Cheryl Holt (14 page)

“That is a major concern.”

She chortled and extended her arms over her head. Her breasts were still uncovered, and she was at ease with him, in no hurry to shield herself now that the ardor had waned, yet he was in a serious state. His appetite hadn’t been slaked, and it was difficult to pretend he was in the mood to chat. What he truly wanted to do was ravage her, and it took every ounce of his willpower to check himself.

“Why haven’t you married?” she queried out of the blue.

“I never met anyone who tickled my fancy.”

“Would you?” She rotated to her side, assessing him. “If you found the right girl, I mean.”

“Of course.”

“Would you marry
me
if you could?”

He smiled. She was so sassy, so rumpled and disheveled. What man wouldn’t grab her if he had the chance? “In a heartbeat, Lady O.”

She smiled, too, then snuggled herself into the crook of his neck where she confessed, “I wish you could.”

“So do I.” The admission surprised him. The notion of wedding her was so far-fetched that he couldn’t believe they were discussing it.

What was to be gained by such irrational speculation?

She was an untried maid, and he needed to tread carefully with her. Passion could befuddle and overwhelm. She’d just had an orgasm, and she was already confusing carnality with affection. He needed to ensure that her imprudent emotions didn’t take her where she could never go.

They were silent, treasuring the quiet companionship, when she drew back to look him. “Tell me more about it.”

“About what?”

“The wedding night and what transpires. Suddenly, I realize that I am ignorant of many important facts that could soon rule my life.”

“I’m not the person who should advise you.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it
is
your husband’s privilege and duty,” he stupidly proclaimed.

She glanced down at her bared bosom. “It’s a tad late to worry about that, don’t you think?”

Giggling, she spun away, laughing full and long, and he joined in her mirth.

Their situation was ludicrous. She was destined to wed his father, or another nobleman like him. Phillip had no place with her, and never would. She had burdens and obligations that weighed her down, that he could never assume for her.

He had no business instructing her in the art of loving or anything else, but he’d just had his mouth on her breast and his hand inside her feminine sheath. They
were far beyond polite discourse or drawing room etiquette.

What conduct was appropriate from this point onward?

“Explain the rest,” she implored. “I would have you relieve me of my naïveté.”

And maybe her virginity, if they weren’t cautious.

Before she’d arrived, he’d pondered whether he intended to proceed to deflowerment, and he now conceived that the brazen act would never be attempted. He couldn’t ruin her for the beneficial marriage she was desperate to make. He liked her too much to undermine her prospects, and he wouldn’t permit himself to cross that decisive line.

But without doing any irreversible damage, he could verbally educate her as to what was coming.

“Do you remember in the library,” he began, “when you were quizzing me about the erotica?”

“Aye.”

“You asked me if your husband would expect you to disrobe.”

“And you said yes.”

“He will require much more than your removing your clothes.”

“What more is there?” She was solemn, the jocularity having faded.

“A man and woman do things to each other, to physically titillate.”

“And their deeds involve nudity?”

“Usually.”

“It’s enjoyable?”

“Very.”

“I was skeptical before”—she flashed a naughty grin—“but your current performance has forced me to conclude that you could be correct. I never thought I’d admit that stripping myself could be . . . so . . . so stimulating.”

“Your reaction will be ever more vehement, as you grow more comfortable with your partner.”

“How could it possibly become more intense?”

“Repetition. Familiarity. They decrease your restraint and wreak havoc on your control.”

“Hmm . . .” She reflected. “I like the sound of that. And as to the man . . . what does the woman give to him?”

As they talked, she was toying with his shirt, the buttons being unfastened one by one, until the front was open, and she was stroking his chest. The seductive massage, coupled with his unsated desire, made it hard to concentrate on what she was saying.

“The male is built differently from the female.”

“How?”

“In his private parts.” He guided her hand to his crotch, letting her investigate the bulge in his pants. “A man has a sort of rod or staff between his legs, where a woman has none.”

“What’s this rod called?”

“It has many names: a phallus, a cock, a penis.”

“For what is it used?”

“For mating. And for pleasure.” She was exploring, manipulating the fabric in an effort to estimate size and shape.

“How does one go about mating? I’ve always been curious.”

“The man thrusts the rod inside the woman’s body—”

“Inside? You’re joking. Where?”

“Here.” He cupped her. “Then he flexes his hips in a brisk rhythm, and the motion produces a friction that causes a white cream to erupt from the tip. The cream is his seed, and when it’s spewed into the womb, they can create a babe.”

She gawked at him. “That is the strangest tale I’ve ever heard.”

“It seems implausible—until you experience it for yourself.”

“Can a man be
satisfied
without actually mating?”

“Oh, yes.”

She was more bold in her examination. “How is it accomplished?”

“Well”—she grazed her thumb directly on the tip, and his discipline nearly snapped—“a woman can rub the man’s phallus with her hands, or take it into her mouth.”

“Her mouth!” She inspected his pants. “Very intriguing.”

With each detail he divulged, she was more inquisitive, and she clambered up on her knees, straddling his thighs to better peruse his loins. “How do you walk about with this protrusion in the way?”

“Normally”—he chuckled—“it’s flaccid.”

“It’s not flaccid now.”

“No, it’s not. I’m aroused.”

“You are?”

“Very much so.”

“You want me.” She was amazed. Exhilarated.

“Yes.”

“When a woman trifles with a man’s phallus, does he feel what I did a few minutes ago?”

“It’s very similar.”

“Will you show me how to do it for you?”

Sweat pooled on his brow. She was loosening his trousers! He’d never been much of a gentleman, but in this instance, he’d planned to do his best, and he was determined to stop her—he really and truly was—but somewhere between his brain and his tongue, the command to desist was lost. He was struck dumb, and all he could do was observe the subtle glide of her slender, crafty fingers.

“Livvie,” he ground out, “you shouldn’t do this.”

“Why? You did it to me. It was magnificent.”

“But you don’t understand how it ends.” She dipped her fingers under the placard, and bare skin impacted with bare skin. Her fist encircled him. “Oh, Jesus . . .”

She paused. “I want to look at you. May I?”

No, no, no
, his brain shouted, but he merely glared at her. He was frazzled, strained beyond his limit. If she journeyed a step further down this road, he couldn’t be responsible for what he might do.

“Livvie,” he barked, “a man can become too eager, to where he can’t curb his behavior. You’re playing with fire.”

“But you would never hurt me.”

“Not deliberately.”

She smiled, not believing his admonition, and with a flick of her wrist, she had him exposed to the cool evening air. Mesmerized and enthralled, she visually analyzed every inch. Under her torrid scrutiny, his cock came alive. It was savage, throbbing, distending even more, and stretching out toward her.

“It’s huge,” she remarked, unperturbed. “Are they all so large?”

“I’m big. Bigger than most.”

They engaged in a staring contest, and he didn’t know if he was daring her to progress or daring her not to. If she touched him again, he’d explode. If she didn’t, the same result would occur.

Without warning, she leaned down, gripped him and . . . took him into her mouth! The deed was so unanticipated, so shocking and so outrageous, that he almost spilled himself.

Wildly, he grabbed for her and tossed her aside, then he jumped out of the bed as though it had snakes in it. His breathing labored, his pulse pounding, he stomped
across the small room, facing away from her, a hand balanced on the wall.

His knees were weak, his composure shattered. How had he plummeted to this bizarre juncture? With her practically begging to be compromised, and himself fighting to keep her chaste. He’d never suffered through such a ridiculous, incongruous moment in his entire life.

“Phillip,” she hailed from behind him, “what is it? What did I do wrong?”

“Oh, Livvie,” he groaned, calming, and stuffing his privates into his pants. “It wasn’t
wrong
.”

“But you said women put their mouths on you. Wasn’t I supposed to?” She was climbing off the bed and crossing to him, and she rested her palm on his shoulder. “I only wanted to make you happy.”

He wrapped an arm around her, nestling her to him, and he kept her there as he collected himself. When he could speak without sounding like a fool, he kissed the top of her head.

“You must return to the manor.”

“Don’t be angry.”

“I’m not. I just need some time to think.”

“About what?”

“About us”—he gestured between them, indicating what he couldn’t put into words—“and where this attraction is leading. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything, but I can’t do this to you. Or to my father.”

“But I’ve decided I can’t marry him. Not after being here with you.”

“Don’t say it.” He pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. “Especially now, after our passions have so recently flared. You need to reflect, too.”

“No I don’t,” she insisted. “After I’ve lain with you, I could never do the same with him.”

“But Livvie, even if you cried off with Edward,
we
could never marry. There are too many people depending on you. You can’t forsake them for the likes of me.”

“What if I did?” she suddenly, recklessly broached. “What if, for once, I considered myself, and what
I
want and need?”

Though he recognized that she was spewing nonsense, his idiotic heart leapt at the marvelous possibility, and he tamped down his asinine exuberance. “That’s not who you are. You could never abandon those you love.”

They’d never discussed this facet of her personality, but he knew it with an unwavering certainty. Though she might fret over the onus placed upon her, in the end, she would do her duty.

“Let’s get you back to the house.” He led her out to the main room. She followed and dawdled as he retrieved her cloak, as he settled it over her shoulders, and adjusted the hood. He brushed a kiss across her lips, and she crushed him in a fierce hug.

“I’ll come to you tomorrow night.”

Tell her no!
his mind screamed, but what emerged was, “All right. I’ll be waiting.”

He peeked outside to ensure it was safe, then, without a farewell, she slid away and was swallowed up by the shadows. Loitering, he listened and watched, until he saw her sneak in the servants’ entrance, and he sank against the stoop.

What was he doing? What was he hoping to achieve? How could this have a good end?

Disturbed, distraught, more sexually frustrated than he’d ever been, he went inside and shut the door.

Winnie stood in the middle of the dark garden, her hair down and blowing in the wind, her robe and night rail flattened to her torso. Lightning rent the black sky, and the crack of thunder that followed was too close and rattled through her bones.

Like a pagan goddess of old, she curled her toes into the grass and lifted her arms to the heavens, reaching out in supplication for a solace she couldn’t name.

The weather was warm and sultry with the prospect of imminent rain, and the approaching storm sizzled through her, leaving her wanton and rash. Her restlessness had compelled her to escape the stifling confines of her bedchamber, but it was impossible to flee from the dissatisfaction that was slowly eating her alive.

She couldn’t run far enough or fast enough.

The trip to Salisbury, her encountering the earl, had stirred the soul of a woman she’d believed buried, and for some reason, her meeting Edward Paxton had effected a resurrection.

For almost two decades, she’d convinced herself that she was content, that her serene, tedious existence in the Hopkinses’ home was all she needed, all she deserved.

She’d committed many sins—chiefly against the daughter she’d abandoned to adoption—and she’d persuaded herself that she didn’t merit more than the cards fate had dealt her.

As a girl, she’d been beautiful, vain, confident of
whatever course she’d embarked upon. She’d had such a zest for life, and had seized every moment, but her arrogant enthusiasm and romantic heart had steered her to heedlessness and delinquency.

She’d paid for her transgressions by smothering the facet of her personality that had gloried in hedonic conduct. When she’d moved in with the Hopkinses, she’d sworn to Margaret that she would never shame the family, would never perpetrate any act that might raise a brow or cause a tongue to wag.

She drifted on the fringe. Always pleasant, always good-humored, never quarrelsome or cross, she spent every waking minute ensuring that she wasn’t a burden, that she offended no one, bothered no one, disturbed no one.

Smiling, amenable, and tractable, she didn’t want to furnish the impression that she wasn’t grateful, because she was. Grateful and indebted and beholden to others for every stitch of clothing she wore, every bite of food she put in her mouth.

Years had passed in which she’d never offered an opinion, had never participated in an important discussion, or mentioned when she’d been maltreated or slighted by the people on whom she depended for her very survival. She’d masked her emotions for so long that she didn’t know how to
feel
anymore. She was invisible, had so thoroughly concealed her passionate, animated self that she’d grown indistinct, a shapeless, vague, blurred creature that had no substance.