Absolute Pleasure (15 page)

He stormed off. What did she want from him? Had she gone mad? Well, he'd show her! He'd get a bloody mistress; that's what he'd do. A respectful, gracious gentlewoman who could utilize her mourn for some purpose other than spewing sass and impertinence.

In a snit, he trudged down the stairs to his room. Furious, he paced, calming himself to where he wouldn't effect violence on any of his belongings.

The clock downstairs struck two, and he still hadn't had his customary tussle between the sheets. From the day he'd turned fourteen, and his father had surprised him with a proficient whore as a birthday gift, Findley had not retired without emptying his cock beforehand, and he wasn't about to set a trend on this horrid evening.

Mary wouldn't oblige him? Fine. He had a wife in the adjoining chamber who would.

Though he could scarcely tolerate the youngster, he liked fucking her. Just pondering the eventuality predictably made him hard as a rock. This night was no exception. If anything, he was more provoked than usual, his ire at Mary adding an extra edge to his carnal discomfort.

He stripped off his trousers and slippers, then, clad only in his robe, he headed to her room. Charlotte appeared to be asleep, though he couldn't be sure. Occasionally, she feigned slumber, believing it would dissuade him from exercising his privilege, but her pathetic ruse never succeeded. She had to provide routine, intimate favors until she produced the heir she was duty-bound to render.

Nearing the bed, he saw that she really was in a torpor, which irked him. He was being unreasonable, bearing in mind how late it was, but she had strict instructions to wait up for him.

He set his candle on the table, men bent over and shook her. Groggily, she rotated onto her back, her eyes fluttering.

As she struggled to awaken, he watched impassively, removing his robe and climbing in next to her, so that when she was cognizant of what was happening, his naked body was pressed along her side.

"Lord Norwich?" she asked.

"Bloody right! Who were you expecting?" He fumbled around under the covers. "You have your nightgown on."

"I was cold."

She was to attend him in the nude! "Remove it! Now!"

He'd trained her well, and she snatched the hem up past her hips and breasts. He assisted by tugging it over her shoulders and hurling it on the floor, men he stared down at her.

What man would fail to be aroused by beautiful, adolescent Charlotte?

Yet her breasts were too small for his taste; he liked buxom women, and her underdeveloped, slender physique made it seem as though he was cohabiting with a child— a perversion that had never titillated him as it did some other men.

Her distaste for the act accentuated their marital discord, for in spite of how he scolded, urged, or explained, she wouldn't participate. However, her aversion to coitus had an upside: She was so tense and inflexible that she never relaxed, so fucking her was like having a virgin over and over.

Surely, there was some excitement to be had from such a contingency!

He covered her resistant, immature body with his large, much older one, his fingers immediately on her breasts, ferociously kneading the two inadequate mounds.
 
Her nipples were contracted into tiny buds from their sudden exposure to the frigid air, and he suckled and bit, moving back and forth, rooting and nuzzling.

Ordinarily, he tried to be more accommodating, considering her youth and naïveté, but not tonight. He'd had enough abuse from women recently.

He shifted to the side, clutching her hand, and wrapping her ringers around his shaft. "Stroke me," he decreed. "You know what to do; I've given you sufficient instruction." She vacillated and, out of patience, he tweaked her nipple. "Do it."

Hesitantly, she complied with a loose-fisted grip he could barely feel. He gave her a minute or two to redeem herself, and when she didn't, he rose up on his knees, straddling her chest, and he directed his cock to her mourn.

"Lick across it."

"Please don't make me," she pleaded, eyes wide. "I don't like to."

"I don't care. With the mood I'm in ..." He flicked the tip across her pursed lips, cognizant of what a perfect haven he'd come upon once he pried them open. "Kiss it."

She did, just a slight peck, and he was too irritable to press for more.

"Now open up," he commanded, but she refused, staring up at him, fearful and defiant, which only enraged him further. "Suck me inside—this instant!—or I will beat you; then you'll have to do it anyway."

He'd actually had to take a strap to her on a handful of occasions, so she grasped that he was serious. Her lips parted, and he took advantage, propelling himself inside an inch, then another. With a smile of pure triumph, he went to work, having her in the fashion he relished most.

Bracing himself, he carried on with no regard to her plight. Charlotte deemed everything to be unpalatable, so he was beyond worrying about what she thought of the repellent ordeal. Besides, it wasn't as if he finished in her mouth. Though he often required her to go down on him, he'd never ravished her to the end, so he wasn't about to listen to any complaints over her having to submit to a bit of thrusting.

Her imperviousness was a potent aphrodisiac. The more she resisted, the more stimulated he became. At the brink, he scooted down and centered himself between her
legs, yanking her thighs apart, and probing with his cock. She was dry, unwelcoming, and he shoved inside, ignoring her intake of breath, her moan of pain.

He'd never been much of a one for aggression in his lewd endeavors, but currently, the indelicate handling suited him. He'd bestowed more than enough chances for her to acclimate, and he couldn't discern any reason to be obliging when she was so intractable.

Commencing again, he scurried to the brink of fulfillment and jumped off. In a fiery rush, he came, his seed surging out in a powerful wave, and he strove to picture it flooding her, inundating her with little pieces of himself.

Eventually, his pulse slowed, his body relented. Then, his duty done, he crawled off her, got out of the bed, and stuffed his arms into the sleeves of his robe. She was facing the other wall, curled into a ball* and he strutted out, not bothering with a good-bye.

He proceeded to his room, shut the door, and scrambled into his bed, wrenching the covers high against the chill. Peering at the ceiling, he observed the shadows, and attempted to catalog just how he'd arrived at such a sorry, miserable state.

No Mary. At odds, and constantly arguing, with Elizabeth. And incompetent, immature Charlotte to allay his masculine appetites.

"Cold comfort," he muttered. "Cold comfort, indeed."

Chapter Nine

The carriage jingled to a stop, and Elizabeth peered out the window, glad to see that they'd arrived at Gabriel's residence so fleetly. If she'd encountered the slightest delay en route, she might not have survived.

The ghastly note she'd received earlier was tucked into the bodice of her dress, and it crinkled when she moved, vividly reminding her of his ruthless insensitivity. It hadn't even been signed by Gabriel! Apparently, he couldn't be bothered with such a minor detail as breaking her heart His father had penned it for him.

The cruel, impersonal words of regret rang in her head.
So sorry to inform you... No longer able to . ..

Surprisingly, she'd committed them to memory, despite the downward spiral into which they'd flung her. Or perhaps, reading them over a hundred times had done the trick. She'd been so stunned by Gabriel's decision that she'd had to copiously review the content in order for it to make sense.

How could he do this to her? Didn't he grasp how much she anticipated their visits?

She'd never felt so joyous, so excited about the future. Being in his presence gave her confidence; she was maturing, changing, and she wasn't about to revert to the person she'd been before they'd met.

The transformations had occurred rapidly. If she and Gabriel continued on, what would she be like in a month? In six? A year from now, she'd be unrecognizable!

The prospects were frightening and tantalizing.

Fidgety, she shifted on the seat, which made her recall how he'd wreaked physical upheaval on her body. It was killing her.

During the prior, unending night, she'd interminably examined each delicious second of their protracted kissing, and the in-depth analysis had only increased her perturbation. The vivid reminiscence had exacerbated her longing so that, at one particularly desperate point, she'd even massaged her breasts in an effort to calm their strident disquiet, but the naughty palpation had only elevated her turmoil.

In the wee hours of the morning, as she'd paced across the icy floor of her bedchamber, it had dawned on her that Gabriel would comprehend how to remedy her unnatural bodily cravings, so she'd decided to allow him further liberties. She was more than amenable to any depraved conduct so long as he promised mitigation at the conclusion.

Wan, exhausted, grumpy, she'd gone down to breakfast, only to be handed his offensive letter, canceling any subsequent appointments.

How could he recant? She'd thought matters were proceeding nicely, so he was in for a rude awakening. She might seem complacent and accommodating, but she was her father's daughter in many ways, too.

She intended to pursue their affair, so Gabriel was about to witness a side of her that few ever saw, but then, she rarely showed it In her staid, tedious world, there were infrequent reasons to exhibit her stubbornness; it was easier to acquiesce to the wishes of others.

Gabriel was a different circumstance entirely.

The coachman was lowering the step and preparing the door, and she peeked again. No one inside the house appeared to have noted her arrival. She turned to Mary, who occupied the space beside her.

"This may take a while. Won't you come in?"

"No," she said. "You go on."

"You'll catch a chill."

"I'll be fine. I've got the blankets and the warming pads."

"If you're sure."

"I am," she insisted with waning vigor.

Elizabeth hesitated. Mary hadn't seemed to be herself lately, but then, in light of Elizabeth's
own
distraught state, she probably wasn't in any shape to form an opinion. She studied her companion, wondering if she should pry. Mary was a private person, who rarely discussed those incidents by which she was intensely troubled. Still, in the gray of the winter afternoon, she looked ill.

"Are you feeling all right?"

"Yes. Just tired."

"Well, then"—Elizabeth wavered, desperate to depart, but speculating as to whether she should take Mary home and have her put to bed—"I'll try to be quick."

Mary stared at her, then glanced away. "Are you positive you should do this?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"It might be better if Mr. Cristofore
didn't
paint you."

So ... there it was. Mary had never been enthusiastic about Elizabeth's determination to fraternize with the man. "You don't like him, do you?"

"It's not for me to judge."

"Mary," she chided, "tell me what has you so concerned."

"He doesn't have your best interests at heart."

Elizabeth smiled and patted her friend's hand. "I don't have any illusions on that score; he's a bounder, all right"

"Even though you appreciate his failings," she wisely cautioned, "doesn't mean you can't be grievously hurt."

"I won't be."

Mary flashed her a shrewd look that made her feel naive and out of her league, and she wanted to elucidate the forces that were driving her, but she hardly understood her motivations, herself, so she couldn't explain them to someone else.

Lamely, she offered, "I'll hurry."

'Take all the time you need." Mary leaned against the squab and closed her eyes. “I‘m in no rush to return home."

Hmmm ... What an odd statement!

Elizabeth wanted to probe further, but they'd never had a relationship that lent itself to intimate revelations. To delve into Mary's confidential affairs would be the height of discourtesy.

The coachman saved her from a decision by opening the door, and she slipped out as he steadied her on the ground. Vacillating, she stared up at the house and debated whether to bang the knocker, but she had no desire to encounter Mr. Preston, no patience to endure his charming prattle, or to brook his running interference.

She absolutely had to speak with Gabriel, and she couldn't let Mr. Preston prevent her.

Nervous, she walked through the front gate. Off to the left was a stone path that disappeared around the corner and into the backyard where Gabriel's cottage was discreetly hidden. If he was working, he'd be sequestered there.

After mentally deliberating for the barest instant, she pursued the path to the rear of the house. Though it was all manner of folly, she couldn't stop herself. Even her awareness that he might have another woman with him couldn't deter her.

She neared the cottage. Smoke curled from the chimney, and she was heartened, deciding that he had to be inside. Heating materials were extraordinarily expensive, and no one would be so frivolous as to waste them.

Holding her breath, she peeked in the window, sagging with relief that there was no female lounging on the fainting couch. Emboldened, she went to the door and rapped loudly. There was a mumbled male reply, and she entered without waiting for invitation or rebuff.

To her delight, she discovered that he was present and by himself. And hardly dressed!

The room was warm, as he enjoyed it, and he was facing the opposite wall, focused on dozens of sketches he'd tacked up in haphazard rows. She narrowed her eyes, elated to detect that he was perusing the drawings he'd made of her during their two previous sessions.

He wore a pair of tan-colored knee breeches; no shirt, no shoes or stockings, and she curiously scrutinized his mostly naked form. His shoulders were broad, his waist slender, his buttocks and thighs rounded and outlined by the tight pants. His calves were muscled and dusted with dark hair, as were his feet, and she blushed, inanely cognizant that she'd never beheld a man without his footwear.

"Set the tray on the floor, then leave me be," he imperiously pronounced, obviously assuming she was a servant bringing him a belated noon meal.

"Sorry, but I don't come bearing food."

He froze, then he whipped around. His brow furled, and he glared at her as though he didn't recognize her.

"Lady Elizabeth?"

"Hello, Gabriel." As he articulated her title, she kept her smile firmly in place, refusing to let him perceive how the slight hurt, concentrating instead on the marvelous fact that they were alone, and he was magnificent

From the front, he was even more intriguing, with an ample chest that was covered with a thick that of black hair. It tapered to a thin line that vanished into his trousers. The top two buttons were unfastened, providing her with a glimpse of much more
man
than she'd counted on viewing.

Her naughty, inquiring gaze followed that descending trail of hair, wishing a few more buttons were unhooked so that she could better peruse his masculine secrets. They were carefully shrouded—a lump here, a bulge there—and she'd have given anything to see him completely unclothed.

He looked like an angel, albeit a slightly messy one. With a smudge of blue paint on his cheek, chalk on his fingers, he was rumpled and mussed, cute, adorable, but also hardy and vibrant. She tingled with an urge to run her hands across all that visible flesh.

He scowled. "What are you doing here?"

"I had to talk to you." Boldly, she strolled away from the door, as though distance from it would hamper him from tossing her out.

"I'm terribly busy. Didn't you get my note?"

"Yes, your letter was very explicit, but"—she approached until she was next to him, until she could smell the sweat on his skin—"I didn't believe it."

"Why would I lie about something so mundane?"

He was staring at a spot over her shoulder, her proximity inducing him to squirm, which she took as a very good sign. "For some reason, you're trying to get rid of me, when I'm not even certain what I've done or what I—"

"You're no longer welcome here." He curtly cut her off, then whirled away and went to the shelf where his supplies were stacked. "Please go."

"You don't mean that."

"Oh, but I do." He made a great show of rearranging his brushes that were stacked in a jar. "I don't care for drafts; shut the door on your way out."

He'd dismissed her as if she was naught more than a serving maid. He was cold, indifferent, a stranger, and to her horror, tears welled into her eyes.

How could he disregard what had happened between them?

She'd thought that he'd come to like her—at least a little—but perhaps she'd been mistaken. Perhaps after he'd sampled a minuscule amount of the delights she had to render, he had concluded that the meager sum wasn't worth his investment of energy.

The demeaning notion was as alarming as it was depressing. The puddle of tears escalated to a flood, surging so fast that she couldn't contain them, and the wayward drops slid down her cheeks. Mortified, she swiped them away, but there were too many.

Without planning
to,
she sniffled.

"You're crying!"

On stating the obvious, he leapt around and glowered at her with a mixture of dread and aggravation.

"I'm sorry."

"Why are you so upset?"

"Because ..."—she swallowed past the lump clogging her throat—"because I miss you already. I can't abide the thought of never seeing you again. And I... I thought you felt the same,"

If she'd expected a tender rejoinder, he solidly dashed her hopes. "I simply made a business decision, based on my excessive number of clients. I intended no personal affront"

"I see." Dejectedly, she studied the floor. "So we're through, then? Just like that?"

A grown woman, she didn't require a response.

Feeling imbecilic and ridiculous, she started toward the door, chastising herself for her impetuosity that had sent her charging ahead before she'd weighed the consequences. When she'd received his message, it had never occurred to her
not
to come, not to talk with him, not to try to dissuade him, so she hadn't foreseen or evaluated the probable scenarios that might unfold.

She'd presumed he was experiencing the same riotous swings of emotion. How stupid she was!

"You're correct," she mumbled. "I shouldn't have visited. My sincere apologies."

Just as she reached for the knob, he stopped her. "Lady Elizabeth." His footsteps moved in her direction.
"Bella,
wait."

Then, he was behind her, his hands encircling her, and he turned her so that she was wrapped in his arms and hugged close.

"Don't make me leave," she begged, burrowing her nose into his warm, furred chest.

"No, I won't" He rained kisses along her hair, her
cheeks, murmuring over and over, "I didn't mean what I said ... I'm sorry ..."

He nuzzled and caressed, his deft fingers removing her cloak so that it fell to the floor. Their lips met, tenderly and cautiously at first, then the urgency flourishing until they were locked in a torrid embrace.

His tongue invaded her mouth, plundering and demanding all that she was, all that she could ever be. She eagerly responded, her own tongue joining with his in a steady rhythm that had her pulse racing, her nipples aching.

They engaged in a spirited dance; his hands were everywhere, seeking and exploring, delving and beguiling. He fondled and stroked, driving her to insane heights while he whispered indecent, delicious Italian love phrases into her ear.