Her Proper Scoundrel (18 page)

“Please,” she whimpered again.

Please? What was it she was pleading for?
 

But her body knew for she began to rock against his hand, rocking, straining, pushing, searching.

And then she knew.

The first wisps of pleasure, a pleasure she had never known before, solidified and it was as if she had crested a mountain peak only to fall spiraling, spiraling, down, down.

Shuddering, she collapsed and fell back on her elbows, sated with contentment. Eyes closed, she relished the sensation as long as she could until nothing remained, only a warm glow throughout her body.

Christopher watched her climax, saw her flush, smelled the seductive odor of her woman scent mixed in with violets and sandalwood. He knew he would hate himself later but he couldn’t control himself. He had to take her.

He had to take her now.

Unfastening his breeches, his penis sprang free, throbbing with life, already crowned with a drop of white, heavy cream. Maneuvering carefully, he positioned the sensitive tip at the apex of her thighs, prodding, nudging, searching for the hidden place he knew would give him the release he sought.

She was slick, ready for him.

“Hold me,” he whispered. And she complied, shifting forward to wrap her arms around his neck. Her gaze was mysterious yet knowing and an unsteady smile trembled on her lips.

“Forgive me,” he breathed, knowing he was likely to hurt her as he broke through the barrier of her virginity.

He locked his mouth on hers and thrust. Beneath him, he could feel her body stiffen but she didn’t make a sound. Her muscles squeezed tight around his member and he groaned with the sweetness of it, of her.

He held still for a moment to let her become accustomed to the feel of him inside her. Then she shifted slightly to wrap her legs around his waist, beginning a cascade of sensations he couldn’t stop. He thrust once, twice, three times and exploded, shouting his climax to the heavens.

The force of his ejaculation stunned him and he had to lean against the desk, bracing himself with one arm, holding Josceline in the other. His knees shook and his nose filled with the heady combination of her scent of her woven with his. A primeval surge of conquest steadied his legs. He didn’t want to pull free, not yet and instead he leaned back a little to drop a tender kiss on her lips.

She was dazed, flushed, mouth swollen. “Someone shall find us here, like this.”

Another surge of conquest passed through him at her breathless words. She, too, had felt the searing passion between them.

“They shan’t disturb us, the door is latched,” he reassured her then dropped another light kiss on her lips. He could quite happily remain in her embrace forever.

A sobering thought. One which he should examine more closely when in the sanctuary of his own room.

Limp as a rag doll, Josceline glanced away and glimpsed her reflection in the darkened window. Her skirts were tangled around her waist, her shoulders and limbs white, hair a riotous mess. How appalling. If someone had passed by in the garden, they could see through the windows. She looked a proper whore. Or what she imagined a proper whore would look like.

Worse, like a proper whore, she had enjoyed it, every spine tingling second. Even now, her legs still circled Christopher’s waist.

Tiny fingers of shame poked her. She was as weak as her gaming drunkard of a father. He, too, succumbed to flimsy pleasures and the ton scorned him because of it. Now they would scorn her on her own actions if it ever came to light.

Was losing herself to Christopher worth the potential recrimination? Truly, she didn’t know for she didn’t know his intentions toward her.

And sadly, it was too late. Gripped by the sensations he had aroused in her, she had given herself to him with nary a thought to the consequences.

Her thighs started to cramp and she dropped her legs to the ground, looking away in embarrassment as she struggled to rearrange her clothing. He took a step back, and adjusted his breeches.

“If that is the minuet, then I should look forward indeed to learning it further,” he quipped weakly.

Incredulous, she gazed at him. He tried to make light of the situation and appeared untroubled.

At her accusing stare, guilt flashed though his eyes. Again she looked away, trying to make sense of his mood.

“Do you regret this?” he asked gently, reaching out to take her chin in his fingers, turning her face so she looked at him full on.

He had read her thoughts. How did he know her so well he could see what lay behind her eyes?

“No.” She lowered her gaze then raised it to look unflinching into his eyes. “It’s nothing more than what people already thought,” she announced defiantly.
 

 
“By people, I assume you refer to Lady Oakland,” he said, lips twisting derisively. “We’ve conquered that battle already, or do I need to remind you of our upcoming invitation?”

“As you say.” She nodded, biting her lips. She would never, ever admit to him she had enjoyed it. Proper ladies did not enjoy the attentions of their husbands, or so she had been told by Elizabeth who had it, she claimed, on good authority from her mother.

“I promise you, this shan’t happen again,” he said hastily. Too hastily. As if self-reproach consumed him. “I will not speak of it.”

“Nor shall I,” she whispered.

Yes, she wouldn’t speak of it but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t think of it. Silent, and without another glance in his direction, she walked away.

* * *

She threw herself across her bed, his final words echoing in her ears: “This shan’t happen again. I will not speak of it.”

Shaking hands pulled at the bed cover, balling it in her fists. She had disappointed him and that was why he didn’t want it to happen again. She had given him her virtue and he hadn’t enjoyed it.

What did that say about her, for she had enjoyed it, very much. Not just the strangely exquisite physical sensations, but the feeling of closeness with Christopher. Now she knew why Maggie Mary, the upstairs maid, simpered whenever Horace, the eldest footman, came by. Now she understood the knowing glances they tossed at each other when they thought no one saw.

And now that he had ruined her, he could send her on her way and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it.

True, she still had his handkerchief but perhaps it wouldn’t be enough of a deterrent for him anymore. She had threatened to unmask Christopher as a highwayman, holding as proof the blood stained handkerchief but in truth, it had been a ruse, and a successful one at that.

Christopher had believed her assertion that as the daughter of a duke, his word would not hold against hers but now, he didn’t need her anymore. With Philip established in his home, Christopher had gained the confidence of Lady Oakland and with it, his entrance into local society. It would be easy enough for him to engage another governess.

The thought hurt more than she cared to admit for she had come to care about the orphaned brothers.
 

If he sent her on her way, would he provide her with a proper reference or would she be left penniless once again?
 
And then? Home to London and marriage to Mr. Burrows? The irony didn’t escape her. Without her virginity, she no longer had value for her father and the wealthy merchant.

Fool, to think she was beginning to love the handsome Captain Christopher Sharrington when all he had wanted was to use her.

Fool, she had fallen to his charms, had not even offered the slightest bit of resistance.

Fool, to hope that perhaps he cared for her, even a little.

Fool.

Her frame shuddered with great wracking sobs.
 

* * *

Filled with self-loathing, Christopher poured himself a brandy. Tossing it back, he poured himself another then slammed down the snifter on his desk so hard the ledger on it jumped.

Damnation, what had he just done? He had taken her, the daughter of a duke, like a common strumpet. Here, on his desk in the library, where anyone could have walked in on them.

The only thing was, she was no common strumpet. She was the woman he loved.

The notion hit him like a free swinging boom on a mizzenmast.

The woman he loved.

And he had treated her with a lack of respect. He’d lost his self control then tried to make a jest of it.

He gave a ferocious kick to the desk chair, sending it crashing to the floor.

Idiot.

He wouldn’t blame her if she hated him. If, deservedly so, she hated him, could he yet win her love?

For that’s what he wanted more than anything, more than the “Bessie”, more than the chance to build a sea faring enterprise, more than acknowledgement from Bristol’s aristocratic society.

He wanted Lady Josceline Woodsby’s love. Could he win it now? Or had he thrown away his chance with her over a stupid lapse in judgment?

At the memory, his loins started to throb, making him even more disgusted with himself. Making love to her had been wonderful, even better than he could have imagined.

And would be even better the next time, for now her body knew how to respond.

“If there is a next time,” he groaned aloud to the wall of books silently watching his anguish.

He would have to make it up to her somehow. She had put on a brave face but he had seen her face crumple as she’d turned to walk away.

Her scent still clung to him. Violets and sandalwood. It was, he decided, his favorite scent. A scent he could easily wake up to the rest of his living days. Well, there was one way that could happen.

He would do right by her and marry her.
 

True, unlike the men of her class, he had to earn a living but there was honor in that. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He would marry her and let the devil take the consequences.

Even the consequences of her disgust when she discovered who he really was.

Chapter Seventeen

Christopher waited for Josceline most of the following day: first in the breakfast room where he sat until the sausages congealed in a greasy mass in the bottom of the chafing dish, then in the library where he left the door open so he could hear her step, and finally in the drawing room, eliciting a startled response from Anna, the downstairs maid when she brought in the tray with the cups and saucers and a plate of plum cake all covered with a linen cloth.

When by actual tea time Josceline still hadn’t appeared, he rang for Mrs. Belton.

“She’s kept to her room all day. Poor dear must be famished,” the housekeeper said. “And the boys have missed their lessons. I wonder what is amiss?”

He shook his head, suspecting the worst. Josceline didn’t want to see him because of what had passed between them last night in the library. Naturally, he couldn’t share that with Mrs. Belton so instead he said in the blandest voice possible, “Perhaps you could send her to me and I shall see if I can find out what ails her.”

“As you wish,” Mrs. Belton bobbed a curtsey then trotted off, keys jingling, mob cap bouncing.
 

An apprehensive Christopher waited. Two maids scampered by in the hall, giggling. The happy sound irked him. Of course they didn’t know he had just committed the biggest blunder of his life, he thought sourly.

He moved to the window, tapping his fingers on the sill, staring outside mindlessly and not seeing the flocks of starlings high in the sky and the tender buds swelling with spring’s arrival.

 
The grandfather clock chimed the half hour. Half past four. It chimed again to signal another quarter hour. He began to pace.

Her absence spoke volumes. She didn’t want to see him. If so, it left him no choice but to accost her in her room. A very improper action and one which would set the servants to chattering but he would take it if he had to.

He continued to pace, past the chairs and table where they always took their tea, to the fireplace, to the window, then past the chairs and table again.

It wasn’t until the grandfather clock chimed five times that Josceline appeared.

“You sent for me, Mr. Sharrington?” She paused in the doorway of the drawing room, face wan, eyes circled with black shadows. She had slept as little as he had last night.

He flinched at the use of his surname. Her voice was cold, distant and she avoided his gaze.

“I am sorry for what happened last night.” He approached her slowly. His arms burned with the desire to hold her and coax the sad expression from her face. “Forgive me.”

And much to his shame, he felt himself harden at the thought of feeling her against him again, even if only in comfort. He shuffled sideways to stand behind a chair to hide the evidence of his desire for her.

“There’s no need to apologize,” she shrugged. “What is past is past.”

“I cannot undo what happened but I can make it right. I should like to take you to wife.”

If nothing else he now had her full attention for she flicked him with a scornful look.