Princes of Charming (13 page)

He grunted, holding her hips as he thrust his thick cock in and out. "I have to come."

"Not inside me."

He pulled out, leaving her momentarily empty, but then she felt his grip tighten and the head of his phallus pushing slickly between the cheeks of her arse. They were both so wet, so white hot with desire that they needed no further oil to smooth the way. Bent over her, his breath hot on the back of her neck  he hissed her name and forced his length, half inch by half inch into her backside.

Dru felt the immediate fullness, the pressure and then the giddy bliss as he reached one hand beneath her and pleasured her pussy with two damp fingers. She grabbed two handfuls of silk counterpane and put her head down, moaning and pushing back, taking him in, fucking him as hard as he fucked her. She had no doubt the squeaking, complaining bed, not to mention the swift, loud slapping of flesh on flesh would be heard all over the house.

Brandon Wilder shot his load deep in her arse. She felt the heat, the rush, as her pussy tightened on his fingers. He jerked, his cock still thrusting. His fingers slid out of her pussy and he slapped his hand over her vulva just as she spent likewise, her hot liquid pooling in his palm.

* * * *

She had gone downstairs, to fetch a tray of refreshments, when the doorbell startled her heart into a reckless rhythm. Polly was already half way to the door, but Dru called her back. It was very late at night and who knew what might be on the doorstep at such an hour.

Looking out cautiously, Polly behind her, she found Nicholas Wilder, leaning against the wall, barely able to stand, reeking of brandy.

"I had to see you," he slurred. "I came straight from my club."

"Oh for pity's sake." She sighed. "Come in."

He stumbled forward and fell to his knees on the hall tiles.

"Polly, make some coffee will you? Strong and black. I'll put Mr. Wilder to bed."

He clung to the hem of her nightgown. "Did he come here with you? There's something going on between you and him, isn't there? I saw it tonight. At dinner."

Ignoring his questions, Dru managed to get him upright and then, with sturdy Martha's help, she carried him up the stairs to a bed in one of the spare rooms.

The boy was barely able to focus, certainly incapable of taking his own clothes off, so the two women managed it between them then pushed him under the blankets, where he lay, pale-faced, looking very sorry for himself. "I was sick on your doorstep, Mrs. Kent. Do forgive me."

"Don't ask my forgiveness. Ask Polly's since she is no doubt cleaning it up at this moment." Then she had an idea. Perhaps this was a fortuitous event rather than the inconvenient one for which she'd first mistaken it. She gathered the young man's clothes and took them down to the scullery. Polly was just pouring coffee for the midnight arrival, setting it on a tray with some bread and cheese to help soak up the alcohol.

"I'll wash those clothes ma'am," the little maid said briskly, rolling up her sleeves. "The coffee is ready for young Master Lackawit."

Dru laughed. "Why don't you take it up to him? Leave the laundry to me. Go and sit with Nicholas and look after him. Stay with him in case he's sick again. Take a basin."

Polly obeyed. Dru left his clothes soaking in the scullery and went back to the man in her bed.

"Who was that at this time of night?" he demanded. He had evidently been prying through her dresser drawers. Guilt was all over his handsome face as he spun around and put his hands behind his back when she entered the room. Good thing she kept that pocket watch well hidden.

"Your son. Nicholas suspects we're having an affair so he came to find out."

"Good lord!" He sank to the bed, head bowed. "Was it that obvious tonight?"

"Apparently. But we're not having an affair are we?"

He raised his gaze to her face. "Aren't we?"

"Of course not." The more she said it the easier it would be to convince herself that this was nothing but a very brief dalliance. He was going away again soon and she was never the type to pine. "He is drunk, I'm afraid. Don't worry. He's in very good hands."

"Good hands?" He was wary.

Dru took him to the wall, lifted down a framed oval silhouette and looked through the peephole into the next room. Nicholas was on the bed, Polly leaning over him to wash his face. With the oil lamp behind her, the simple white nightgown the maid wore was almost completely transparent and young Master Wilder was evidently enjoying the view. As the girl bent over him, Nicholas raised his hand to cup her round breast in his palm and to Dru's surprise Polly did not push him away. She blushed a little, but licked her lips and leaned further. 

"Let me see," Brandon whispered behind her, so she stood aside and let him look through the peephole.

"Your son will be well taken care of," she said softly.

After a few more moments he returned to the bed and she replaced the picture on its hook

"I'll take him home in the morning," he muttered. "Wouldn't want grandmama to see him in a state."

She strolled to the bed. "What did you take from my dresser drawers, Mr. Wilder?"

Slowly he drew his arms from behind his back and showed her a carved wooden box. He lifted the lid. Inside were all manner of silver and gold items. She didn't need to look, for she knew what it contained of course. Various trinkets she'd removed over the years from folk who would never miss them. Untended pockets were a dreadful temptation and she simply couldn't shake it off. It was, she supposed, a remnant from her days living on the streets as a child. Every opportunity must be taken, every dropped coin should be picked up.

Some pieces she pawned when money was tight. Other things she kept in the box, enjoying the knowledge that they were there. Security—like the little notebook of names.

"You're quite a magpie, Mrs. Kent," he said, sounding amused.

She snatched the box out of his hands and snapped the lid shut. "These are lost items."

"Lost and found apparently," came the dry reply.

Drusilla returned the box to her dresser, but it was not the only thing he'd taken out. When she faced him again he had something else in his hands. A slender wooden paddle wrapped in black leather with a string of beads at one end and shiny blue black feathers at the other. "What the devil is this?" he demanded.

She raised an eyebrow. "I would have imagined you'd seen it all."

"Not quite." He grinned. "You're something unusual."

She took the paddle out of his hands. "So are you."

"So what is it?"

She drew the feathered end slowly down the side of his face, his neck and then his chest. His shaft was already half erect by the time she reached it. "Turn over. On your knees."

Brandon obeyed with remarkable readiness for a man of his size, she mused. Evidently he was a keen adventurer, quite fearless. With one flick of the paddle she left his right buttock pink but he barely flinched. She treated the other cheek to the same and heard a hitch in his breathing. Now with the feathered end she tickled his heavy sac where it hung between his legs.  Twice more she repeated the action, paddling harder each time until his skin blushed and his balls drew up tight, then she reached under his groin and felt the stiffened penis arching toward his belly. Carefully she stroked it with the feather, from root to tip, over and over, watching his expression—the darkening eyes, flared nostrils, thinned lips. He held out longer than many would, trying to impress her it seemed.

Once more she paddled his buttocks and teased his bags until he groaned, sitting back on his haunches, grabbing her wrist. She stilled, holding the paddle, calmly assessing his proud erection.

"Now the client must be leashed," she said.

"Leashed?" he snapped, the word catapulted from his taut tongue.

She took the string of beads at the other end of the instrument and tied it around the wide base of his cock. Gently she tugged until he was off the bed. In this manner Dru led him around the bedroom, occasionally pausing to use the feathers again or paddle his thighs, tickling his crimson cockhead until it was the size of a ripened, juicy plum.

"If the client wishes," she said, "I will lead him—masked— around the house, visiting other rooms, parading him about by his leash."

"I see," he managed huskily as she tugged him forward again. "Some men like to show off."

"Or be humiliated." She chuckled. "Not all gentleman are built like you. You are a...very big boy."

His eyes met hers and he too laughed. "Get this thing off me."

"Really Mr. Wilder! Where are your manners?" She tapped his package with the leather wrapped paddle. "You must say,
please, madam
."

He rubbed his jaw with one hand and studied her thoughtfully. "Please, madam." And when he said it she knew he'd never said please to a woman in his life. Not his adult life, in any case. He shook his head, seemingly bemused.

With long, steady fingers she untied the beaded string. "Good boy."

Hardly had the words left her lips than he tumbled her back onto the bed and the paddle fell to the carpet. "I'll show you just how
good
this big boy can be, madam," he whispered.

Eleven in the Morning

December 1st

Polly had sat with Nicholas all night. Martha had offered to take over after a few hours, but the maid was enjoying her duties by then. She told her mistress how she'd wiped the young man's face and fed him coffee, plumped his pillows and combed his hair. Even told him stories, the way her father once did to her.

"I am impressed Polly. You made quite the nurse."

"He fell asleep before dawn and I stayed with him, in case he woke and didn't know where he was."

"That was very kind of you. Very thoughtful."

"He's really just a boy, ma'am. He's alright. I think he's sad inside. Lonely even."

"I daresay you're right." She studied the maid's face and then said, "Did he try his luck with you?"

"No... ma'am."

"He didn't make a nuisance of himself?"

"Oh, no. Not at all." The little maid swallowed and then began to hum her tune somewhat sleepily, getting the notes in a muddle.

Dru sent Polly to bed for her own rest and took a bathrobe in for Master Nicholas. It was really time he got up, but the boy still slept, his head turned on the pillow, looking deceptively innocent. She laid the bathrobe over the foot of the bed, opened the window to let in some fresh air and left the room quietly.

Brandon was on the landing, dressed and waiting. "How is he?"

"Oh, he'll live. Certainly cleaned out his system last night. I'm sure he'll feel like a new man later."

He followed her down the stairs and into the parlor. "You and I should talk, Drusilla."

"Really? What about?"

Martha had brought some pine branches, holly and mistletoe in from the garden at her request, but they were dropped into a vase without much care for arrangement, so Dru put her attention to that.

"I've decided to stay in England." He cleared his throat behind her. "For the foreseeable future in any case."

"Gracious. Aren't we honored."

"I should like you and I to spend more time together."

She walked around the table to face him, her hands still busy with the arrangement of branches. "I don't think so, Mr. Wilder."

His frown should have wilted the evergreen boughs in her winter's bouquet. "Why not?"

"I don't care for another involvement of that nature with someone of your sort." She'd had it once with her lover, the Earl. It was fine for a while. He'd given her some lovely jewels, as well as the money that helped purchase the house, but they were never equals and she was always conscious of her role in his life, the shadowy place she must take, out of sight, never openly acknowledged. A dirty secret.

At any moment he could have grown bored with her, cast her aside, found another mistress—younger, prettier, stupider.

"An involvement of what nature?" he demanded.

"Of you and I meeting once or twice a week. In secret. Spending a few hours together, when the stars align. Of being expected to preserve myself for you so that I spend ninety percent of my time alone in a pretty gown, waiting for the doorbell or a hasty note. Not knowing whether you will come. Never being allowed to ask anything about the rest of your life when you do come. Worrying about a grey hair or a line by my eye or getting fat, because then I can be pushed aside without ceremony and have no-one." She paused for breath, surprised to find so much anger inside her. "That sort of involvement."

He nodded slowly. "I see."

"Good. Then let's not speak of it again. Your son will be up shortly and—"

"He's not my son."

It had come out of him so quietly she was sure she'd misheard. "Pardon?"

Brandon walked to the fireplace and stared into the black grate where coal and kindling wood waited to be lit. "Nicholas is not my son. No one knows, except his mother and I. And Elinor Charming." He paused. "And now you."