Lords Of Desire Part 39

"Of course," she murmured. "I should not have presumed-"

"Pray, forgive me, Miss Smyth." d.a.m.n it. Why had he spoken so sharply? It was a legitimate question, he realized, and she deserved an answer.

"Christobel," she corrected. "Please."

He nodded, rubbing his chin. "Christobel, then. I was a boy, no more than ten or eleven at the time, and-"

"Don't," she interrupted. "You've no need to speak of it if it makes you uncomfortable."

"My mother sent me around to some of the workers' homes to deliver baskets of fruit," he continued, not heeding her protestation. Suddenly he wanted to tell her; needed to. "Fruit was scarce, you see, and rickets common in the poorer homes. As I was just about to knock upon a door, I heard a baby wailing, a woman screaming, crockery breaking. For some stupid reason, I pushed open the door. Inside, I found one of my father's foremen laying a horsewhip upon his cowering wife, a baby crying in the cradle. The man reeked of spirits; the entire house stunk of it.

"Like a fool, I charged in, taking on a man twice my size. I was no match for him, of course. He flayed open the skin on my arms, broke my leg in three places. I was lucky to get out of there alive."

The color drained from her face. "Dear G.o.d! That's dreadful. I hope he paid for his crime."

"Two years in jail. Not six months after his release, he killed his wife. An accident, he claimed, but I knew it was a lie. I'd seen the hate in his eyes. Less than a year later, he took his own life, the cowardly lout."

"Good riddance," Christobel said hotly.

"Anyway, to answer your question, my leg never healed properly. I've been lame ever since."

She took two steps toward him, closing the gap. "It's a badge of honor, then. You should be proud. You were brave and righteous and-"

"Foolish," he supplied with a wince. "Had I not been in such bad shape, my father would have taken a whip to me himself."

She tipped her chin in the air, the same defiant pose he'd seen her strike so many times over the past few days. "Then he would be the fool, not you."

Two more tentative steps. Another two, perhaps three, and she would be an arm's reach away. If she came any closer, he'd have no choice but to take her in his arms. Devil take it, he'd ravish her, right here, right now, given an ounce of encouragement.

"Cousin John?" she said breathlessly, moving on silent feet to stand directly before him.

"Just 'John.' We're no blood relation." As his c.o.c.k swelled painfully against his trousers, all rational thought fled his mind. Call him base, call him coa.r.s.e and ungentlemanly, but he was suddenly consumed with the idea of getting her naked. Now.

Christobel's tongue darted out to moisten her lips. "No, we're not blood relations, are we?" She was close now; so close he could smell her sweet scent. "Dear G.o.d, I...I want..." She trailed off, shaking her head, confusion playing out upon her features.

"You want what?" he urged, reaching for her hand and drawing her closer still. His heart pounded against his ribs; his blood roared through his veins. "Say it, Christobel." Want me, his mind urged silently. Want me, as I want you.

She was so close now that her b.r.e.a.s.t.s grazed his coat. Summoning every ounce of strength he possessed, he released her hand and balled his own into fists by his sides. He could not touch her till he knew her mind, till he had her permission. Naked, his mind screamed. G.o.d help him, but he wanted her naked. How many years had he imagined her naked, lying on his bed, her glorious hair spread out around her.

"John, I..."

He closed his eyes, waiting for more, steeling himself for disappointment. He felt a rush of air and opened his eyes, only to find her moving quickly across the room, away from him, toward the door. Good G.o.d, he was going to die of s.e.xual frustration, right then and there. She didn't want him, she was leaving, she was- Locking the door. The heavy bolt slid into place with a squeal of protesting metal.

That was all the encouragement he needed. He met her halfway, lifting her off her feet and carrying her toward the room's darkest corner, away from the windows. As soon as he set her back on her feet, their lips met, hot and hungry. He pressed her back against the wall as her hands moved over his chest, tugging at his coat. He shrugged out of it, dropping it to the dusty floor without care.

"Please, John," she murmured, tearing her mouth from his. "Please. Now."

d.a.m.n it to h.e.l.l, but he was going to oblige her, before she changed her mind. He found the fastening on her belt and tugged it free, then pulled her blouse from her skirt's waistband. Seconds later, his hands slid up her belly, over her corset and whatever undergarments she wore, cursing them all the while.

When his fingers reached the top of her corset, he felt skin at last-skin as smooth and satiny as the finest silk. With a groan, he tugged at the coa.r.s.e fabric of her corset, dragging it downward, ripping seams as he did so. At last his fingers found his prize, her nipples pebbling to his touch.

He heard her gasp at the intimate contact. "Oh, G.o.d, John...what...oh!"

Without thinking, he raised her blouse, fighting with the fabric as his tongue captured one firm, rosy peak. With a soft moan, she arched against him as he suckled her, his hands cupping her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They were round and full, exactly as he'd imagined them all these years. Perfect.

Devil take it, she was exquisite. He was going to spill his seed right then and there if he kept on. A growl of frustration tore from his throat as he forced himself to retreat.

But soon her fingers were unb.u.t.toning his waistcoat, then moving on to his shirt and cravat. He stood, motionless, allowing her to undress him, barely able to believe it. At last his shirt was open, his waistcoat and cravat tossed carelessly aside.

"You're beautiful," she said breathlessly. "Like...like the finest sculpture." Her fingers trailed up his torso, drawing gooseflesh in their wake.

Christobel let out her breath in a rush, unable to believe how perfect, how sculpted his chest was. Never had she imagined...She let the thought trail off. She couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but reach for his trousers with trembling fingers. Dear lord, but she'd never wanted anything this badly. Her entire body ached with it-her legs trembled violently, her thighs were damp with need. She fumbled with his trousers, silently urging him to complete the task.

Mercifully, he did. Next thing she knew, he was reaching beneath her skirts, tugging down her drawers. Silently, she said a prayer of thanks that she'd decided to don plain drawers that day rather than her ungainly combination. She heard John curse under his breath as he fought with her skirts, finally bunching them up around her waist as he pressed her back against the wall. Instinctively, she raised one leg and wrapped it around his hips.

"Have you any idea how long I've wanted this, Christobel?" he asked, his voice so filled with need that her heart accelerated dangerously, thumping noisily against her rib cage. "How I've dreamt of this?"

"Now!" she urged breathlessly. "Please."

His eyes met hers-his gaze steady and unblinking, full of heat and l.u.s.t and wanting. "I don't want to hurt you," he said gruffly.

"Then do it quickly!" she said, unable to stand the wait a second longer.

She felt the tip of him, tentatively probing her entrance. Soft and silky, yet hard and insistent all at once. In one sharp motion, he plunged inside, clutching her b.u.t.tocks hard as he buried his face in her neck. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to cry out.

"Oh, G.o.d, Christobel," he ground out. "I can't...I can't stop."

"Don't, John. Don't stop." The pain was exquisite, sharp and burning, yet it began to subside almost as quickly as it had appeared. She felt herself stretch as he filled her, inch by glorious inch.

Tilting her hips, she urged him on, urged him into a rhythm, one she quickly matched, thrust for thrust. She felt wild, wicked, wanton. Wonderful.

"Your cunny's so tight, so wet," he murmured, his lips hot against her neck.

Heaven help her, she'd never heard such coa.r.s.e words spoken aloud. She knew she should be shocked-outraged, even. And yet...and yet she'd never heard anything so erotic, so sinfully arousing.

"Look at me, John," she demanded, suddenly desperate to see his face, to look into those piercing eyes, so full of longing, while he said such wicked things to her.

His gaze rose to meet hers, their lips just inches apart, their heavy breaths mingling as their bodies moved as one. His eyes were heavy-lidded, the pupils nearly fully dilated. "You're so very lovely, Christobel. Christ," he swore, the corded muscles in his neck standing out.

She ran her fingers through his hair, damp now from perspiration. Sighing with pleasure, she trailed a finger down his temple, across his whiskers, over the curve of his lips. Into his mouth her finger dipped, and soon he was sucking it, sucking her finger with a firm pressure that made her gasp, her entire body beginning to buck against his as the speed of his thrusts increased. Nothing had prepared her for this-this overload of pleasure, this complete and total surrender of her senses.

At once, everything began to quiver inside her, to tingle as she hovered over some unknown precipice, just waiting to tumble over into...something. "Good G.o.d, John, harder. Oh!" She bit her lip till she tasted blood.

And then everything seemed to explode, pinpoints of light nearly blinding her as she closed her eyes in ecstasy, her insides pulsing against his shaft, which was still buried deep inside her.

He called out her name, his voice breaking on the last syllable as he roughly withdrew himself and pressed his still-erect organ against her. A hot, sticky wetness pumped out onto her thigh, warming her bare skin as she attempted to catch her breath.

"Oh, John," she murmured, wanting to cry as a vast emptiness tore through her. Oh, how she wanted him back inside her, wanted him to hold her in his arms until she stopped trembling.

Grasping her chin with his thumb and forefinger, he raised her face, forcing her gaze to meet his. "Christobel, I"-he swallowed hard, and all she could think was that if he apologized, she would scream.

And then she heard a peal of laughter, coming from outside. "Shall we try in here?" a voice called out.

Edith.

"Dear G.o.d, no!" she whispered, shoving down her skirts and attempting to tug up her drawers, all at once.

Any moment now, Edith would discover them. And when she did...

No. It was simply unthinkable.

CHAPTER 7.

The next moments were a blur of frenzied activity as both John and Christobel set about righting their clothing. Any moment now, Edith would be at the door-the locked door. However would they explain it?

Not a minute later, the door rattled loudly. "It's locked," she heard Edith say. "Can you look through the window there?"

Christobel shrank back against the wall, John beside her, his breath coming as fast as hers. Please, G.o.d, don't let us be discovered. Not like this.

Not two years past, her sister Miriam had been caught in a compromising position with a young army officer. Miriam had married him straightaway, though the gossip had taken months to die down. At the time, Christobel's mother had begged her to never put her in such an embarra.s.sing situation as Miriam had, and Christobel had been indignant. She would never do anything of the sort, she'd sworn. And now here she was, breaking her promise in the worst way possible. Why, this would be the scandal of the year!

"There's no one inside," Jasper called out. "Come on, let's keep searching."

Had Jasper seen them? She couldn't be sure. Her eyes began to fill with tears, but she willed them to remain at bay.

John reached for her hand. "I'm so sorry, Christobel," he said, his voice soft and gentle.

She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. "Don't apologize. Just don't...don't say anything."

"They're gone now. Follow me out, and we'll make our way back around the pond. We can claim we were hiding in the grove and grew tired of the game."

"But the grove's out of bounds," she said, her throat constricting uncomfortably. Blast it, if only her heart would slow down. It felt like it was about to burst.

"Better out of bounds than admitting we were here."

"Of course," she said with a nod. "You're right. I...I don't know what I was thinking."

"Follow me." He reached for her hand. "And don't say a word."

"I'm sorry, Sir Edmund," Christobel said brightly. "You were saying?" She set her winegla.s.s down on the table, horrified to see that her hand shook as she did so.

"I was just saying that you haven't touched a bite of your supper. Are you feeling unwell?"

Ever since both Miss Allens had come down with a touch of la grippe, everyone worried over the slightest digestive twinge, though Beatrice and Grace seemed entirely recovered. In fact, Beatrice sat on the opposite side of Sir Edmund now, as vivacious as ever.

Christobel had done everything possible to direct the man's attention toward Beatrice rather than herself throughout the interminable meal, with very little success. It would seem that Sir Edmund would not be deterred on his mission to flatter her as excessively as possible, the ninny.

Could he not take a hint?

"I'm feeling perfectly well, thank you." She pushed away her plate of champagne-and-primrose jelly, forcing her lips to curve into a smile. "I vow, I must have overindulged in tea cakes this afternoon. I suppose they ruined my appet.i.te."

"But not your figure," he answered cheerfully. "It remains as lovely as ever."

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she retrieved her winegla.s.s and took a sip of the scarlet-colored liquid. It took an amazing amount of restraint to keep from tossing back the entire contents of the gla.s.s at once. I'd like to be tipsy, she thought. So tipsy that I cannot think or feel or remember.

John sat mere inches away, on her left. He'd spent most of the meal engaged in quiet conversation with Miss Bartlett, who sat to his left, looking lovely in a gauzy, soft mauve gown.

Christobel's mouth went suddenly dry. She took yet another sip of sweet wine, wishing beyond hope that it would soothe her nerves.

"May I pour you some more?" Sir Edmund asked, reaching for the cut-gla.s.s decanter that sat before them.

She examined her gla.s.s, surprised to find it almost empty. She'd need more, if she were to get through this night-thankfully the last night of Edith's party.

"Yes, thank you," she said, pushing the gla.s.s toward him.

"You must come and visit us at Longberry, Miss Smyth," he said as he poured. "You and Mrs. Smyth both. My sister Josephine acts as my hostess, and she'd delight in your company."

"Longberry?" Her tongue felt strangely thick in her mouth.

"Indeed. My estate in Kent, near Tunbridge Wells. It's particularly lovely in the springtime-rolling green pastures carpeted with bluebells, the magnolias coming into flower, wisteria climbing the back of the house. If Kent is the Garden of England, then Longberry is its crown jewel. You simply must see it."

"It does sound charming," she murmured.

"I believe you'd feel right at home there, Miss Smyth," he said, a bit too pointedly.

Christobel took another sip of wine. He was waiting for a response, no doubt, but she could think of nothing to say that would not offer encouragement.

Mercifully, Beatrice asked him a question about his gardens, temporarily diverting his attention. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she placed her hands in her lap, twisting her napkin between her fingers. Every fiber of her being was painfully aware of John's presence there beside her. For perhaps, oh, the tenth time in the past hour, the sleeve of his coat brushed her bare arm, sending shivers down her spine.

If anyone knew...if anyone found out what they'd done, she'd be ruined. Ruined. However could she have been so foolish? No one knows, she a.s.sured herself. Just as they'd planned, they'd left the old mill and made their way around the pond, and then back to the house. They'd been scolded for abandoning the game, but if anyone had noticed anything was amiss, they gave no indication of it, not even Edith.

And now she was forced to sit, hurting in places she'd never before hurt, and make polite conversation with Sir Edmund while her stomach pitched queerly and her whole body ached for the other man beside her, who was seemingly oblivious to her presence-a fact that bothered her far more than she liked to admit.

Beneath the table she clutched her skirts, wishing desperately to stop her hands from trembling so.

And then she felt it-a finger, not her own, grazing her thigh. John's hand, searching for hers. She swallowed hard, ordering her features to remain impa.s.sive as he stroked her wrist with featherlight touches. His skin was hot, his own fingers trembling as he laced them with hers.

Her body responded intuitively, dampening her drawers with need. She trained her gaze on the plate changer before her, refusing to turn toward him though she was exquisitely aware of him watching her with a sidelong, furtive glance.

Oh, how she wanted him! She knew it was wrong-dangerous, even. And yet she could not help herself. The events of the day had changed her irrevocably and nothing in her life would ever be the same again.