Romancing Lady Cecily (5 page)

He smiled and leaned down, kissed her once more. “Every day for the rest of our lives, my love.”

Chapter 6

The note arrived as he finished preparing for dinner. Though his name was written in her script it held no scent, which he knew after lifting it to his nose, seeking another hint of her.

August turned the envelope over, carefully pried the edges open with his fingers. He drew out a thick white card, the elegant black writing containing a short missive, nothing more than:

Meet me in my bedchamber.

—C

Though the location and the signed initial were different, the message was more than familiar, an echo of the same he had sent to her repeatedly over the past two years.

His wife had summoned him to a rendezvous.

Casting off the cravat his valet had just perfected, August dismissed the servant and strode to the connecting door between their chambers, her note in his hand.

He didn't knock, but entered quietly, his body already hardening. Is this how she'd felt when he sent for her? Her blood thickening with arousal, her heart speeding in anticipation? No wonder she hadn't been able to refuse him; simply the thought of her waiting for him, knowing she wanted him, was enough to tear away any pride that might have kept him from her side.

Of course, where Cecily was concerned, he'd long ago surrendered his pride. With her there was only need.

Although he made no noise as he entered her bedchamber, nothing to alert her of his presence, she was nowhere to be found. Not on the bed—the first place he looked—nor waiting for him before the fire.

“Cecily?”

A soft, smooth hand touched the back of his neck. “Don't turn around,” she ordered, her voice low, each of the four syllables spoken in the seductive tone of a temptress.

Black cloth descended over his vision, and he felt her fingers brush in his hair as she tied the ends at the back of his head.

He knew by the stirring of air that she moved to stand before him, by the silken strands of her hair sliding across his skin as he stretched out his hands that apparently she'd never meant to go downstairs to dinner.

He took a deep breath, aware of his own impatience now, when he'd been eternally patient as the seducer.

“Hullo, kitten,” she said.

August laughed, but the sound was uneven, uncertain. Even he could hear the need in his voice. “Perhaps you should try another name,” he suggested.

“You're right, of course. Kitten is too tame for you.”

Her fingers descended upon his shoulders, then dragged downward, pulling sensation from every pore hidden beneath his clothes. “Am I the tame one, my lord? Is that why you gave me that name?”

His breath hissed out as she untucked his shirt from his trousers.

“Hardly tame. As I mentioned once before, even kittens have claws.”

“Hmm. I suppose they do, don't they?” Her fingernails scraped low on his abdomen, scoring him lightly. They passed over the front of his trousers, little lines of pleasure pressing through the thick cloth.

“Is this a proper seduction, my lord? Am I doing this correctly?” The placket of his trousers came undone, the waist loosening. She tugged them down.

August reached out, needing to touch her, to feel her, but she calmly took his hands and returned them to his sides.

“My lord? You haven't yet answered me.”

She took him in hand.

“Yes.” He pushed into her touch, gritted his teeth as her palm moved over him. Had she also felt powerless like this, helpless as he'd determined each move to be made, as he'd dictated how much control he would give her?

No, she could never have felt as helplessly thrilled as he did right now, unable to do anything but let her have her way with him.

The moment her tongue touched his tip, he thought he would spill himself. Every muscle clenched as he sought restraint. And though he tried to keep his hands at his side as she wished, he couldn't help it as his fingers sank into her hair in wordless encouragement.

Then she drew away, her head tilting upward beneath his hands.

“Perhaps I should stop,” she said.

“No—why?” he asked. God, but he was close to begging her. Behind the blindfold he closed his eyes, swallowed. She was silent, the only proof that she remained in the room the feel of her hair beneath his fingers.

“Please,” he said, careless that he begged, careless that the word came out hoarse and raw. How many times had he tortured her when she would have kept silent? He'd forced her to moan her acquiescence, forced her to plead in sighs and whimpers and wordless noises of pleasure. “Cecily.” He groaned her name.

Her hand wrapped around him again, her fingers small yet tight at the base of his cock. “Perhaps this is what you want,” she said. An exact echo of the phrase he'd used with her. She slid her lips over his tip, lightly sucking. “Or this.” His entire length slid inside her mouth.

He arched against her. A moan issued from his lips without thought. If he were worthy of her, he would have stepped back and ripped off the blindfold, carried her to the bed and pleasured her until she was the one moaning and screaming, until she begged him for release.

But he was selfish. Too weak with want to think of anything but her hands and her lips on him, his cock swelling even further inside her mouth.

When she began to withdraw again, he begged. “Please, Cecily.” The blank slate of his vision swam with colors as she obliged with the tight circle of her fingers and the hot, velvet wet cup of her tongue.

A wild cry broke his throat as he spilled himself inside her mouth, his legs shaking as he held her head in place and bucked his hips. She didn't try to move away but tightened her grip, swallowing as he came.

When he was done he stood over her, his mind empty of anything but the thought of her. He removed the blindfold, then moved his hands from her head to her shoulders, dragged her upward and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

“Why?” he asked her, kissing first her cheeks, her forehead, her chin.

She shrugged, her mouth curving. “I wanted to give you pleasure.”

“I am always pleased with you.”

“Then I lied.”

He tipped her chin up. “The true reason, my love.”

“I wanted to know that I'm not the only weak one. I wanted to see if you would give me control.”

He laughed, a shaken sound. “Then we are each weak and without control, for every time I look at you I feel helpless. Each time we kiss my chest aches, and I despise each moment you're away from me.” He stroked a finger down her cheek, laid his forehead against hers. “I believe, kitten, that I am simply, unbearably, in love with you.”

She sighed and closed her eyes. “And I you.”

August cleared his throat. “I would like you to know, however, that should you ever feel weak again, please feel free to arrange another tryst as you like. I would be happy to oblige you.”

“Perhaps after dinner, then,” she said, looking at him through her lashes.

“Agreed.” And he captured her smile on his lips.

What happened to Lady Cecily's friend Angela?

Read on for a preview of the next riveting Victorian romance from

Ashley March

ROMANCING THE COUNTESS

“From the first page,
Romancing the Countess
captivated me with a smart heroine, a sexy, brooding hero, and a sophisticated romance that vibrates with sexual tension.”—
New York Times
bestselling author Elizabeth Hoyt

 

London, April 1849

As on most every other night, Leah lay in the center of the bed and watched the shadows cast from the firelight flicker across the canopy. The steady lash of rain and wind rattled the windows in their cases, a buffer against the usual silence.

Lightning flashed through the room, and her breath caught as she stared at the illumination of silver-threaded flowers overhead. Even if the bedchamber had been suffused in darkness, she still could have recited each detail of the bed's rococo-style construction. The fluted mahogany posts with their serpentine cornices. The shallow frieze of interwoven palmettes and draperies of lush, midnight velvet. The feet fashioned as lion heads below and the domed canopy above. When the lightning came again, Leah measured her breath, anticipating the accompanying growl of thunder.

She imagined the women who had come before her: her husband's mother, his grandmother. Had they, too, stared at the canopy so long that they began to dream of its embroidered ribbons and flower garlands, of shimmering, silvery threads and roses turned black by the shadows? Had hours and hours passed until they imagined they could see each impeccable stitch, counting them only to forget the number when a sound downstairs erupted from the silence, startling them into awareness?

With her heart pounding, Leah waited for the sound to transform into footsteps up the stairs, to distinguish themselves into Ian's steady, swaggering gait. How foolish she'd once been to admire the way he walked—to admire his easy grin, the golden shine of his sun-swept hair . . . anything about him. And how even greater a fool she was now to dread his arrival into her bedchamber, when she knew he would easily accept her plea of a headache. He might even be glad for the reprieve.

Still, as the echo of footsteps climbed within her hearing, she remained in the center of the bed. Neither on the left nor the right, but rigidly in the middle, as if the few feet on either side could serve to sufficiently delay the moment when he leaned across her and began stroking her breasts in solicitous, husbandly regard. He could have spared her that, at least.

Leah's breath hitched at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. Then, slowly, she sighed with relief. It wasn't her husband. These footsteps were too hasty, the stride too short. Her gaze retreated from the door to the canopy overhead, her fingers released their stranglehold on the counterpane, and she began counting the stitches again.

One, two, three, four . . .

“Madam?”

Leah's gaze stumbled over the width of the ribbon and flew toward the direction of the housekeeper's voice.

“Mrs. George? I apologize for disturbing you . . .”

“No, no. Not at all,” Leah called. Tearing the covers aside, she hurried across the room. Anything to leave the bed. She had already opened the hallway door and raised her arm to invite Mrs. Kemble inside when she froze, arrested by the housekeeper's expression. Gone was the woman's usual implacable cheerfulness; in its place was a face worn with time, each wrinkle sagging with the weight of her age. Her brows were lowered, her teeth buried in her upper lip, and the hands clasped at the front of her waist trembled as she met Leah's eyes.

“I'm sorry, madam. There's . . . there's been an accident.”

Leah blinked. The housekeeper's mouth seemed to be moving at an extraordinarily slow pace, as if each syllable struggled to escape. “An accident?” she repeated. And somehow, simply by saying the words, she knew that he was gone.

“Yes, Mr. George . . .”

They stared at each other for what seemed an impossibly long time, until Leah was certain she could have counted at least a hundred canopy stitches.

Finally, she forced the words out. Not as a question, but a blunt, sure statement. “He's dead.”

Mrs. Kemble nodded, her chin quivering. “Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. If there is anything—”

Gone.
Ian, her husband, was dead. Never again would she lie awake at night, waiting for him to return from his lover's arms. Never again would she listen for his footsteps or count the stitching or bear his tortuous, sensual lovemaking.

He was gone.

And Leah, who had vowed never to cry for him again, sank to her knees, her hands clutched in the housekeeper's skirt, and wept.

“Rook to queen. Check.”

Sebastian nodded and considered the whimsical dance of the fire's shadows as they played across what little remained of his ivory army. He slid a lonely pawn forward.

His brother uttered a low oath and planted his bishop near Sebastian's king. “Checkmate. Damnation, Seb, that's four in a row. Do you even realize you're losing?”

Lifting his gaze from the chessboard, Sebastian raised an idle brow. “Yes. And I thought you'd be happy.”

James swept aside the pieces and began arranging them anew. “I'd be happy if you found a new role. Something other than heartsick lover. At least condescend enough to pretend to notice my presence. It's only been half a day.”

“Fourteen hours.” Sebastian rolled the ivory queen between his thumb and forefinger.

Precisely fourteen hours had passed since Angela left for their country estate in Hampshire, but already he was going mad without her. In three years of marriage, they'd spent only a few nights apart. Even though their lovemaking had been sporadic since she'd taken ill in the autumn, he was still accustomed to their usual domestic routine: sitting before the fire together as she brushed her hair, discussing the day's events. If she didn't feel well, a kiss good night before they separated for their individual bedchambers.

James paused in the act of replacing the last ebony piece. “Fourteen hours . . . And I suppose you also know exactly how many minutes and seconds?”

With a small smile, Sebastian settled his queen upon her square and refused the urge to glance at the mantel clock over the sitting room hearth. Instead, his fingers reached below to the note he'd tucked away in the chair's crevice. There was no need to unfold it; he'd already read the words a dozen times, enough to memorize the few short sentences she'd written.

If he breathed deeply enough, he imagined he could smell her perfume rising from the well-worn paper, the same blended scent she used for her bath.

Lavender and vanilla.

Memories wrapped around him, warm and soothing and arousing. It had been a long time since Angela had allowed him to watch her bathe, but still he could remember the heady scent of lavender and vanilla upon her naked skin, the slosh of the bath water over the sides of the tub as she bucked beneath his touch.

The corner of the note twisted between his fingers.

James nudged the first pawn into play. “I know you have Parliamentary duties to attend to, but surely they would understand if you made it a priority to see to your wife's health first.”

“They'll have to.” Sebastian led his own pawn out. “I'm traveling to Hampshire in a week, whether the bill's resolved or not.”

One week. Compared to fourteen hours, it seemed a hellish eternity.

Still, he looked forward to surprising Angela; she wasn't expecting him to arrive with their son for at least a fortnight. He might bring her a gift as well, perhaps a little house spaniel to keep her company when the weather forced her to remain indoors. Something to cheer her, to keep her from her melancholy. Regardless of how much he tried to attend to her, she seemed so lonely at times.

Her health had never been the same after Henry's birth, but recently she'd become more and more withdrawn. She continued to act the role of generous hostess while they were in Town, smiling and flirting as usual, but privately he could tell the London air was making matters worse. Sebastian could see it in her eyes when she looked at him. In the way the lightest touch of his fingers sometimes made her flinch, as if her skin was too fragile.

He didn't regret allowing Angela's departure to the countryside, but damned if he could stay away for even a week when she needed him.

Sebastian considered the row of ivory casualties at the side of the board, pieces fallen beneath James' advance. He moved his queen's bishop to counter James' rook. For the first time that evening, he actually felt like making an effort to win. “Make that three days instead.”

James glanced up with a knowing look. “The night's young yet. I'm sure given a few more hours you'll be calling for the coach.”

A crash of thunder outside echoed the anticipatory clamor of Sebastian's heart. He smiled. “Perhaps,” he murmured, and captured one of James' knights.

The horses would have to ride hard through the storm, but he could very well reach the Wriothesly estate the next afternoon. It would be only a short while after Angela would have arrived, and to think he would be able to see her again so soon . . .

In a matter of minutes, Sebastian managed to eliminate piece after piece of the ebony set, including the king's bishop. “Check.”

James tapped the table. “I seem to recall asking you to pretend to notice me. I never asked you to win.”

Sebastian edged his chair away. “Hurry and make your move.”

“Leaving so soon, are you?” James asked with a grin.

“Yes, damn you, now take my rook so I can—”

A knock sounded at the sitting room door.

“Enter,” Sebastian called, glaring at James as he took his merry time in lifting his queen into the air, then slowly moved it toward the remaining white rook.

“My lord. A message has arrived for you.”

Sebastian gestured absently in the direction of the butler, then, realizing how late it was, lifted his gaze to the doorway with a frown. “Who is it from, Wallace?”

“A Mr. Grigsby, my lord. I beg your pardon. I wouldn't have interrupted your game, but the messenger said it was most urgent.”

“One moment.” Sebastian turned to find his rook gone. With one last move, he shifted his queen across the board to trap James' king. “Checkmate.”

“Yes, it's a great surprise, that one is,” James muttered. Then with a wave of his hand toward the doorway, he added, “At least find what your mysterious message is about before you go.”

“You're very generous as a loser, aren't you?”

With a faint smile at James' retorted oath, Sebastian beckoned for the folded parchment. It was cheap, the material coarse beneath his fingers, and spattered with raindrops. “A Mr. Grigsby, you said?” he asked without looking up.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Hmm.” Unfolding the letter, Sebastian bent it toward the light. He read slowly, his mind distracted by thoughts of Angela.

And then he saw her title.

Lady Wriothesly . . .

He read again, and again, and each time the words refused to coalesce into any meaningful coherence.

. . . identified by crest . . . carriage accident . . . coachman injured, man and woman killed . . . coachman informed . . . Lady Wriothesly . . . Mr. Ian George . . .

The letter began shaking before his eyes. No, his hand was shaking. The letter . . .

He must have said something, because he could hear James calling to him.

Angela was dead. His beautiful, sweet, beloved wife.

And Ian, too. His closest friend.

They were dead. Together.

Fragments of thought collided, then fused into a numbed comprehension. Sebastian stared at the letter, his thumb rubbing the ink until it smeared. He heard James' voice: “Sebastian, what is it?” Then the letter was gone.

And all he could think was:

She hadn't been lonely, after all.