“Shush.” Welles took her in his arms and carried her to the chaise. Gently, he laid her down, his hands running along her hips and legs. He lifted one foot and pressed a kiss to the inside of her calf before he removed her half-boot.
Margaret watched the graceful movement of his hands as the other boot fell to the floor. He paused, rubbing his thumb against the bottom of her foot. He pressed another kiss to her ankle. Then up her calves, lifting the hem of her chemise in slow increments. Each time a piece of her was exposed by his fingers, his lips followed. When he nibbled at the hollow of her knee, Margaret’s head fell back against the cushions, her legs splaying wide of their own accord.
Inch by inch he tugged the hem of the chemise further. She gasped at the nip of her skin above her navel. Whimpered his name as his tongue traced the outline of her ribs. Every bit of Margaret was worshipped. Adored. When the cooler air of the room drifted across her breasts, she raised her arms to allow him to pull her chemise free without a qualm.
“Welles.” She breathed his name like a prayer as his teeth grazed one nipple. His fingers once more caressed the spot between her thighs, stoking the fire that burned within her. He suckled one breast while his fingers explored and teased until Margaret’s hips writhed against his hand.
He cupped the base of her skull with one large hand, leaving her breast as his lips brushed over her cheeks, before claiming her mouth. The kiss was slow and deep, asking for her surrender which Margaret would gladly provide. When he nipped at her bottom lip, she opened her mouth without hesitation to allow his tongue to search out hers. Margaret reached up, threading her fingers through the thick waves of his hair, before moving her thumb to graze the lobe of his ear. Her fingers floated over the rough brush of hair along his jaw before gliding down his neck to press her palm against his heart.
He finally pulled away, kneeling back on his heels between her legs. Without breaking eye contact, Welles continued to touch her and tease her swollen flesh. Gently. Insistently. Drawing out her arousal to a careful peak before retreating.
“I wish to do everything to you.” The heat in his gaze was unmistakable.
“Yes,” she sighed as his fingers thrust gently inside Margaret before he bent to take her in his mouth.
She cried out at the feel of his tongue flicking against her sensitive flesh.
He nudged her legs apart, cupping one buttock, holding her still. The sight of Welles, still clothed, his dark head between her thighs was so erotic, every nerve in her body sparked adding to the sensations building at her core. His fingers curled inside her as he sucked the small bit of flesh between his lips.
Margaret’s head fell back, breath stopping, before falling through the night into a dazzling array of colors and music, like the twinkling of a thousand stars. Intense pleasure rolled over her in great waves, lapping at her skin until her toes curled. When he finally released her, Margaret lay boneless beneath him.
Harriette Wilson’s description of this act did not do it justice.
A puff of air blew through the soft hair covering her mound, tickling her. Welles was kissing his way up her naked body again, whispering against her skin, stopping every so often to nip or press a kiss to a particular spot, claiming each piece of Margaret for himself. He sat back with a hiss and looked down at her. Even in the candlelight, she could see the hard, raised ridge against his thigh.
“You should leave.” His baritone was raspy. Pained.
She shook her head and opened her arms to him. Didn’t he understand? She wanted all of this. All of him. Even if it was only tonight. “And before you ask, I’m sure.”
He looked so conflicted, so anguished by her decision.
Margaret’s fingers grabbed his forearm. She sat up trying to pull him to her.
Welles took her hand and pressed a kiss to the pulse beating in her wrist before he nodded, making his decision. “Undress me.” He slid off the chaise and stood before her.
Margaret moved until she was kneeling before him. Her fingers trailed over his chest, plucking lightly at the fabric, uncertain how to proceed.
“Buttons first,” he growled in a dark tone laced with amusement.
Margaret had never undressed another human being in her life and the current task seemed a bit daunting. Deciding imitation was the sincerest form of flattery, she stretched up as far as she could and boldly pressed a kiss to his neck.
“A good start.”
She undid another button, pressing her mouth to his shoulder. When she slid her hands beneath the shirt and pressed against his chest, Welles’s eyes fluttered shut and a low sound of pleasure rumbled from deep within him.
Encouraged, Margaret continued, unbuttoning and kissing until his shirt hung open.
He leaned forward with a smile.
Grabbing the edge, her fingers shaking, she pulled it up and over his head.
Welles impeccably clothed in his uniform of indigo coat and buff riding breeches was a stunning creature, but nothing prepared Margaret for his appearance without clothing. His body was a thing of masculine beauty, as if he’d been carved and sculpted by the finest craftsman. Margaret’s fingertip traced the curvature of one pectoral muscle, firm and sleek, to the line of his ribs. Welles bore not an ounce of fat on his body; every bit of him was solid. Powerful. A dusting of dark hair spread out over his torso, tapering down into a thin line before disappearing into his waistband.
He took her hand, pressing an opened-mouthed kiss to her palm. “Now the rest just as you did the shirt.” The nipple of one breast tingled as he brushed the tip with his thumb, stoking the flames simmering between her legs back to life.
She took hold of his waistband, allowing her fingers to slide between the material and his skin, reaching down until she could touch the hardened length of him with her fingertips.
Welles sucked in his breath.
Margaret ran her finger along the velvety length smiling at the sounds coming from his chest. He smelled delicious, like the wind before a storm. She inhaled deeply before urging her fingers to finish the buttons, nuzzling her chin to his stomach.
“Tease,” he growled out.
Margaret had never felt so powerful. So seductive. When she laid her head on the ridges of his abdomen and took hold of both sides of his trousers, Welles trembled beneath her cheek. Tugging as hard as she could, they fell from his hips.
Welles moved back and stepped gracefully out of his trousers, kicking them aside. He stood before her, his hands tugging at the braid of her hair until the dark strands fell over her shoulders.
Margaret was intimately aware of a piece of his anatomy directly in front of her. Without thinking she reached out and wrapped her fingers around the hard length, wondering how she should proceed.
“Maggie,” he breathed, placing one hand over hers, “are you very sure?”
“Yes. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
He pushed her back against the cushions and nudged her legs apart before settling between them, claiming her mouth for another kiss. His lips held an urgency, a possessive heat that sent her heart racing. Where before he had asked for her surrender, now Welles demanded it, running his tongue along her bottom lip before moving his mouth to trail down the slope of her neck.
Margaret welcomed his possession. She rocked her hips up against him, her fingers clutching at the muscles of his back. When his hips shifted and the heavy thick heat of him pressed into her, Margaret’s legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.
“Slow, Maggie. I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice was strained.
She whimpered and lifted her knees forcing him deeper. Welles was being infinitely patient and careful in destroying her virtue, making her heart yearn for him even more, if that were possible. Margaret pushed her hips up again, begging him to take her.
In response, Welles pulled back. His hand cupped her cheek, eyes full of heat and desire mixed with worry over the physical pain of their joining. “I’m sorry.” He captured h
er mouth in a deep kiss, stealing the cry from her lips as he thrust forward, imbedding himself.
Margaret’s eyes widened at the sudden invasion. Her body, so much smaller, struggled to accommodate his. The sensation of being stretched and full was different, but she otherwise felt little pain at the destruction of her maidenhead. The loss of her virtue amounted to little more than a sting, no worse than a pinch on her arm from her aunt. And having Welles inside of her was…wonderful.
His breathing was ragged as he kissed the slope of her neck, his body taut and still.
He’s afraid to hurt me. Margaret’s heart thudded dully in her chest.
And Welles was repeating something, like a poem or a prayer, the words low and muffled.
“What are you saying?” her fingers cupped his chin.
In response, Welles smiled and laced her fingers with his, raising her arms above her head. He started to move, each stroke bringing him deeper inside her as if he was trying to merge his much larger form with hers.
Margaret found the feeling pleasurable, although not as lovely as what he’d done before.
He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, angling the lower half of his body.
“Oh.” A sharp prick of heat rolled up inside her again. Perhaps she’d been mistaken.
“There?”
“Yes, I—” The rest of her words dissolved into a moan. Each thrust brought her closer to the pleasure she’d experienced before, but this time it was different. The music of Welles sank into her bones echoing through the surface of her skin. Their bodies moved together in a beautiful duet, a perfect harmony of her and Welles. The muscles in the lower half of her body tightened as her release approached, urging him deeper.
He grunted in satisfaction and increased his pace. When his teeth sunk gently into her shoulder, the sting of his bite mixing with the intense pleasure, Margaret shattered, the music of Welles the only thing she could hear. She arched against him, marveling at the stars as her eyes closed. A cacophony of every shade of blue sparkled beneath her eyelids.
Welles thrust into her twice more, swearing softly before pulling out. A spray of hot liquid ran across her belly and between her legs. His breathing was uneven and heavy as he fell against her to press a kiss to her forehead. “Maggie.”
Margaret knew what he’d done. Harriette Wilson’s book had covered withdrawal as a way to prevent conceiving a child. Welles didn’t want children. Her arms tightened around him. She should have been glad of his consideration, but instead, his actions pained her. A tear ran down her cheek though she tried to blink it away. She had come to Elysium with no illusions regarding Welles, nor any expectations. Welles bore her some affection, as evidenced by his tender regard tonight, and for that, Margaret was grateful. But their physical relationship couldn’t progress past this one night, not when Margaret had to secure her future.
Welles kissed her and got up, padding naked to the other side of the room.
She closed her eyes, listening to the crackle of the fire and Welles moving about. In a moment the chaise dipped as he sat next to her. A wet cloth gently wiped at her stomach before pressing between her legs. Her eyes fluttered open to see him watching her, a tender expression on his handsome face as he carefully cleaned her.
Another tear escaped her eyes and she brushed it away lest Welles see it. Was this how all rakes behaved when deflowering virgins? Her heart beat hard within her chest.
“Don’t worry, my Maggie. You are safe for the time being from my lecherous advances. Did I hurt you?” His brow wrinkled in concern. “You’re so much smaller than me, and I—”
“No,” she assured him, placing a hand on his stomach. “You didn’t hurt me.”
He nodded, running the cloth along the inside of her thighs, more gentle than she could have imagined a notorious despoiler of women would be. “So beautiful.” He pressed his mouth to her stomach.
“I’m not,” she said quietly, soaking in his praise, no matter how exaggerated she found it.
“More intelligent than most men and yet you fail to realize your own appeal.” His tongue flicked out to the tip of her breast.
Margaret shivered, his touch already stirring her own passions again.
“You’re cold.” Placing the cloth aside he picked up her naked body and stretched her out on top of him. Strong arms wrapped around her back and lower body as warmth seeped from his larger form to hers.
Margaret placed her cheek to Welles, the hair covering his chest tickling her nose. She listened to his heart, wishing it beat for her.
Stop it.
Margaret shut her eyes, wanting just a few more minutes of Welles before returning to her aunt’s. Now was not the time to feel sorry for herself. Practical to a fault, Margaret knew she still had to secure Carstairs, no matter her feeling for Welles. Especially because of Welles. Mooning over a man she couldn’t have would only end with her married to Winthrop.
“Welles,” she said quietly, knowing the hour grew late. “I should go.” It would be more difficult for her the longer she stayed. It was bad enough she meant to ask for his help. She scuttled off his chest before he could stop her. Stepping out of his reach, she picked up her chemise from the floor.
A hand stretched out to her. “Come back to me.” The deep baritone caressed her still throbbing body, making her unsteady.
She took a deep breath, ready to recite the speech she’d prepared. An idea had come to her during her earlier conversation with her aunt. One she’d mulled over in the hack on the way to Elysium. “You must know, Welles, I wanted to be with you tonight. My honor has not been infringed upon. I have no expectations of you.”
“Maybe you should,” he said softly.
“Later, if you feel even a shred of guilt, I beg you do not on my account.”
“Why did you come to me tonight, Maggie?” His voice was rough, almost irritated.
Because I’m in love with you.
Blinking, she turned her head because at that moment, it hurt to look at him. She was afraid he’d see the truth in her eyes. He would pity her, something Margaret didn’t want. Welles would never marry. He’d made his feelings abundantly clear and his reasons were deeply entrenched in every fiber of his being. Margaret, on the other hand, had to marry. Preferably Carstairs. She hoped someday Welles would forgive his father and let go of the bitterness he held on to. The thought of him anguished and alone for the remainder of his life broke Margaret’s heart.
Steeling herself and her emotions, she turned to face him again. Margaret couldn’t allow her compromised heart to stop what must be done. And her heart was compromised, much more thoroughly than her body had been. Lifting her chin, she looked him in the eye.
“Winthrop has offered for me and my aunt has accepted, though the contracts have not yet been signed. I no longer have the luxury of convincing Carstairs to court me. I need to be compromised.”
The wide mouth drew into a grim, hard line. “You’ve been compromised, in case you haven’t noticed.” The words flung at her like chips of ice. “Come. Here.”
Margaret shook her head. “Why are you so bloody angry?”
“Was this your way of bribing me to help you trap my friend?” The words came out angry and cold. “How mercenary of you.”
Why was he being so awful? “No, of course not. One has nothing to do with the other. Besides,” she felt her own ire rising, “you were the one who originally made such an improper suggestion.”
“I only asked you to play the fucking piano.” He sat up on the chaise, clearly furious with her.
“There is no need for vulgarity, Welles.” Margaret pulled her cloak up over her shoulders, jerking to secure the garment around her neck. “I don’t blame you for what happened tonight. Please be assured I don’t expect anything from you.”
“Stop saying that.”
“Fine. Don’t help me avoid Winthrop. I’ll compromise Carstairs on my own.”
He shot her another angry scowl and stood. Walking naked to
an armoire hiding in a dark corner, Welles pulled out a clean shirt. Grabbing his trousers, he jerked his legs through and then pulled on his boots.
“Carstairs is honorable,” she said needlessly. “If he compromised me, he’ll do the right thing.”
“As opposed to me who is dishonorable and will not?”
Margaret lifted her chin. “I didn’t say that.”
“Carstairs will be at my stepmother’s little ball. A close gathering of the ton to which I’m certain you’ve already received an invitation,” he said in a chilly tone. “He’s already promised to attend.”
“Thank you for telling me,” she said. His irritation at her, his coldness after what they’d shared, was unwarranted. He should be happy she didn’t want anything from him.
Welles took her hand. “I’ll escort you out. My carriage is downstairs.”
“I can take a hack, my lord.” She tried to wrench her hand from his. The longer she spent in Welles’s company, the more unsettled Margaret became with the thought of trapping Carstairs. But what choice did she have? Her aunt was only waiting to receive the final contracts from Winthrop’s solicitors. If Carstairs did not compromise her, she would be married to Winthrop in less than a month if not sooner. Trapped forever beneath a giant, sweating pear with no music.
I couldn’t bear it.
“You can take a hack, but you aren’t going to.” He grabbed her fingers, ignoring her efforts to pull free again. Gently, he laced their fingers together and some of the chill left his words. “I’ll make sure you get home safely. Pull your cloak tightly around your face.”
Nothing more was said between them as Welles led her out of his rooms and down the hall to a door set so perfectly into the paneling you would miss it if you weren’t looking. Opening the door, he grabbed a lamp sitting on a small shelf just inside the passageway and lit it. Holding the lamp high, he led her down three flights of steps.
The Theory of Earls (The Beautiful Barringtons Book 1) Page 14
