Читать книгу Sexual Secrets - Melissa MacNeal - Страница 11

“You look wan, my darling. And you’ve hardly touched your food.”

Camille sat absolutely still as her husband’s hand enveloped hers. Lord Bentley had huge hands, pudgy and pale beneath the hairs that sprouted all over the backs of them. He was a bear of a man, rather intimidating as he smiled at her from his chair at the head of the table. His close-set eyes shone beneath a heavy brow line, and the white hairs in his goatee bristled among the darker ones when he worked his lips, thinking. Awaiting her response.

Why did she never know how to respond, even when Rutledge was being kind? Why did marriage feel like such a constant compromise? Camille sipped her wine for inspiration. “I’m fine, really. It’s just that we’ve been so busy at the shop—”

“Time away is what you need! You work far too hard, and for what?” Rutledge asked. “When I provided you a shop as an outlet for your designs, I didn’t intend for you to become a slave to your talent.”

“Ah, but our success has taken us further than we anticipated in our wildest dreams!” Colette asserted. Then she demurely lowered her gaze, to humor her husband Heath and her father-in-law. “After all, happy wives are the foundation for happy homes and…satisfying relations. Don’t you agree, Heath?”

Heath eyed his wife across the top of his wineglass. “I see no merit in working five days a week, at the mercy of your clients’ whims, when you needn’t work at all, dear Colette. I made more in an hour at the tables today than your dress shop earned all week. And you don’t see me looking pale or upset over what someone implied about my work or talent—or the lack of it.”

Camille pressed her lips together. He might be a stallion in the bedroom, but Heath was an ass about knowing when to speak and when to keep his mouth shut. She and her sister had worked very hard since they were girls, helping to put food on the table after their vagabond father abandoned Mama, and it would never set well that the English aristocracy played all day—or all their lives, as in Heath Bentley’s case. “I don’t work to see how much money I can make,” she insisted, sitting up straighter. “I work because my life must have a direction. A purpose.”

“Making babies. Producing heirs,” the dark-haired rake across the table replied pointedly. “Now there’s a purpose!”

Camille bristled, but before she took his bait her sister replied, “Let’s not forget that any child of Camille’s will be in line for some of your inheritance, dear Heath. Meanwhile, the night is young and the full moon’s shining through the bedroom window. What do you propose we do about that?”

Heath’s expression changed immediately. He studied his wife from beneath a dark, rakish fetlock that fell across one brow, and Camille saw her sister’s hand slip surreptitiously beneath the table. Heath shifted in his seat then, his eyes narrowing.

She sighed. Colette had led the conversation toward their bedroom on her behalf, to stop this conversation before it ended as it always did: their men didn’t understand why she and her sister spent so much time working, even though Rutledge and Heath followed their own pursuits in London most days. Lord Bentley often spent weeks overseeing his shipyards and textile mills, here and abroad, and thought nothing about how she would fill her days were it not for designing innovative gowns at LeChaud Soeurs.

Heath rose quickly to pull out his wife’s chair. Colette gazed up at him adoringly, and moments later, in the wake of their escape, their amorous laughter drifted back into the dining room.

And what an opulent room it was: mahogany paneling and gilt mirrors, two huge chandeliers glistening with hundreds of crystal prisms above a massive mahogany table that stretched fifteen feet beyond where the four of them sat. Camille smiled politely at her husband. She knew without daring to ask that he’d never once coaxed a lover to the top of this staid table…never thrown a woman’s skirts up and ravished her on the spur of a passionate moment, oblivious to the goblets and china that would shatter around them. The thought made her prickle, down where her drawers bunched between her legs, for by now Heath had relieved Colette of her corset and drawers—

“You look so very lovely in that gown, Camille. Is it one of your own designs?”

She blinked. “Why, yes it is, thank you. I made it as a sample, to determine how the pattern and fabric would complement each other, before completing a similar gown for Lady Gody.”

“That shade of pink puts roses in your cheeks.” Rutledge observed her through half-closed eyes as he drew a teasing finger along the crease of her cleavage. “I’m glad you didn’t change before dinner, my dear. When I saw this dress at breakfast, I felt sadly inadequate…desperately sorry I couldn’t act upon my inclinations. You think me terribly old, I know, but inside me beats the heart of the randy young swain I once was. A man might outlive his abilities to perform, but he never loses the desire.”

Camille swallowed, speechless, as his fingertip continued to tease her exposed skin. She sensed the butler—and probably half the staff—waited to clear the table, knowing better than to intrude upon this rare moment…watching every move and nuance from the breaks between the Chinese screen’s panels. Three years here at Briarcliffe hadn’t accustomed her to having domestic help, and to knowing they saw everything, and then gossiped about it among themselves.

“Sit on the table in front of me. I’m going to lift your breasts and kiss them…bury my face in their softness.”

Her cheeks burned. What was this he demanded of her?

Rutledge scooted back from the table and flung his soiled plate off to one side. The china shattered and then his flatware clattered on top of it, which brought a maid scurrying from the kitchen. “Get out!” he rasped, pointing imperiously at the girl. “You and the others are dismissed for the evening! Do not interrupt me again!”

The poor girl fled, wide-eyed, and Camille almost felt sorry for her. Whatever fantasy had inspired Lord Bentley would most certainly become her reality, as well.

A cataclysmic change…a hurricane of passion…a volcano of sensations and delights! As Rubio Palladino’s prediction came to mind, Camille realized that everything he’d foretold seemed to be coming true. There was no talking her way out of this: the expression on her husband’s creased face brooked no arguments. So she rose from her chair to step between his knees and the table that stretched the length of the mirrored room. She felt dwarfed and quite plain, in comparison to this ornate salon where Bentleys had dined for generations. Her squeal rang out as her husband lifted her unceremoniously to the tabletop.

Rutledge slipped his fingers into the bodice of her gown and scooped out her breasts as though he intended to devour them. He was panting as he gazed at her exposed flesh. His thumbs teased her nipples into hard, aching buds. He suckled her then, and when his coarse mustache tickled her skin she giggled like a little girl.

He rose up, his gaze riveting hers.

“I—I’m sorry!” she wheezed. “I wasn’t laughing at you or—”

“Laugh, damn it! You’re making me feel like quite the man again.” He teased a nipple with his tongue then, holding her waist to keep her from wiggling away from this riot of sensations.

Camille closed her eyes. As her head lolled back and her husband’s lips tormented her sensitive skin, it was Heath she saw in her mind. He wanted her…Heath wanted to make love to both of them, Colette had said. She couldn’t keep still, and as she imagined what her sister’s handsome husband would be doing to her, her arms encircled Rutledge’s beefy shoulders. He moaned, low and primal, as he squeezed her softness against his rough cheeks. He kissed her breasts with silly, teasing smacks then, inciting more laughter as he stood up.

Without warning, he shoved her backward and threw her skirts up over her waist. A wineglass toppled, unheeded, as he slipped a finger into the slit of her drawers. Camille gasped, resisting his intrusion, but he grabbed both her hands in his. “Has a man ever thrust his tongue up your cunt?” he asked slyly.

Her mouth opened but no sound came out.

“Good. It’s only fitting that I be the first.”

What did he intend to do? And why would a man want to—

Rutledge parted the crotch seam of her drawers again, and Camille screamed at the first contact of his inquisitive, wet lips. Her legs flew apart, and then she squeezed his head with them, and then—well, she didn’t know what to do about the shocking sensations of his probing tongue and his rough mustache as he kissed her down there. “My God, you shouldn’t be—you surely can’t mean to—”

He pressed the bridge of his nose against a bone that nailed her to the table. Never mind that wine was now seeping into her hair as her head tossed to and fro, and that she felt indecent and exposed and—

Suddenly it was Hadrian Swann’s handsome face she imagined between her legs. Camille began to buck and cry out and whimper for more, even as she feared this loss of control. Desire like she’d never known spiraled hot within her. She strained for more solid contact—more pressure from his textured, pointed tongue. And yet, if she gave in to these thunderbolts of shameful pleasure, she would surely—

Erupt. You will feel like a volcano as you erupt—

In her mind’s eye, Hadrian Swann had unfastened his pants to thrust himself inside her, as mad with need and desire as she. Camille was doomed but she didn’t care. As waves of sensation carried her into a fit of moaning and writhing, she gave in to the unspeakable need to convulse. Spasms racked her body. Her hips wiggled as though possessed by a demon she’d never dared to dream about in her innocent state. This forbidden lover had lustrous bronzed skin and a thin mustache that matched his black soul, and he delighted in her cries for mercy…her helplessness…her shameful pleasure. And he knew she wanted more. Much, much more.

Camille collapsed. As she caught her breath, she peered through the slits of her eyelids. Rutledge was wiping her wetness from his mouth. Her palm itched to slap the victorious smirk from his face, but she knew better. Were men always so damned proud when women succumbed to them?

She allowed Rutledge to help her sit upright, but before he could launch into a discourse about the joys he’d just shown her—the glories that awaited her now that he’d flung open the gates of her passion—Camille scurried from the dining room. Was that snickering she heard in the butler’s pantry? Did she feel the weight of their maids’ secretive gazes from behind other doors as she removed her shoes?

She was beyond caring. As Camille ascended the grand staircase, the slap-slap-slap of her stocking feet on the marble taunted her like the sound of lovers’ thighs. All she could think about was a hot bath.

At the locked double doors on the landing, she raced to the left, toward the wing she shared with Lord Bentley. She entered her room and nearly rang for Mrs. Douthit out of habit, but then she stopped. When there came a day she couldn’t draw her own bath, she would be helpless indeed! Two hard twists of the faucets sent water gushing into the tub. Camille smugly hooked the bathroom door and removed her cerise gown, eager to be free and clean. Wine dripped from her scalp and a sticky warmth oozed down her legs: she was wet at both ends and saw nothing romantic about it. The unsightly claret stain on her shoulders would never come clean, and she’d only worn this gown twice.

Hairpins pinged on the floor. Silken underthings fell around her feet, and then Camille stepped into the steaming tub. In her agitation she dropped an entire box of bath salts, and then watched the force of the water whip them into a dense lemon-scented froth around her knees. She sank into the porcelain tub, closed her eyes, and pinched her nostrils shut. Slowly she slid down until she was submersed in the hot water…rubbed the stickiness out of her hair and from between her legs. When she could hold her breath no longer, she sat up again, sputtering.

Why had Rutledge finally shown an interest in her now? Had he uncannily guessed at her secret plan to leave him for Heath? If so, she and her sister were in deep trouble before they’d even made the switch.

And what if, after she and Colette swapped men, Heath’s attentions sent her scrambling to cleanse herself, as well? What did it say about her if a man like Colette’s hot-blooded husband made her feel so slimy, so soiled…so indecent that she retreated to a tub of hot water? Locked herself in the bathroom to escape him?

Camille inhaled the lemon verbena steam to calm her thoughts. Some questions had answers she didn’t want to know. No lock would keep Heath Bentley out of the bathroom if he wanted to be there, however, and that randy thought tickled the nerve endings between her legs.

She stood up and grabbed a fresh towel. This evening’s surprises had agitated her to the point she must see Rubio Palladino, immediately! She would demand that the seer conjure up a safer fate—a future that held answers rather than so many unsettling questions.

The dainty mantle clock in her bedroom chimed nine as Camille stepped into a simple gray skirt and a cream blouse. She tied her wet hair back with a ribbon, slipped into her cloak, and then took the service stairs to the back door nearest the carriage house. As Colette had reminded her, she was the lady of Briarcliffe and she owed none of the staff an explanation—least of all Charlie, the young blond man who eyed her with a speculative glint as she approached his quarters alone.

“I’ve dress designs to complete,” she announced. “Please drive me to the shop at once! I’ll be using the back entrance to avoid attracting attention, thank you.”

The footman had sense enough to turn away and button his pants before protesting. “Lord Bentley would never approve my taking you into town unescorted at this hour of the—”

Camille placed a hand coyly on his cheek. “I’m considering you my escort, Charlie,” she murmured. “Lord Bentley doesn’t need to know everything, does he?”