Cheryl Holt (7 page)

More likely, it was one of the women he hadn’t had yet, a newcomer to the party who was wondering if she had the necessary lack of inhibition to take a turn with him. They were all so overtly titillated by the prospect.

After years of existing on the fringe of their society, he possessed a wicked reputation that was decidedly deserved, and they craved the chance to engage in carnal relations with him so that they could brag about their exploits later on. Come the morn, he would be the main topic of conversation over breakfast: who’d lain with him, how many times, in how many ways.

His own motives for participating in Pamela’s lewd games weren’t specifically comprehensible. It was as though he was driven to prove, over and over again, that nothing mattered. Yet his obscure purposes paled in comparison to those of the women who coupled with him. They were lonely, bored, degraded in their pursuit of entertainment, but he declined to feel sympathy toward them. Pamela had devised the rules for the tainted amusement, and they flocked to indulge, hoping that something especially
nasty would occur—the naughtier the better—so that they would have more to bluster about to their friends.

He cared not. Not about their motives or their needs or wants. They could all go hang.

Even as the contemptuous thought passed through his mind, he suffered a pang of guilt, remembering the vixen named Sarah into whose room he’d been stupidly drawn. Her chamber was close by, and he was glad she had no method of watching what he was about to do.

The notion that she might stumble upon him in the midst of such corrupt conduct was unsettling and filled him with shame, and he grimly pushed her memory away. He didn’t choose to consider her predicament, or what might befall her. He didn’t plan to worry over her, or have her interfering with his practice of pleasure.

Already, she was plaguing his battle-scarred conscience, the one he’d carefully tucked away when he’d fled London three months earlier. His heart had been bruised and battered by those he loved, and he’d had his fill of compassion and empathy. Now, he was content to drift, indifferent to his misdeeds, so he wasn’t about to countenance some red-haired witch burrowing under his skin.

If she finagled herself into his life, he’d start fussing about her and chafing over her plight. He’d revert to the type of sensitive fool he’d been before events had taken their toll. The frivolous noblewoman had managed to insert herself into the middle of treacherous intrigues that were too abundant to mention, and if he wasn’t circumspect, he’d find himself checking on her, guarding her, keeping the lechers at bay, unveiling the scheme of her brother and cousin.

Dammit! The blasted woman wasn’t any of his concern! How she’d been lured to Pamela’s house, why she’d agreed to attend the party, what might transpire because of her family—none of it was any of his business.

He was here to fornicate and to gamble, and for no other reasons, and he wouldn’t fret or fume over an imbecilic spinster who didn’t have the good sense to depart when she
should. The crazed woman needed a protector, but he wouldn’t endeavor to assume the role.

He wouldn’t care about her. He wouldn’t!

Forcing his attention to the mirror, he scrutinized his current paramour. Her breasts were nicely formed, and he toyed with them overly long. He was hard, ready, willing to offer her however much she’d accept, but the woman herself did not matter.

No higher purpose lurked behind his actions. There was just the sex; vulgar and crude and risqué—just how he fancied it. The anonymous, blatant copulation fit his mood perfectly, and he intended to bury himself in this stranger until he couldn’t continue, until his overeager phallus was limp, his raging sexual drive finally, but temporarily, slaked.

Gripping her hips, he deliberately flexed against her buttocks, letting her savor his enormous size, providing an indication of what was coming. Shoving the cloak off her abdomen, he eyed her pussy; it was bald and smooth as a babe’s. “You’ve shaved yourself.”

“Aye.”

“Just for me?”

“Yes.”

His male vanity was immensely stroked by the inane feat she’d performed for him. He cupped her, then roughly entered her with two fingers, conferring no ease, pilfering what he wanted, supplying what she craved, but as he worked against her in a fixed rhythm, another uncomfortable image of Sarah flashed, diverting his attention.

What was it about her? She’d bewitched him!

When he’d agreed to this evening of debauchery, he’d foreseen a leisurely, sating escapade with the woman in his arms, as well as with the various others who were scheduled to visit later, but intrusive thoughts of Sarah made this seem ridiculous; he was out of his element, unprepared to proceed. Suddenly, he felt unclean and profane—just when he’d resolved to feel nothing at all.

Desperate to chase Sarah away—quickly—he whispered into his lover’s ear. “I’m ready now.”

“Yes . . . all right.” She consented haltingly, and stiffened, apprehensive about the hasty escalation.

“I’ll lie down on the cot.” He released her and moved to the bed, propping the pillows behind his head. She froze, either too disconcerted or too nervous to approach, but he was confident that she wouldn’t leave without providing him a carnal release. Others might be watching, and she’d never embarrass herself by fleeing the scene. Her vanity wouldn’t let her become a laughingstock.

“Come here,” he ordered, and the terse command propelled her forward. She knelt down and fiddled with the buttons on his trousers. Her slender fingers slipped the top one through its hole. Soon, he’d be bared to her torrid gaze and able ministrations, and he braced for the rush of lust to flood over him, but it never arrived.

Dispassionately, he waited. He was incredibly hard, his cock never failing to rise for any dubious occasion and, in anticipation, his phallus swelled further. Ultimately, he was free and in her hand. She stroked him and licked him, until his hips responded of their own accord, then she leaned down and slipped her lips over the crown.

He was a big man, bigger than any of them ever supposed, and he didn’t let his impressive proportions interfere with his gratification.

“Take more of me,” he decreed. Reaching for the back of her neck, he eased her down, and she went without complaint, while he stared at the ceiling, focused on a crack that ran from one edge to the other.

The woman adeptly proceeded with her task, but true desire proved elusive until, without warning, Sarah once again rudely intruded into the center of the sensual exercise. He visualized her stepping out of her bath, wet and slippery and smelling like roses. He recalled the firm, taut nipples he’d suckled, the slick, tight pussy he’d fingered.

For some reason, she excessively excited him, so he closed his eyes and pretended that
she
was the woman
stooped over him, that she was enticing him with her wicked mouth and tongue. Vividly, he imagined teaching her to suck at him, making her practice, encouraging her to master his favorite techniques. Adamant yet gentle, he’d be a relentless instructor, and she’d be an apt, enthusiastic pupil, set to learn what he deigned to impart.

Steadying his paramour, he held her in place, granting her as much as she could manage, urging her to take a bit more.

“
Sarah
. . .”

In his mind, he pictured her in all her nude, glorious splendor, and his level of desire soared to a previously unascertained height. He shuddered and let himself go.

Sarah sat on the verandah, her face shielded by a bonnet, observing the other guests and enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. The fabulous summer day was quickly approaching evening, temperatures were balmy, the sky bright blue and filled with fluffy white clouds. Soon, everyone scattered about at the various tables and settees would venture inside to dress for supper, and she should have been content to relax, but disturbing ruminations kept creeping in, rendering it impossible to cherish the moment.

After her encounter with Mr. Stevens, then her subsequently stumbling upon him during his odd tryst, she was definitely in a state. He had cluttered her senses in indescribable ways, and though she screamed at her overly zealous mind to give it a rest, her active imagination wouldn’t calm down. The only matter she could contemplate was him and what he’d been doing.

Surreptitiously, she scanned the long porch that wrapped around the mansion, wondering who his lover had been. She scrutinized the mannerisms of the women, evaluating how they moved, tipped their heads, and gestured, but to no avail. She couldn’t tell.

During the night, she’d removed herself from the dressing room and the temptation it provided, but she’d spent interminable dark hours regretting her decision. To her ultimate dismay, she wished she’d continued on! She was frantic to learn how the rendezvous had developed and how it had ended.

Shocking as it seemed, she hoped she’d have the fortuity to watch him again before too much time had passed. There was something abominably erotic and alluring about spying.
If she shut her eyes, she could pretend that
she
was the woman in the room with him, and that he was perpetrating those treacherous exploits against her own person.

What was the matter with her? Why did she find his comportment so titillating? Even as she recognized the impropriety of her conduct, and even as she exhaustively chastised herself for her wantonness, she was craving a repeat performance.

Her nocturnal reveries about him and his antics had grown cumbersome as he now commanded her entire daylight attention, as well. She couldn’t stop conjecturing as to where he was and how he was spending his afternoon. Disgustingly, she was perpetually craning her neck, searching the crowd for a glimpse of him, but she’d not seen him anywhere.

While she’d never admit as much to another soul, she was fascinated by him and what she’d witnessed, and she was impatient for the chance to ask him: Why? Why did he act so decadently? Why did his physical peccadilloes hold such appeal? What was the attraction?

For some inexplicable reason, she felt as though she’d always known him and could interpret his thought processes, and she’d been left with the overwhelming impression that he hadn’t actually wanted to be engaged in such depraved misdeeds. Deep down, he was a good man; she was certain of it, though why she believed so, or why she might presume to judge, was beyond her ability to explicate.

She perceived an affinity between them that she’d never had with another, and she couldn’t shake the sensation that he didn’t belong at the party any more than she did. Their strange assignation had so thoroughly disordered her world that she was convinced there was a larger purpose behind their meeting, and she refused to go home until she had occasion to explore what it might be.

As she fantasized about Mr. Stevens, her gaze wandered to the sloping green yard where several couples competed at an informal lawn game. They were hitting a ball across
the grass with a sort of mallet and aiming for a basket that was located quite a distance away at the base of the hill. She wasn’t sure of the rules, but it seemed that whichever couple landed their ball in the basket with the least amount of strokes was the winner.

Rebecca was one of the participants and, when the contest had begun, she’d invited Sarah to play, but Sarah had declined, and she was relieved that she had. On the surface, the sport seemed harmless enough, with eager contestants and innocuous jesting and wagering over the tough shots, but there were undercurrents to the verbal banter that she didn’t grasp, and a great deal of unusual, intimate touching that would have been disconcerting.

She couldn’t pinpoint what was making her uncomfortable. Perhaps the laughter was a little too familiar, the subtle looks between the partners a tad too prolonged, but whatever it was, there was a strain in their interacting that bothered her.

As the women leaned down and positioned their sticks, the men were constantly nearby, snuggling themselves against the women in order to abet them with their swings. After the episode with Michael Stevens, she recognized how unsettling it was for a man to press himself against a woman’s buttocks. She readily recalled how he’d held her hips and flexed his groin, and she shifted uneasily, relieved that she hadn’t allowed any of the men to act so familiarly.

However, she was striving to be fair about the entire event. So far, she’d witnessed nothing that she would deem downright inappropriate, and she was forced to speculate if this wasn’t how adults related when they were visiting. This was unmistakably a fête for grown-ups. There were no children invited; only men and women who had plenty of leisure time and who required some means of occupying it.

Perhaps she simply didn’t understand the social conventions when a crowd of such people gathered together. Obviously, the standards were a trifle lower, but casting about, she couldn’t help but remember Mr. Steven’s descriptions about the assemblage. He’d contended that the women
wouldn’t be accompanied by their husbands, and apparently, he was correct. While there were many gentlemen present, none were married to any of the ladies.

She endeavored to guess at the number of guests, but tabulation was difficult. Lady Carrington was adept at offering varied amusement, with concurrent merriment occurring, so visitors weren’t convened in the same spot.

Card games were progressing in the house, gambling in some of the backrooms, where even the women were permitted to join in. Outside, there was horseback riding, meandering through the gardens, and one bunch had even commandeered several carriages for a picnic at the lake.

Just then, her hostess emerged through the French doors and blazed a trail through the guests. Sarah enviously studied her, trying not to be overly conspicuous. A beautiful woman, ten years Sarah’s senior, Pamela Blair had been the fourth wife of an elderly earl, but also his favorite, and thus, upon his death, he’d graciously bequeathed several valuable properties and a significant income with which to enjoy them.

She regularly entertained huge groups, and her soirees were invariably the rage, with people begging invitations whenever she was having a particularly interesting masquerade or banquet.