Читать книгу Regency Pleasures and Sins Part 1 - Louise Allen, Christine Merrill - Страница 76

She opened her mouth to allow him entry. Encouraged by his moan of response, the sudden tightening of the fingers cupping her face, she tentatively moved her tongue to stroke his. She felt his body shudder, and in one swift move he slid his hand from her face to wrap his arm about her shoulders, binding her closer.

Yes, she wanted closer, wanted the plush of his tongue probing, exploring, igniting shivers of sensation that tingled all the way to her toes. She reached up to tangle her fingers in his dark hair, pull him nearer so she might launch her own exploration into the delicious peaks and valleys of his mouth.

The warmth of him heated her despite the barriers of greatcoat and wrapper, but she craved more contact, yearned to feel the bone and muscle of his body against hers. Impatient, she pulled loose her robe, tugged at the buttons of his coat.

With a shuddering gasp he broke away, pushed her back. “Ah, Sparrow, I want you too much. I must leave now, while I still can.”

“No!” she cried, catching his hand. “Please … don’t go. Not yet.”

He went entirely still, turning the full force of his gaze upon her. She stared back, desperate with hope and yearning.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “If I stay, I cannot promise to stop.”

“I know,” she said. “Please, stay.”

For another long moment he studied her. “So be it,” he said hoarsely, and kissed her hand.

Trembling at her unaccustomed boldness, she tugged him into motion and led him down the shadowy hall to her small bedchamber.

Through years of marriage she’d endured the invasion of her body, from the painful initiation on her wedding night until the last time Charleton had taken her, barely recovered from childbed. Each time, she’d accepted but never welcomed the forcible joining of a man’s flesh to her own. But now she wanted it, wanted the heavy weight of the earl’s flanks across her thighs, tautness of his belly against the roundness of her own, her breasts crushed under the muscle of his chest. Something feverish and urgent pulsed within her at the thought of that vital, thrusting part of him buried deep within her. She wanted the sound of his breathing gone crazed and ragged as he approached the peak, his cry of fulfillment as he surmounted it. And she wanted the sweet peace of his head pressed to her bosom as, sated and spent, he collapsed against her.

If she were fortunate, perhaps instead of springing up immediately afterward, he would be content to lie beside her, gifting her with the music of his breathing as it slowed. And if she were exceptionally lucky, perhaps he might doze while she held him close, daring to lightly trace the lines of his body, storing in her memory the contours of the strength and vitality she’d once been privileged to briefly hold to her breast.

While the earl closed the door behind her and deposited the candle on the bedside table, Laura stood, suddenly uncertain. Was the earl ready? Sometimes before the act, Charleton had required her to … stimulate him.

She turned to see the earl regarding her gravely. “Second thoughts?”

“Never.”

His eyes lit. Smiling widely, he shed his greatcoat and pulled loose his cravat. “Then come to me, Sparrow.”

Pulling off her wrapper as she went, she ran to his arms. He caught her, lifted her, laughing softly. Set her back on her feet and bent his head.

He kissed her gently this time, light, teasing, touches like the brush of rose petals against her lips, her chin, her cheeks. She murmured a protest, wanting more, and he obliged, tracing the outline of her mouth, sucking softly. The blade of his tongue found hers, the clash setting off shudders deep in her belly.

She swayed on her feet and he caught her against him. She shuddered again at the evidence of his readiness, surprisingly large and hard against her belly. Fire sparking at the center of her, instinctively she rubbed herself against it.

He moaned and took the kiss deeper. Panting now, she urged him to the bed, trying with one hand to pull up her night rail while she settled back against the pillows. She parted her legs and drew him toward her, her trembling fingers fumbling with the buttons of his breeches.

He caught her hand and stilled it, then moved her cupped palm slowly over his rigid length. “S-sweet,” he gasped, the sound nearly a groan. Then, to her surprise, he pulled her fingers away and kissed them. “But not yet.”

“Not yet?” she echoed, bewildered. “But … are you not—ready?”

“You are not,” he said.

“But … I am!” she wailed, fretful with need and mystified at the delay. “D-do you want me to do … something else?”

He chuckled. “Nothing, my sweet sparrow. Just let me look at you.”

She stared at him, wondering if they were speaking the same language. “You … are looking at me,” she pointed out.

“True,” he returned gravely, though his lips twitched as if at some private joke. “But I can’t see nearly enough.”

“Then light another candle,” she said crossly and bit her lip, tears threatening. Was she doing something wrong? Suddenly she felt awkward and unsure. Had her boldness revolted him? Surely he wouldn’t—“You’re not going to leave?” she blurted.

His smile changed, from amusement to tenderness, and the warmth of his gaze held her motionless. “Never, my sparrow. I’ll never leave you.”

The words caught her like a blow to the chest. Scarcely able to breathe through the tightness, she’d not have managed a reply even had her brain been functioning well enough to formulate one. All she knew was she wanted to be joined with him, her body a gift offered joyfully, gratefully for his pleasure.

Leaning on one elbow, she reached back for him. But before she could seize his breeches flap, he reached over to grasp her ankle. Puzzled once more, she stilled, watching as he bent low over her leg. And kissed the soft skin at the instep of her foot.

She gasped, the sensation both ticklish and powerfully pleasurable. The vibrations he set off there seemed somehow to directly intensify the prickly, achy tenderness of her breasts, the pulsing fullness between her thighs. Then he lifted her foot and stroked the hot wetness of his tongue across her toes, took the littlest into his mouth and sucked it.

An immediate response rocketed through her. She seemed to lose control of her limbs, felt herself sag back against the pillows, her heartbeat loud and rapid in her ears, as if she’d been chasing Misfit while playing fetch. Seeming oblivious to her disintegrating faculties, the earl made a leisurely progress across her toes, stimulating each in turn, then inching her night rail higher to kiss her ankle, tantalize her shins with his tongue.

By now well beyond the ability of speech, but for her rasping breaths she lay silent, in thrall to his touch. With excruciating, intoxicating slowness he explored the curve of her calves, the dimple beside her kneecap. She rejoiced with incoherent gasps as he moved over her knees to the trembling smoothness of her inner thighs, his caress of that exquisitely sensitive flesh so intense it neared pain.

He halted when she flinched away, chuckled deep in his throat when she seized his neck to urge his mouth back down to her. He slowed his pace still further, letting her accustom herself to the shocking newness of his intimate touch. Some remote part of her mind watched in horrified titillation as the wanton creature who now resided in her body begged with whimpered moans and a clenching of hands for him to continue his deliciously slow progression toward a goal she could hardly yet believe.

When at last he reached there, gently urging her thighs wider so he could caress the outer petals and seek the hidden bud within, she could wait no longer. With an inarticulate cry she pushed him back, jerked free the buttons of his straining breeches. “Now,” she begged, desperation giving her voice. “Please.”

“Sparrow,” he said on a gasp as at last she felt the weight of his bare chest against her. She clutched his sweat-slick shoulders as he fitted himself to her aching passage, and unable to wait a second longer, thrust her hips to carry him within.

So incredibly sweet was the joining, tears sprang to her eyes. But as he began to move in the ancient rhythm she thought she knew so well, the subtle friction immediately and dramatically magnified the throbbing sensations within her. Her skin grew feverish, her fingernails biting into his back as she writhed under him, trying to remain properly passive while her body demanded movement.

“Ah, yes, sweeting,” he murmured against her mouth as, helpless to prevent herself, she rocked her hips to mimic his motion. The tautness within her spiraled tighter, tighter, a nearly unbearable torment, tearing a deep moan from her throat. Then suddenly, tension exploded in a brilliant shower of sensation that cascaded through her, a flashflood boiling through every nerve.

For a few moments afterward she lay stunned, barely conscious, barely breathing. Dimly she was aware of Beau rolling her with him to her side, and then she surrendered to the heavy lassitude stealing over her.

Sometime later she struggled back to consciousness, to find she was still wrapped in the earl’s warm embrace. His steady heartbeat vibrated against her chest; his breath warmed her hair. Utter contentment filled her, and once again her eyes stung with tears.

No matter how long or short the life she was destined to live, she would thank heaven for this precious night.

She looked up into his faintly smiling face and the love she’d tried to avoid and ignore caught her full in the throat, strangling her voice. How could she bear to let him walk away?

She cursed the tears that welled up, brushing them away with an impatient hand. She would not spoil the wonder of this night by regretting what could not be.

She wanted to pour out her love, tell him she’d never known such closeness nor tasted such pleasure, that she would treasure these moments the rest of her life. But nothing beyond tonight was possible, and so she swallowed the ardent vows she must not make and searched for something permissible. “How can I thank you?” she whispered at last.

With the gentleness that so captured her heart he rubbed his knuckle against her cheek. “How can I thank you?”

She struggled to lift herself on one elbow. He would leave now, as he must, but resigned though she was to the inevitability of it, still she sought some way to delay.

“Can I get you something? Do anything before you … go?”

“Some wine, if you have it. But, Sparrow—” his voice deepened “—I’m nowhere close to being ready to leave.”

The teasing promise in his tone stopped her breath. Surely he couldn’t mean … what she thought? Her experience argued against the possibility of any further coupling—but then, everything else tonight had been far beyond any previous experience. At the mere hint of it, nerves she’d thought too exhausted to function were beginning to stir and spark. “I’ll g-get you wine,” she said hurriedly.

“Wait a moment,” he said, catching her hand as she reached for her wrapper. “Let me look at you.”

She’d never been naked in front of a man before. But as he held her at arm’s length, his ardent plea echoing in her ears, her self-consciousness faded. She nodded, dropped the wrapper, and stood fully unveiled before him.

Slowly he examined her, from her bare toes up her calves, her thighs, across her belly to taut, tight peaks of her breasts, her shoulders, her neck, her chin, cheeks, hair. “You are so lovely, Sparrow,” he murmured. “Now, wine please, and hurry before you catch a chill.”

Any tendency to chill evaporated as, before he released her hand, he leaned forward to capture one erect nipple and tease it with his teeth. She gasped, delight at this new sensation coursing through her, and grabbed his shoulder to steady herself.

With leisurely slowness he moved his mouth to tantalize the aching peak of her other breast. She was melting, nearly boneless when he at last stopped.

“Wine,” he said, skimming his hand over her belly to touch the tight curls beneath. “We’ve not much time, and there’s so much more—” he moved his finger to stroke within the warm folds “—to experience.”

Somehow she managed to totter to the kitchen and bring back wine without spilling it all over. He greeted her with a kiss, pulled her close under the bedclothes to warm her, and fed her wine. And then, after they’d sipped, and talked, the earl proceeded to demonstrate just how ignorant this long-married wife had been.

He taught her, a voraciously greedy and willing pupil, how he could set off the same incredible explosion with his fingers, his tongue. How she could ready him again for joining with the urging of her hips, the goad of her mouth. Through the swift and shimmering hours of that short, matchless night he showed her how pleasure could be stimulated and conveyed, rapture a current flowing from him to her, from her to him, until it swept them together over the precipice in a timeless, sense-stunning cascade to completion.

Sometime in the quiet dimness near dawn Laura woke to find him still beside her. Joy that he had not crept away while she slept swelled in her, and she leaned up to kiss his cheek.

“Sparrow,” he murmured, angling his head to take her kiss on his lips as he pulled her into a rib-bruising embrace.

She clung to him, knowing the time to delay had passed. “You must go now,” she said when at last he released her.

“Yes. I’d best get back to Everett Hall before first light, lest I encounter some farm boy on the way to market who might carry tales. I’ll be off for London an hour or so after.” He paused, looking down at her. “Let me stop here for you on my way.”

Quit Merriville. Part of her yearned to silence her mind’s automatic clamor about the danger, respond only to the leap of gladness that urged her to go with him. But once again, fear and caution won out.

“I cannot. Please, I’m sorry, but—”

He stopped her apology with another kiss. “I know, Sparrow. Though I leave you here alone under protest, I’ll not take you with me by force. But when I return—and I will return, soon—you will agree to depart with me.”

She said nothing, the bittersweet agony of his impending loss thickening her throat and preventing reply. While he dressed she threw on her wrapper and poured him more wine, then walked with him to the porch door.

He bent to kiss her, then lifted her into his arms and hugged her close. “Keep yourself safe, Sparrow. And dream of me until I return.”

“I will,” she said as he set her back on her feet. The whole of my life, she added silently.

Heart already aching, she watched him mount his horse, and with a final wave, ride off into the waning night.

After an exhausting journey that finally saw him installed back in London several days later, Beau sat at the desk in his study, reviewing the latest evidence in the embezzlement investigation. All the reports confirmed his suspicions. Now he must anticipate the perpetrator’s mood and movements in order to construct the most foolproof trap to bring him down.

Sighing, he put the dossiers aside. Having done all he could at the moment to move the case forward, he might now turn his attention to the personal concern that had haunted him all through his long voyage south.

Though Laura seemed to feel she was safe in Merriville, every instinct had rebelled at leaving her there alone and unprotected. And he’d been bitterly disappointed that he’d not succeeded in winning her confidence. Though she’d confirmed the basic facts after he guessed them, she’d not let slip the smallest detail that would make the search for her real name—and thus the path to protecting her—easier or swifter.

That placed him at a disadvantage, but not an insurmountable one. After all, there were but a limited number of men wealthy and influential enough to necessitate a fugitive wife’s going into hiding. Amassing a list of potential names and checking them would be a tedious process, but he would have it done. Armed with all the possibilities, he had every confidence he would eventually deduce the identity of the man he sought.

But how much time would that require?

He begrudged every day he would have to wait while the necessary information was assembled. Each one he spent apart from her heightened the urgency of his desire to claim her, tightened the spiral of anxiety about her safety. Grimly he vowed that he’d give the search no more than a month. Regardless of whether the investigation was complete by then or not, he would return for her.

Now to set the search in motion. He rang a bell to summon his secretary.

The slender, sandy-haired man entered, smiling in welcome. “My lord, good to see you back! I trust this means Kit is recovering?”

“Good to be back, James, and yes, Kit is doing much better. Thank you for doing your usual excellent job to keep the dispatches coming. I believe I’ve perused all the latest. I see our sailor songbird is still chirping.”

The young man smiled grimly. “It appears he participated in bringing in several more cargoes on which the duty charged on the manifests exceeded the legal amounts owed, the excess being siphoned off into coffers other than those of the government. As you will have read, by covertly following the boasting sailor we’ve been able to definitely establish three other links in the chain. I assume, as usual, you intend to leave apprehension of the lower-level miscreants to other authorities?”

Beau nodded. He seldom concerned himself with apprehending petty criminals like the corrupt sailor. Instead, he felt it his special calling to track and eventually bring down their leaders. That men of birth and privilege who should consider it their duty to serve the nation should betray that trust inspired in him a loathing as deep as it was visceral.

“The evidence thus far does seem to point to Lord Wolverton as head of the operation,” his secretary continued. “Did your observations of him in the north support that conclusion?”

“Yes—the bastard.” Beau sighed. “Another page in the all-too-familiar story of a younger son outspending his means by indulging a weakness for gaming, women or vice. Though in my noble Lord Wolverton’s case, it seems to be a combination of all three.” With a grimace, he shook a finger at the secretary. “Promise me, James, if you ever develop such proclivities, you’ll come to me before doing something stupid.”

“So you can straighten out my warped thinking with a well-placed left hook?” His secretary gave a slight smile. “Surely you know, after what happened to my father, I’d be the last man on earth to—”

“I know, James,” Beau interrupted. “An attempt at levity to relieve my disgust at the pathetic circumstances.”

“I’m afraid I can’t find any humor in it,” the young man replied, bitterness in his tone. “Not when my father’s reputation was nearly destroyed by the false accusations of such a man. If not for you, he would have been disgraced—”

“None of that now.” Beau waved his secretary to silence. “I suppose I’m indebted to the villain. Had your father’s predicament not outraged me into vowing to uncover the identity of the real traitor, I might still be naught but an idle dandy playing at puzzles.”

“As if you were ever such!” his secretary scoffed. “I’m just glad your intervention in my father’s case brought you to Lord Riverton’s notice, and that his lordship succeeded in persuading you to continue the work. And as always, I’m honored that you trust me to contribute my small part. Speaking of which, what would you have me do now?”

Beau hesitated. “I need to investigate another matter. A personal and highly delicate one involving a lady, which must of course be conducted in strictest secrecy.”

“I hope you know you can rely on my discretion.”

“That I do not doubt. However, since I’m determined to tap my usual network in pursuit of wholly private concern, a some what … irregular practice, I admit, you may not feel comfortable being part of it. If you choose not to become involved, I will not hold it against you.”

“My lord,” the secretary replied, “since it is you who fund that network, I cannot see that there would be any impropriety in your using it however you see fit. And even if there were, after all you have done for my family, I’m hardly likely to question any contrivance of yours. Now, what should you like me to do?”

Beau smiled, gratified by the young man’s loyalty. “I need you to compile me a list of gentlemen who have, ah, ‘lost’ a wife sometime in the past two years. The woman will probably have been reported dead, although it might be claimed she is tending distant relatives or off on a lengthy journey of some sort. She might even have been declared insane. The lady would be of good family and should have been about three-and-twenty at the time of her … departure.”

Beau had the dubious pleasure of knowing he’d confounded his normally unflappable secretary. After staring a moment, with commendable discretion, James managed to swallow the curiosity he obviously felt. “Very well, my lord. How soon do you require the completed list?”

“As soon as possible. It’s a matter of considerable urgency.” Beau gazed out the window, seeing again Laura Martin’s small form hunched before him, fragile arms and puny fists braced against a blow. Anxiety twisted in his chest. He must persuade her out of Merriville, and soon.

He turned back to his secretary. “As you may have surmised, the husband in this case has violent proclivities. Try to determine if any of the prospects are rumored to be abusive. And, James …”

“My lord?”

“Your help in uncovering this shall more than repay any service I may ever have done your family.”

His secretary hesitated. “The … lady is that important to you.”

“Yes.”

James Maxwell bowed. “Then I shall begin the search immediately.”

A month later Laura Martin deposited her newly harvested herbs on the garden bench and wearily sat beside them, shivering in the tepid warmth of the fading late-afternoon sun.

Full winter would be upon them soon, with its inevitable complement of snow, sleet and drenching rain that would render the roads snow-drifted, iced over or deep in mire for indefinite periods until next spring’s thaw.

That irrefutable fact made her shiver with a chill that had nothing to do with the wind blowing over her chafed hands. For with her woman’s courses two weeks overdue, she had to face the frightening possibility that she might be with child.

Unfortunately, there was no way to know for certain—not until the child quickened, by which time the evidence of her indiscretion would be only too apparent to the entire county. But she’d never missed her time before, unless she was increasing. As she’d learned during her years of marriage, her cycles were most regular. Indeed, as a new bride, she’d counted the days, wanting to please her husband by offering him the possibility of the son he so desperately craved. But all too soon, she’d come to regard the advancing end of each cycle with dread, knowing the evidence that she’d not conceived would send Charlton into a fit of violent temper. At first, he’d been only verbally abusive, vilifying her as graceless failure of a woman, a disgrace to her normally prolific family he would never had deigned to marry had he known she was barren. Later her mouth would dry with fear, knowing the best she could hope for would be a slap across the face. Twice he’d beaten her so severely that she’d required the whole of the next month to recover.

Twice she’d conceived, a short-term protection from his aggression. She closed her eyes on a shudder. Even now, she could not bear to remember the terrible outcome of those pregnancies.

Once she’d watched the stable boys with a mouse they’d found in a grain bin. They’d teased it with a stick, pushing it this way and that, while the small creature, hemmed in between the probing stick and the tall straight walls of the bin, ran frantically this way and that.

She knew now what that mouse must have felt.

“Your character will be impugned and your standing in the neighborhood will suffer,” she recalled the vicar warning. Simple speculation could cause that much harm. But to bear a fatherless child nine months after the earl’s departure? She’d have no reputation left—and no livelihood, either.

How to preserve both? Swiftly she ruled out both accepting the vicar’s offer and remaining in Merriville. She wouldn’t serve Reverend Blackthorne such a turn, even if such a marriage would be legal, and to face down her neighbor’s scorn would simply condemn herself and the child to slow starvation. No, if time confirmed that she was with child, she mustn’t remain here.

Instinctively her hands slipped down to cradle her still-flat belly. Despite the risk, despite the fear that uncoiled thick in her veins at the mere thought of relocating, she couldn’t regret that night. Nor could she regret the child who might have been conceived from it. A child to cherish and protect, tangible reminder that a love encompassing heart and body was not a fanciful imagining, but for one wondrous night, had truly been hers.

A child to protect as she’d failed to protect Jennie. That stark thought instantly refocused her thoughts.

For time was critical. If she wished to preserve her reputation—and the possibility of returning to her livelihood in Merriville—she’d have to leave before her condition became apparent. And if she wished to be assured of getting away, she’d best depart before full winter and the possibility of ice or blizzards that might strand her here for weeks.

Too agitated now to sit, she jumped up to pace the length of the porch. Inventing a plausible pretext to depart was no problem; as a healer, she could always say she’d been called away to assist some distant relative. But where to go?

A flurry of pacing merely confirmed the stark truth. When she’d made the decision to come here, she’d deliberately broken all ties to her former life, to family, friends and any acquaintances who might have come to her aid. Only one individual remained who knew her true identity, and she was the one link by which Charleton might yet trace Laura.

Her former governess, Miss Hollins, whose sister “Aunt Mary” had secretly conveyed back to Merriville a battered, dying runaway wife. Having initially come to Miss Hollins’s home to tend a young governess, incapacitated by influenza at the local inn while journeying to her new post, Aunt Mary arrived to find at her sister’s cottage both that unfortunate—and Laura. After the poor woman died, the two sisters had buried her in a grave bearing Laura’s name. If Charle ton retained any suspicions about the identity of the remains beneath the simple granite marker he’d been shown when he finally tracked Laura to Miss Hollins’s cottage three months later, he’d still be watching that house—and Miss Hollins.

Another five minutes of pacing left her with the same worrying conclusion. She simply didn’t have funds enough to support herself unassisted in some faraway community for nearly a year. If she were going to relocate for a time, she must have some assistance. Miss Hollins was the only person she could both trust with the truth and ask for help. She would have to risk contacting her again.

She hugged herself, fighting the bitterly familiar spiral of fear that clogged her veins and tightened her stomach. I will protect us, Jennie, she vowed.

There is one other option, a small voice argued. You could seek out the earl.

The thought brought back the image of his face, the echo of his voice, the dearly remembered touch of his gentle fingers. Longing rippled through her. Ah, how good it would be to make her way to London, to relax her constant vigil in the comforting warmth of his powerful presence, to cast this dilemma into his capable hands!

She smiled wryly. Given the circumstances, at least he’d know she wasn’t trying to trick him into marriage.

The smile faded. But as she’d told him that night, powerful as he was, he was not above the law. If she risked going to London and Charleton discovered her, Lord Beaulieu could not prevent her husband from seizing her.

An even bleaker realization dawned, so awful the lingering desire to run to his lordship evaporated on the instant. As she was still legally Charlton’s wife, any child she bore was also his. Were Charleton to find her, he could claim the child. Their child. Beau’s son.

And he would do it, finding the act a fitting revenge. No, she resolved, let her flee to the ends of England, but should she be discovered, let Charleton believe the child she carried the by-blow of some farmer or curate, not worthy of being claimed as his own. Let him never discover the babe’s true father.

Her resolve established, the fear retreated to a grim, ever-present shadow. She’d spread word of her intended departure to the squire and several of the neighborhood ladies. Briefly she considered sending a note to Lady Elspeth, who’d borne her much-recovered brother back home with her the previous week, and swiftly decided against it. The fewer who had definite knowledge of her plans, the better. She’d not even send a note ahead to warn Miss Hollins.

Misfit rubbed against her hand, whining for attention. Absently she leaned down to scratch his head, already aching with regret to leave behind the peace of her cottage, her garden, the kind solicitude of the squire and the families of their small neighborhood. Resolutely she put aside the grief, focusing her mind on beginning the necessary planning. She would leave within the week.

She couldn’t risk even the smallest possibility that Charleton might get his hands on Beau’s child.