the sweat sliding down between her breasts. He lurched up, half sitting, his arm propping him up, and licked the sweat from her body.
She cried out, gasping, holding his head to her even as he sucked one nipple into his mouth. She felt the pull, felt the answering gush, and knew she was falling apart, spreading outward, a star exploding.
He gasped and let go of her breast, bowing his head to her chest, his hair wild and tangled against her as he groaned and shook.
She felt heat inside her and rose one last time, spreading wide her thighs, shoving him as deep inside her as she could.
Trying to keep him forever.
IT WAS LATE that night when Bridget held high her candle and walked the halls of Hermes House, checking the rooms.
She shivered. She’d worked in many houses, both great and small, since becoming a housekeeper. She specialized in finding a place of employment, discovering how it might best be run, fixing it so that the household ran like finely tuned clockwork, and then moving to her next situation.
Some of the houses she’d served had been in ill repair, having been run badly by previous housekeepers and butlers. Some were unused, empty and echoing, the family not in residence as she did her work, making the house run smoothly and efficiently.
In no other home had Bridget felt such a coldness as she did in Hermes House. It was more than a lack of warmth. It was as if cold had settled in and taken up residence in this place. Making such a home homey was a daunting task indeed. Bridget could make sure Hermes House was shined and polished. That the maids rose promptly at five of the clock to black the grates and lay the fires. That the footmen’s livery was clean and immaculate.
What she found harder was imparting warmth—the feel of comfort and home—to a place that had never had it.
She sighed and turned to retrace her steps.
And nearly shrieked when she found Alf standing behind her.
Alf grinned at her and Bridget was sorely pressed not to snap at her.
Oh, yes, she wouldn’t have minded telling the girl that some were not so easily deceived by her disguise.
But that would have been needlessly cruel, and Bridget was familiar with the urge to hide one’s true self in order to be safe.
So she contented herself with a disapproving stare. “Yes?”
“Got ’Imself’s letter,” Alf replied cheerfully, waving a scrap of paper about.
Bridget raised her eyebrows. Miss Dinwoody had only sent her letter to her brother the day before.
But perhaps this one was not in reply but instead had been sent earlier. “You’d best take it to Miss Dinwoody, then, hadn’t you?”
Alf stopped waving the letter. She glanced around the darkened hall. “Now? Kind o’ late, innit?”
“Late it might be, but Miss Dinwoody should have the letter as soon
as is possible.”
Alf sobered. “All right.”
And she was off, clattering down the stairs to the lower level.
Bridget stared after her thoughtfully and then continued on her way to the duke’s bedroom. She entered it and went straight to the portrait of Montgomery, holding high her candle to examine it.
She wasn’t sure why, but this portrait in which he was almost entirely nude seemed more true to the man’s personality than the one in the stairwell, in which he was wearing silks, fur, and velvet. It was as if, stripped of the trappings of his wealth and rank, he revealed the savage animal beneath.
He lounged in the painting, his white skin nearly pearly, watching the viewer with amused blue eyes, his golden hair loose upon his shoulders. His gaze seemed to taunt the viewer, as if to say, Here I am, cock bared, nipples tight. I’m laid bare for your eyes, but I’m the one who rules, not you.
The arrogance of his nudity merely enforced his power.
Bridget cocked her head, slowly and deliberately examining the duke’s naked beauty.
Then she whispered, “What are you up to, I wonder?”
Chapter Seventeen
At midday Eric stopped and, sitting on a fallen log, took out a packet of bread and cheese. “I suppose you’ll be wanting some of my luncheon as well?”
“If you don’t mind,” Dove said apologetically.
He merely grunted and broke both the bread and cheese in two, and Dove thought it possibly the most delicious meal she’d ever eaten.
Afterward they continued their journey until at last they came upon a ruined cottage.
Eric stopped and looked grim. “Best you be silent and let me do the talking.”
And then they went in.…
—From The Lion and the Dove
Eve lay quietly, tiredly on Asa’s chest, his penis still within her, and felt peace.
Beneath her cheek his chest shuddered from his release and his hot breath stirred her hair.
She felt his cock soften and slip from her body and for a moment she remembered that he’d spent in her. That he might’ve planted the seed of a child within her.
Sweetest Scoundrel Page 24
