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Authors: Cheryl Holt

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“Don’t be sad.” He kissed her forehead, her nose, her mouth. “I hate it when you are.”

“I’m not sad. I’m . . . I’m . . . resigned.”

She pronounced the word
resigned
as if it had been wrenched from her very soul.

“Are you?”

“Yes. Mr. Dudley said I couldn’t change what I’d done, and he was correct. My fate is written in stone.”

“What is this horrid destiny that you can’t avoid?”

“You! You’re my destiny.”

He grinned. “Marvelous.”

He was nibbling at her nape, as his busy hands tugged her nightgown up her legs, and she didn’t protest. She’d imbibed too much alcohol, and the liquor—along with her despondent condition—had rendered her relaxed and compliant.

If he’d have been any kind of gentleman, he’d have simply tucked her under the covers and departed, but where she was concerned, he’d lost his chivalrous tendencies.

He planned to make love with her again and again until he’d slaked his lust. There had to be a reason he was so obsessed, and regular sexual congress would quell the itch he needed her to constantly scratch.

“Don’t take off my nightgown,” she said as the hem was at her hips, but she didn’t try to stop him. “I have no desire to be undressed in front of you.”

“And I have
every
desire to see you naked.”

With a particularly nimble flick of his wrist, he had the garment over her head. He peered down her torso, delighted with her feminine form, with her full breasts and curvaceous hips.

“I’m so glad you’re mine,” he murmured.

“Am I yours?”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“For forever,” he lied.

She would be his until time or scandal or indifference separated them, and for the moment, he’d act as if they would continue on into infinity. He felt they were trapped in a bubble and the outside world could never intrude. Violet was a distant memory, and as long as he could maintain the pretense, he would.

He dipped to her breasts and feasted on them. Her nipples were so lovely, so sensitive, and he pleasured her until she was writhing beneath him.

“I want you naked, too,” she suddenly surprised him by saying.

“You do, do you?”

“Yes. If I have to remove my clothes, it seems only fair that you remove yours.”

“So it does.”

He drew onto his knees, and he let her watch, her interest keen as he stripped off his coat and shirt. She rolled them so that he was on his back, and she yanked off his boots and stockings. Ultimately, just his trousers were left.

The flap at the front was loose, and she slipped her hand inside and took hold of his cock. She was barely past her virginity, so she’d never been taught how to stroke it, but the sensation was extreme, and he nearly spilled himself like an adolescent lad of fifteen.

“Are all men the same size?”

“Some are bigger. Some are smaller.”

“How would you describe yours?”

“Definitely bigger.”

His answer had her squealing with laughter, and she toppled onto the mattress. They stared at the ceiling, giggling like a pair of naughty children, and he couldn’t remember when he’d ever been so foolish or lighthearted.

Before he’d met her, he’d have been aghast at the notion of behaving so merrily, but she made everything seem more vital. She made him feel alive and essential and necessary.

He came over her, and he began kissing her in earnest. There was a new seriousness to the endeavor. He wanted to please her, wanted to show her how it could truly be for them so she would never forget.

When their affair ended, when circumstances coalesced to force them apart, he hoped she would always fondly recollect their time together.

He dropped to her breasts again, and he suckled her, his fingers busy down below, spurring her to a quick orgasm. As she spiraled down, he spread her thighs, pushed himself in, and started to flex.

He couldn’t believe how much he needed her, how much she trusted him. They’d generated a closeness that went beyond the mere expectation of sexual gratification. There was a poignancy to it, a sweetness he hadn’t ever previously encountered with a woman, and he hadn’t known such an intimate joining was possible.

He kept on and on, and as her second orgasm commenced, he emptied himself deep in her womb, relishing every instant of the reckless conclusion.

Gradually, his thrusting slowed, and he pulled away. He spooned himself to her, his chest nestled to her back, his loins cradling her bottom.

“Don’t leave me,” he said, amazing himself. “If you did, I couldn’t bear it.”

She was quiet, then she sighed. “I won’t leave.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he claimed. “Just don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m finished with being angry.” She glanced at him over her shoulder. “I’m not very good at displays of temper, and since the end result is that I wound up in bed with you, it’s been a wasted effort.”

He chuckled and snuggled her down. They were silent again, each lost in difficult contemplation.

Eventually, she confessed, “It will hurt me when you marry her.”

“I know it will.”

“I can’t work as her companion. I can’t fetch her parasol or ride in the carriage when she goes visiting.”

“You won’t have to. Not ever again.”

“Then what will you do with me? How will you explain my continued presence? You already abolished my duties to the twins. If I have no duties to Lady Violet, either, what will you tell people as to why I’m still here?”

He couldn’t guess what lies he’d spew in order to keep her with him, and he didn’t like her mentioning Violet. Her comments rammed at the wall he’d constructed between his real life and the false one he was building with her. He couldn’t ever let the two worlds collide.

“We’ll figure it out,” he insisted more firmly.

“Yes, I suppose we will.” She hesitated, then asked, “Everything will be all right, won’t it?”

“As long as you’re with me, everything will be fine.”

Her breathing lagged, her body relaxing as she fell asleep.

Though he was exhausted himself, he fought slumber, dawdling, cherishing the moment, wanting it to last forever.

The first ray of dawn broke on the horizon, and he beat the cock’s crow. Sliding off the mattress, he tugged on his trousers and sneaked away.

Chapter 16

“CAUGHT you, you wicked minx.”

“Let me go.”

“No.” Edward wrapped his arm around Miranda and held her tight. “Let’s have a chat, shall we?”

“I’m busy.”

“I don’t see that you have any choice.”

They were in an upstairs hall, next to several unoccupied bedchambers, and he was eager to make use of one of them. He wasn’t generally prone to ravishment, but what female had ever deserved it more than she?

He’d been riding, and he was dressed in boots and spurs. He’d brought his riding crop, and he tossed it into a nearby room, then he tried to pull her in after it, but she wouldn’t budge from her vantage point by the window.

She was peering off across the garden, and as he yanked her away, she started to struggle in earnest.

“No.” She kicked at his shins with her heel. “I have to keep watching.”

“Watching what?”

“Miss Lambert. She’s taking her afternoon walk, and we’re tracking her route.”

“Planning future attacks, are you?”

“We don’t understand why she’s still here. She was forbidden to help us anymore, so what’s she doing?”

“She helps Violet, instead.”

“No. John told the housekeeper that she wasn’t available to Violet.” She glared over her shoulder. “Why do you suppose that is?”

“I don’t care why.”

Determined to remain in her spot, she scrapped and fought, but he was bigger and stronger. He wrestled her into the bedchamber and closed the door.

“Now then,” he said, “let’s have that chat.”

Before she could reply, Melanie knocked.

“Miranda, let me in.”

“No,” Miranda surprised him by retorting. “I’m with Edward. He’s picked me, and we want to be alone.”

“I have to talk to you,” Melanie insisted.

Edward hadn’t been prepared for an interruption, and he most especially didn’t like how Miranda had announced that he’d
picked
her.

To what was she referring? Did she mean his lie that he’d wed her or her sister? As he fretted over the prospect, Melanie hustled in without being invited.

Fine
, he thought. He’d hoped to trap them together, and they’d made it easy.

They stood side by side, staring at him.

“Is it true?” Melanie asked. “Have you chosen Miranda over me?”

“I haven’t decided,” he claimed.

“We should both have a chance to convince you,” Melanie nagged. “Miranda always gets her way.”

“And you don’t?”

“No. I have to do what she wants, and she always goes first.”

Miranda smirked. “It’s the bane of being born second.”

“You’d like me more than her,” Melanie asserted to Edward.

“Would I?” Edward inquired. “How could I be sure?”

Suddenly, the most wicked notion occurred to him.

If he pretended to be interested in matrimony, he could play them off one another. He’d be able to stretch out the competition for weeks or months, and in the process, he’d be showered with decadent acts.

“I believe,” he said, “that we shall have to have a contest.”

“What type of contest?” Miranda queried.

“You’ll have to show me how thoroughly you can satisfy me.”

“In a sexual manner?”

“Yes. I won’t have a bride who’s a cold fish. She must be proficient at her wifely duties. My standards are very exacting. I wonder how you’d fare?”

They gazed at each other, sharing one of their odd visual exchanges. When they grinned, his balls clenched, but not in a good way. It seemed they had a secret, as if they’d set the rules without consulting him. If they had mischief in mind, he might not realize it until it was too late.

They stepped nearer, so he was boxed in between them.

“How long will the contest last?” Miranda asked.

“The length will depend on how skillfully you perform.”

“Two weeks,” Miranda interjected, giving him no leeway. “Then you’ll have to choose. You’ll have to speak with John, too, so he doesn’t send us back to England before we’re finished.”

“Once you make your selection,” Melanie added, “the wedding can be held here in Scotland—where it’s so easily accomplished.”

They leaned in, a bosom crushed to each of his arms, a mons to each thigh.

“Yes,” he agreed, “two weeks should be plenty of time.”

“You wouldn’t lie to us, would you, Edward?”

“No.”

“Because we don’t like it when people deceive us. Just remember our father. In the end, he was very, very sorry.”

Edward frowned, speculating over what the hell they were intimating. Their father had suffered a pathetic demise, an accident with a gun in his library, which was a euphemism for suicide. But they were hinting at a darker conclusion.

What had the little demons done? Had they harmed their father? Would they have stooped to . . . to . . . murder?

The moment the lurid possibility blossomed, he shook it away.

He knew the twins. They’d lived with the family for a year and a half. Their father had been quietly dead and buried all that time. There had never been a whiff of gossip regarding his early demise.

Still, the fiery gleam in their blue eyes was unnerving, and he was having second thoughts as to whether he should foster further involvement, but he was so captivated by their rough carnal treatment. He craved more of it, just as he yearned to dish out a bit of it himself.

He wanted to see
them
fettered to the bed, wanted them pulling on the ropes as they begged for mercy.

Dare he proceed? Should he?

As he debated, Miranda crouched down and grabbed his riding crop, cutting off any divergent path. In an instant, the position of power was altered, and she was in control.

He should have marched out, but he didn’t. He was frozen in place, riveted by the promise of debauchery, and wild horses couldn’t have dragged him away.

Miranda smacked the crop across Melanie’s bottom.

“Bare your breasts to him,” Miranda ordered.

“Please don’t make me,” Melanie cried, and his cock grew hard as a stone.

“Do it!” Miranda commanded, slapping with the crop again.

Melanie turned, and Edward started undoing the buttons on her dress, any chance of restraint lost in a fog of twisted desire.

“VIOLET and I have something to say.”

“What is it?”

Esther studied John, her fury meticulously concealed. She forced a smile, even though she wasn’t feeling cheery or cordial.