Inside of the shelter, a wooden table split the space in two, flanked by two benches. The vines provided additional privacy, dangling down the sides like nature’s drapes.
Eerie shadows sent a shiver rolling through her, and he squeezed her hand yet again.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight.” Emotion caught her voice.
He pressed a handkerchief into her hand. It was something Baldwin would have done. He’d only been gone for eighteen months and yet it felt like a lifetime.
“He wasn’t really all that old. Sixty,” she confided. “And he seemed healthy enough.”
“His death came as a shock to you,” Mr. Spencer observed quietly from beside her. For some reason, his presence wrapped around her like a warm blanket.
“It did.” She sniffed. “But he’s been gone for almost two years. I ought to stop missing him by now, really.” Baldwin had been good to her and, in turn, she’d done everything she could to make him happy.
He had been one of the only people in her life to ever show her any affection. With him gone, she’d experienced a sense of abandonment she had not expected.
But enough maudlin conversation. Self-pity wasn’t why she’d come here. And she would feel better after.
She would feel needed, precious, significant.
For a while.
Miranda dropped Mr. Spencer’s arm and grasped his hand instead, walking them deeper into the secluded shelter until the backs of her thighs pressed against the end of the table.
“But you did not invite me out here to listen to my maudlin tales.” She slid her hands up the lapels of his jacket and pulled his mouth down to meet hers.
Chapter 2
Friction
Peter had considered the possibility of kissing her before asking her to accompany him in the garden. In fact, he’d be lying to himself to deny that he’d wondered how her body would feel pressed against his.
He no longer had to wonder. He stifled a groan.
The sensation of her breasts pressed against his chest was better than he could possibly have imagined.
“Not so angelic, after all. Are you, Peter Spencer?” she whispered against his lips at the same time she stroked the wool of his trousers where his already engorged cock pulsed, eager to escape the confines of clothing.
She rubbed her palm over the stretched fabric, up and down his length, and then in a slow circle. She wasn’t afraid to apply force, to create friction.
It felt good. So damn good.
He wasn’t a virgin. Not at all, in fact. But more recently, he’d dedicated all of his attention to his music. Any physical release he’d enjoyed over the past two years had come at his own hand. Was this why he’d asked her to follow him into a dark garden?
He jerked his hips away from her. Much more and he was going to embarrass himself.
Logically, he knew there was nothing exceptional in this sort of behavior. Lady Starling was not a husband-hunting innocent. But marriage wasn’t in his future, near or otherwise, and he needed to be certain she understood that.
“Lady Starling.” He grasped her wrist. “I cannot make an honest woman of you.”
She laughed. And if anything, his words emboldened her. She pushed his waistcoat aside and fumbled at the buttons of his trousers. “I am quite aware, Mr. Spencer. And I won’t attempt to make an honest man of you. I simply want you inside me.”
“You don’t have to—” He gasped.
Her hand was on his cock, sliding and squeezing, rubbing, exerting the perfect amount of pressure, promising unheard of pleasure.
Did she think she owed him sexual favors for his kindness? His cock, hard and turgid, was prepared to take what she had to give. Instinctively, he thrust his hips forward.
“Tell me now if this isn’t what you want,” she said.
Peter opened his eyes enough so that he could read her expression. Her lips were parted, shiny from their kiss, and her cheeks flushed a bright pink.
Sensing his conflict, she halted her sensual onslaught and tilted her head back to meet his gaze. “Leave now if you don’t want me.” Organic sexuality threaded her voice. “But if you do, damn you, lift my skirts and take me.”
It was not a request; it was a demand.
He studied her eyes, vaguely noticing golden flecks around her pupil, like glimmering stars of light in a dark forest. What drove this woman? He saw desire, yes, but he saw something else. Something he couldn’t quite identify.
“Fine then.” She dropped her lashes, as though sensing defeat and then jerked her hand back as though burned. And that was the moment he recognized it.
He did not allow her to push him away. Her wanting him wasn’t about taking casual pleasure. Her wanting him was fueled by vulnerability, rejection, loneliness.
If this was what she wanted, what she needed, then he would give it to her.
“Very well.” He nudged her backward against the table, his hands groping at her skirts until the hem was around her waist. He lifted her onto the surface, holding her at the very edge, hooking his arms beneath her knees.
Her posture, head tipped back, spine arched, conveyed that she didn’t want his kiss. She didn’t need seduction.
He widened his stance, hovering the tip of his cock at her entrance.
“Do it.” She pulsed against him. “Now.”
Her need was a tangible thing; desperation hovered in the air around him. It gave him a power he didn’t usually feel.
Peter pushed past her silken petals, surrounded by velvet heat, but forced himself to pause for her body to adjust to his girth.
“More,” she all but begged. Her inner muscles throbbed around him.
Peter watched her expression, oddly reminded of a night he and a few other gents had stumbled into an opium den. They hadn’t remained for long, wise enough not to flirt with the milk of the poppy. But in those brief moments, he had been nearly overwhelmed by the aura of pain there.
Emptiness. Misery. Hopelessness.
He buried himself a few more inches, exerting control he hadn’t realized he possessed. A bead of sweat slid down the side of his face and another burned one of his eyes.
She tightened her legs around him, a vice around his waist, drawing him inside in an almost violent spasm. “More.”
He met her with a thrust of his own, and she gasped.
“Yes.”
And then another.
Heaven. Completion.
The wet heat surrounding him was a reminder that he’d gone far too long without a woman. He’d allowed only his music to absorb his lust. When he’d awakened in the night, disquieted by sexual urges, he’d poured his energies into playing.
This damn woman shattered his delusional contentment.
Craving more sensation, he kneaded the soft flesh of her thighs, sliding his hands up and then clutching her buttocks. So soft and giving. His fingers dipped into her crease, and he squeezed, working himself rhythmically, wanting to draw this out and savor the encounter but knowing that was going to be impossible.
Which it was.
White lightning shot down his spine, and he moved to withdraw, consciously preventing himself from releasing inside her body. Only her legs tightened around him. Unable to prevent the inevitable, he surrendered to the unique, almost painful, pleasure that had already begun to seize him.
It had been fast and impersonal and exactly what Miranda needed. She relaxed her legs and dangled them off the end of the table in a most unladylike pose.
“God damnit,” he uttered, bracing himself with his hand, leaning over her.
“I’m barren,” she murmured lazily. “You do not need to worry.”
She’d sensed his pending retreat and hadn’t wanted to lose the sensation of his rather generous appendage filling her. He was large—larger than any man she’d been with. And contrary to his initial reluctance, he’d needed this encounter nearly as much as she had.
Feeling needed was the most glorious aphrodisiac in the w
orld.
He wiped an arm across his eyes, still inside of her but relaxed now.
But he was also regretful. Remorse already creased his brow. Any second now, he would slide out and step away, leaving her satisfied but empty again.
He might offer his apologies. He would locate a handkerchief and after a few cleansing strokes over his deflated cock, tuck it away and offer to escort her back to the ballroom.
She would decline, of course, as she always did, and sneak around to the front of the manor where she would then locate her driver.
But until he left, she would absorb his weight. His breathing slowed but he didn’t move.
“Are you all right?” she asked after at least a minute of silence. Perhaps he’d strained a muscle. Baldwin had hurt his back once… during. It wasn’t unheard of.
“I don’t even know your given name.” His voice rumbled in the quiet.
Miranda opened her eyes, searching for regret, and then feeling almost uncomfortable when she didn’t find it.
“Or would you prefer I go on addressing you as Lady Starling?” The left corner of his mouth tipped up. Cold filled her veins.
“Miranda,” she answered. But it didn’t matter.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miranda.”
“Is that what this is called now?” She feigned nonchalance, trapped by his gaze even more so than his body, which for all intents and purposes, pinned her to the table.
Awkwardness settled on the silence that followed.
She inhaled and noticed the aroma of his cologne, clean and leathery, of the grass that surrounded the folly, which must have been cut earlier that day, of a lemon oil that must have been used to polish the table beneath her.
And laced within all of those, the unmistakable scent of sex.
An owl hooted nearby, and she could barely make out the distant murmurs of guests, dozens of inane conversations muddled together into a low rumble of meaninglessness.
He shifted slightly, and she prepared herself for a cool rush of air. But she was to be disappointed again.
His gentle fingers traced the edge of her face. “I would like to become better acquainted, Miranda.”
She dropped her gaze to his lips, which were full and unlined—sensual. He’d tasted clean and fresh when she’d kissed him. The slightest hint of a shadow showed on his chin and jaw, and just above his mouth. He was younger than her. Not by much but enough. And he was sweet.
Too sweet.
“Your sister mentioned you were leaving London in a few days—that you’ve been selected as one of Sir Bickford-Crowdon’s protégés.” Ironically enough, in Brighton. She would make it known that she knew he would be leaving. She had no expectations.
He nodded slowly, still watching her. “Being selected is a great honor.”
He still hadn’t moved off of her. Miranda lifted her stockinged feet to the table, having lost her slippers during their joining, and braced them against the surface.
The effect left her cradling him between her knees.
“I have three days before I leave. Allow me to take you driving tomorrow afternoon.” He was younger than her but he was a grown man.
And his scrutiny unnerved her. The oddly formal request to take her driving while intimately joined made her squirm. And yet, there was nothing exceptional in it. And he was leaving London soon. Very soon.
“If you wish.” She wasn’t averse to appearing in public. Being a part of society necessitated that she did just that. But a warning rang in the back of her conscience—he is Peter Spencer, a Ravensdale.
And she barely existed on the fringes.
“It’s not necessary,” she added, shifting her weight and dropping her legs again.
Finally, he rolled off her, but he didn’t go far. He was laying on his side, resting his head on his hand.
Still watching me.
“What do you want, Miranda?” His question surprised her.
She was going to have to spell it out to him. “I don’t require formal attentions. I don’t need begrudging promises. I simply like this. I like sex.”
He lifted one brow but gave no other indication that she’d shocked him.
“I don’t need to be wooed. I’m not husband-hunting,” she elaborated. “I crave physical pleasure.” This time, it was she who lifted a brow. “If you’d like to better acquaint yourself with my craving in the time you have before you leave, you are welcome to visit me at Starling Place on—"
“No.” He shook his head. “I’ll reserve a suite at Mivart's.” He surprised her. “For after our drive.”
“It’s not as though we need to hide from my husband.” Not that she had ever cheated on Baldwin, contrary to the rumors she’d heard. Baldwin had deserved all of her loyalty.
“I’ll collect you at five.”
Miranda sat up. Before she could smooth her dress, he rose as well and pressed the handkerchief she’d dropped earlier into her hand.
“Very well.” She did not look at him when she answered, instead, turning away. She tidied herself but was not about to return to the ball. “No need for you to escort me inside. A path leads around to the front. I’ll send for my driver.”
He ignored her, tucking himself away and then fastening his trousers.
“I’m quite sure,” she clarified. “Don’t concern yourself. Your family will be wondering where you went off to.”
“I’m grateful to say that they no longer keep tabs on me.” A grin threatened to dance on his lips as he stood patiently waiting for her. “I’ll see you to your coach. Once you’re on your way, I’ll retrieve Rosa and retire for the evening myself.”
Rosa. She couldn’t help but recall how carefully he’d placed it—her?—into the luxurious case. Lovingly. Would he see her into her carriage with the same carefulness?
She dismissed such a fanciful thought and went to step away from the table, nearly collapsing when her knees buckled. If not for him reaching out to steady her, she would have landed hard at his feet. That would have been too embarrassing—as though she was overcome by their passion—like some simpering innocent.
“Do you require a moment?” he asked her in a gentle voice, and she didn’t understand why. Why would he care about the likes of her? This had been about sexual fulfillment—nothing more.
She steadied herself but he didn’t release her elbow.
“I’m fine.” Her leg muscles trembled from holding them around him. “Do you?” she countered.
He chuckled, not quite beneath his breath. “I’m fine as well.” He moved closer and leaned down so that his breath warmed her cheek and jaw. “More than fine.”
And yet he refused to leave her alone her as she’d requested, and he wished to take her driving through the park. She ought to insist that she could walk around the manor on her own. She had done it before. It wasn’t as though she was one of those Mayfair maidens he’d dismissed earlier.
Like the gentleman that he was, he escorted her from the shelter to the main walkway, almost as though he had, merely strolled with her harmlessly through the garden.
When they reached the path that circled to the front, he steered her in that direction.
“Excellent. Herman has already brought it around.” Miranda broke the odd silence that had fallen between them.
“Not the ubiquitous Coachman John?”
“Baldwin assigned Herman to me shortly after we married. He is my driver, my assistant, sometimes my protector…” Miranda shrugged.
Mr. Spencer didn’t respond, but she might have felt him nod, as though he approved.
As they emerged from the canopy provided by the trees, she felt momentarily exposed until Herman opened the door, providing eminent escape. Was her hair in disarray? Her gown wrinkled? Did she appear unnaturally flushed?
Without acknowledging her companion, she ducked her head and stepped up to climb into the carriage.
“Miranda.” His voice halted her. But she did not look back. Perhaps he’d
forget all about the drive. He’d think better of it and send his excuses. Or perhaps he wouldn’t bother with even that. He would simply not present himself when five o’clock came.
“Yes?”
“I look forward to tomorrow.”
Or perhaps he would not forget.
Not recognizing the emotions resulting from his insistence, she nodded and climbed inside, grateful when Herman closed the door behind her. She had not told him that she’d changed her mind. She’d not told him not to come.
He was taking her for a drive. A simple drive. And then another sexual encounter, this time, in a hotel.
She shivered. He would leave London in a few days’ time.
And after that, she’d find someone else.
Chapter 3
Driving
“Was that Lady Starling I saw you with before supper? You didn’t eat. And Hawthorne said you didn’t make an appearance in the cardroom. Where did you escape to?” Peter’s mother asked before biting into her buttered toast. Although a fashionable countess—and not at all like most society grande dames—she was a mother, his mother, nonetheless, and would provide all due smothering accordingly.
“Lady Starling requested an escort to her carriage. I merely walked her around front to await her driver.” After one of the most memorable occasions of his life thus far. And it wasn’t simply because he’d gone two years without a woman.
It was because of the woman herself. He felt an odd sense of irony in that whereas other ladies teased him with their body while offering everything else, Miranda did quite the opposite.
“Poor dear.” His mother’s response ought not to have surprised him. Although she was one of the ton’s most powerful ladies as the Countess of Ravensdale, she’d been born into the lower classes, which gave her an insight into people that others lacked.
“Why would you say that?” Miranda was vulnerable but not powerless. Imagining her lying beside him on that damned uncomfortable table, the odd sense that she was simply a little out of tune niggled at him.
Mayfair Maiden: Eighth Day of Christmas: A Lord Love A Lady Novella (Regency Cocky Gents Book 4) Page 2
