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Authors: Sally MacKenzie

In the Spinster's Bed (7 page)

BOOK: In the Spinster's Bed
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“Oh. Oh, William!” Belle tried to close her knees, but his body kept her open to him.
“You are so wet. So hot. So ready for me.”
“Oh.” Her breath came in little pants. “Yes.” She pulled him closer, her tongue slipping out to moisten her lips. “Now. Please.”
Yes, now. He needed to bury himself in Belle as much as he needed to breathe. He’d never felt this intensity before.
No, that wasn’t right. He
had
felt it before—twenty years before, on his father’s estate when he’d first loved this woman. His need for her went beyond the physical.
He joined her on the bed, kissing her, all of her—her lips, her throat, her breasts, her belly, her nether curls—
“
William!
What are you doing?”
That’s right. His passionate Belle was a spinster now. He could tell by the way the other villagers treated her—and the Boltwood sisters talked about her—that she’d lived as a virgin. He should go slowly.
He wasn’t sure he could.
“I’m loving you, Belle. Loving all of you.” He ran his tongue over her cleft, tasting her, inhaling her wonderful musky scent.
Zeus.
She was like no other woman. “God, how I’ve missed you.”
His cock was going to explode if he didn’t hurry.
He couldn’t hurry. Belle deserved a slow, thorough loving. And he wasn’t a boy this time. This time he would be careful. They’d been terribly lucky she hadn’t conceived when they’d done this before.
Though if she had . . .
Father would have been furious, but surely he would have allowed us to wed if I’d insisted.
Would
I have insisted?
He shrugged the question off. As Belle had said, the past couldn’t be changed. It was the present that mattered.
He paused to look into her face, promising himself as much as her, “I won’t put you at risk, Belle. I’ll pull out in time.”
She smiled—or her lips smiled. Her eyes were sad. “It’s all right, William. I’m thirty-seven years old. I can’t conceive.”
He frowned. “Thirty-seven isn’t ancient. You still have your courses, don’t you?”
“Yes, but . . .” She looked away. “My mother couldn’t have children either, you know.” She gave him a wobbly smile. “Except for me.”
“Ah.” He should be happy she was barren, but he wasn’t. Belle would have made a wonderful mother. “I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “It makes things less complicated now.”
It did, but some things should be complicated. “Belle—”
She touched her fingers to his lips. “Let’s not talk about it, William. Let’s not talk about anything.” She smiled, though there was still a lingering sorrow in her eyes. “Let’s just love each other.”
His mind wanted to argue, but his body urged him to agree. They could talk later.
She ran her hand down his chest and brushed her fingers over his cock.
His body won.
He kissed her, kissed her lips and her neck and her beautiful breasts. He made her gasp and moan and arch up for him. He did all the things he did to pleasure women, but this time was different. This wasn’t some willing female in bed with him. This was Belle. Generous, wild, intelligent, kind, fearless Belle.
This time his heart was involved as much as his cock. Belle’s warmth melted a part of him he hadn’t realized was frozen. Her joy in their play healed a festering wound. And when he finally slid deep into her body, he felt as if he had come home.
Chapter Seven
May 18, 1797—Mother’s relative, Mrs. Conklin, has taken me in, but I can’t stay here long. Father was right. She is a whore, but she’s far more Christian than he is.
—from Belle Frost’s diary
Belle clung to sleep. She was having the most amazing dream. A man’s large, warm hand cupped her breast. A thumb brushed over her nipple, sending heat and need streaking through her. She wanted—
“Good morning, Belle.” The words were whispered by her ear.
William. He was still here. She hadn’t imagined last night. She turned to face him.
He smiled, his face more relaxed than she’d seen it since he’d come to Loves Bridge.
“Good morning.” She ran her finger over his cheek. It was rough with stubble. In all the times they’d coupled at Benton, they had never slept together. She’d never seen him unshaven. It felt surprisingly intimate.
His expression suddenly sharpened. He was looking at—
Oh, yes. She was still naked under the coverlet. She ran her hand down his cheek and chin and neck to his shoulder.
He was still naked, too.
Desire smoldered, hardening her nipples, softening the place between her legs. She must have whimpered a little because he closed the small space between them to touch his lips to hers.
It was like a spark to tinder. Everything—every hesitation, every thought—turned to smoke, leaving only the burning need to join herself to him. She opened her mouth, put a hand on the back of his head to hold him close, and pressed her body against his, hooking her top leg over his hip. She slid her other hand down and touched his cock. It was heavy and thick and long, and she wanted it inside her.
Now.
He obliged. In one fluid motion, he pushed her onto her back and buried himself deep inside her, sliding all the way to her womb. She started to come apart the moment he entered, intense waves of pleasure radiating from her core. Then, as that sensation began to ebb, she felt his body’s answer—his warm seed pulsing into her.
If only it could take root again.
I should tell him. He deserves to know about the baby.
Why? It had happened twenty years ago. There was no need to spoil this very lovely moment with the past.
He collapsed on top of her. “Woman, you will be the death of me if that is how you intend to greet me every morning.”
She ran a hand down his sweaty back. Was she going to greet him every morning?
She would not spoil the present with thoughts of the future either. Instead she kissed him slowly and thoroughly—and felt his cock begin to stir again.
He pulled out. “Oh, no, none of that, you seductive witch.” He kissed her nose. “Poppy is glaring at us. I think we’ve overslept.”
Overslept? “Oh, no!” She bolted upright. Poppy was indeed glaring at them from the chair by the window. “What time is it?”
“Half past eight.”
“I’ll be late opening the library.” She scrambled out of bed.
“So? There’s never anyone there this early, is there?”
“No, but—” She glanced back at William. He was sitting up in bed now, the coverlet pooled at his waist, his lovely muscled chest and shoulders exposed.
And he was staring at her.
“Stop looking at me.” She turned her back, scooped up her shift, and pulled it over her head.
“Why? You were looking at me.” He laughed. “And I like looking at you. You’re beautiful, Belle.”
“You shouldn’t say such a thing.” She put on her stays.
“Why not? It’s true.”
She heard the mattress creak. She looked around to see him walking toward her. He was so completely at ease in his nakedness. And speaking of beauty . . . William might be close to forty, but he looked as if he were still in his twenties.
“You’re looking at me again,” he said.
She forced her eyes from his stiffening cock to his handsome face. “No, I’m not.”
“Liar.” He leaned forward to kiss her and she—
She pushed him away. She
had
to get dressed. “If I’m not at the library on time, people will wonder. And they’ll talk. They’re already talking. The Misses Boltwood—”
He put a finger on her lips. “Where is my brave Belle of last night? You didn’t worry then about what people would say.”
Yes, but that had been last night. In the harsh light of day, she saw things differently.
“It’s a small village, William. I can’t lose my reputation.”
“I know.” A frown creased his brow as he watched her fasten her dress. “Does this mean last night—and this morning—can’t happen again?”
Her body rebelled at the thought. It might be daylight, but it was still very hard to think rationally when one had a very naked man in one’s bedroom. “I-I don’t know.”
“Do you want me here again?”
“Y-yes.” God forgive her, but she wanted that more than anything else in the world.
He grinned, his smile blinding her. “Then we shall be discreet. I’ll come at night, slipping in the back door, and I’ll leave that way in the morning—after today, before the sun is up. No one will be the wiser.”
She should say no, but how could she give up a pleasure she’d just rediscovered? A starving woman couldn’t refuse to eat, could she?
“You can be that discreet?”
“I can.” He laughed. “And if anyone asks, I’m giving you music lessons.” He leered at her roguishly. “Only the instrument I’ll be playing will not be the harpsichord.”
His words plucked at the strings connecting her breasts to her womb.
She clasped her hands tightly together, willing the seductive vibration to stop.
It wouldn’t.
I
should
say no.
She couldn’t force herself to do so.
“Then, yes. All right. Come—” She swallowed, her mouth dry with yearning. “Come tonight and every night.”
 
 
Belle spent the next few months in a haze of desire. At first she was terrified she and William would be found out, but soon their meetings became a game. They’d nod politely when they passed on the street during the day and then fall into bed together at night.
When she was alone in the lending library, scruples raised their ugly little heads. She worried about the past, about the child she had lost, about whether she should tell William—no, about
when
she should tell him.
And she worried about the future. The Spinster House would feel unbearably empty once William went back to London. And he would go back. He had to remarry. His brothers had only daughters, so the dukedom still needed an heir.
Oh, God. William with a new wife—
The pain was so intense she could barely breathe.
But past and future faded from her thoughts when she was with William. Then she lived only in the wonderful, seductive present.
Until one day in early May. She was sitting in the deserted lending library looking over one of Miss Hutting’s stories when the door opened and William walked in with another man. William never came to the library. And he looked very . . . tense.
Oh, God.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. May I help you?” She tried very hard to keep her voice steady.
“Miss Franklin, I’m afraid I’ve come to impose on your good graces once again,” William said. His voice was tense, too.
“Of-of course, Mr. Wattles.” She glanced at the other man.
William started as if he’d just remembered he had a companion. “I beg your pardon. This is Mr. Morton. He has just ridden down from London to tell me that my father is gravely ill.”
“Oh, Wil—” No, she must not use his Christian name. “Mr. Wattles, I am so very sorry. I take it the illness is quite sudden?”
William’s mouth tightened. “My father has long maintained he lives at death’s door, but Mr. Morton here assures me that he has finally put one foot over the threshold.”
The man frowned. “My lord—”
So he knew William’s true identity. That’s right; Morton was William’s secretary’s name.
William cut him off. “Yes, you are correct. I shouldn’t say such things about my father, but as you know, he has bid me rush to Benton more times than I can count.” He looked back at Belle. “So, Miss Franklin, may I ask you again to let my pupils know they will have to miss their lessons? I hope I’ll not be gone more than a sennight—a fortnight at the very most.”
A sennight? Or a fortnight? How can I bear even one night without William in bed beside me?
“Of course. I will be happy to do so, Mr. Wattles.”
“I’m sorry—” William’s eyes held hers as if he wanted to say something else, but then he looked away. “I’m sorry to put you to the trouble of notifying my students once more.”
“It’s no trouble.” Not being able to comfort him or even acknowledge they were more than mere acquaintances was harder. She forced herself to smile. “I do hope you find your father much recovered when you see him.”
“My—” Morton caught himself. “Sir, we had best be off. I assure you, your brother was very insistent we make haste.”
“Very well. Good day, Miss Franklin. And thank you again.”
Then William turned away, and he and Mr. Morton were gone. The door closing behind them sounded so final.
She missed William terribly that night. The bed felt very empty, even though Poppy decided to join her in it. She slept poorly, and when she woke, she was tired and achy. And her stomach was unsettled. Very unsettled.
She dove for the chamber pot.
“Ugh. I guess it’s a good thing William isn’t here, Poppy. I wouldn’t want to make him sick.” She opened the window and dumped the pot’s disgusting contents out onto the overgrown garden. When she turned back, Poppy was staring at her.
“Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll be better shortly.”
She did feel a bit better as the day went on. At least her nausea abated. She was still tired, and her breasts still felt swollen and sore. She needed William’s hands on them, that was all. His touch would cure her. And she’d sleep better with him beside her.
That night she resorted to pleasuring herself, but the physical release, when it came, only made her feel lonelier.
And then, in the morning, she dove for the chamber pot again. Not that there was much to come up. The thought of food hadn’t been particularly appealing for a while and making supper the night before had seemed like too much trouble . . .
Oh, God.
She’d felt this kind of tiredness and nausea before.
No. No, it couldn’t be.
Her legs gave out, and she sat down on the chair abruptly. Fortunately, Poppy had just jumped down to the floor so Belle didn’t land on her.
She stared at the cat. The cat stared back.
“I’m thirty-seven.”
Poppy blinked at her.
“That’s too old to bear children.”
Poppy scratched her ear and then regarded Belle again. She did not look like she agreed with Belle’s assessment.
Poppy was a cat. She knew nothing about a woman’s body.
“Well, it’s too old for
me
to bear children. The women in my family aren’t especially fertile.”
The “women” in her family consisted of one woman—her mother.
When
was
the last time I had my courses?
She thought back—
Dear Lord!
Her stomach twisted again. Now she remembered. She’d been so happy last month when her flow was light enough that it hadn’t kept William from her bed. She’d thought it odd, but she wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Gift horse, indeed. The gift had been something else entirely.
Some
one
else.
The room started to spin.
She put her head down between her legs and tried to breathe slowly.
Don’t panic. If I’m increasing—and I’m probably not—I’ll likely lose the baby as I did last time.
Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God. No! I can’t lose William’s child again.
But I can’t have a baby out of wedlock.
What am I to do?
Don’t panic.
She took a deep breath and sat up. When a woman got older, her courses became irregular and then stopped. That was probably all it was. There was nothing to worry about. Things would sort themselves out soon. It was very unlikely she’d conceived.
She looked at Poppy.
“It’s all right. Everything will be all right. William need never know.” Tears leaked from her eyes and she slapped them away. “Nothing has to ch-change.”
Even she heard the desperation in her voice.
She dropped her face into her hands and sobbed until she threw up again.
She was very late opening the lending library that morning.
 
 
William sat at his father’s bedside and stared at the wall. This could not be happening. In a few moments, he’d wake in Belle’s bed and discover it had all been a nightmare.
His father’s breath rattled in his throat, but he still struggled to speak. “Albert? Oliver?”
What should I say?
“They are here.”
“Where?” His father searched the room’s shadows.
“Downstairs.”
Not a lie.
His father’s eyes turned to him, their question clear. But he couldn’t answer it. He couldn’t bear to send the old man to his grave with such tidings.
“They are . . . ill.” They were dead, having crashed their curricle into a tree rushing to their father’s side. “Rest and get better. Then you can see them.”
He put his hand on his father’s, and the touch seemed to calm the old man. The duke closed his eyes, and his breathing became less labored. Perhaps he would sleep now.
No. His father’s eyes flew open once more. “Albert? Oliver?”
BOOK: In the Spinster's Bed
4.9Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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