Improper Relations (3 page)

And yet…

He’d shown me delight, when I’d thought my life barren of it. He’d shown me bliss, when I’d assumed none existed.

I’d been starving, my whole life, and hadn’t known it until today.

I would go to him again.

Chapter Three

I thought dinner would never end. My appetite had vanished—I’d never really enjoyed the richly sauced dishes that Lord Dorchester preferred—and it was all I could do to consume the merest portion of what was served.

Nor did Aunt Augusta appear to have enjoyed her meal. After only a bite of her rhubarb tart she rose abruptly from her chair and indicated that I should follow. I hastened after her, hoping she wouldn’t be afflicted by insomnia tonight.

I had forgotten, however, about the bottle of tonic her physician had prescribed on his last visit. Tonic, indeed—I’d sniffed its contents and it was nothing more than laudanum mixed with brandy. No sooner had we entered her chambers than she was asking Reed, her maid, for a dose. In an hour, at most, I’d be free.

I read from her favorite volume of Lord Tennyson’s poetry as she readied herself for bed, my voice low and soothing, just as she preferred. The clock on her mantel chimed the half hour, then the hour, and still I read, not daring to stop until she’d given me leave. At last, her voice muffled by her pillows, she told me I might go.

Setting the book aside, I curtsied and wished her good night. I took my little oil lamp, the one that normally lit my path to my modest bedchamber on the floor above, but as soon as I’d left her rooms, I extinguished it.

I approached Leo’s chambers silently, my heart in my throat—what if I were to be discovered at this end of the corridor or were seen entering his rooms? I tapped on his door, so softly it seemed unlikely to me that he would hear, and waited.

“Come in,” rumbled his voice, so strong and certain, beckoning me within. I slipped inside and shut the door behind me soundlessly.

I’d never visited his chambers before. What struck me first was how plain they were, certainly if compared to the ornate, elaborate splendor of his mother’s rooms. They were nearly empty of furniture, for a start. His sitting room had only a large desk, set before the south-facing windows, a pair of wooden chairs flanking the hearth, and a row of bookcases, filled with what looked to be well-worn volumes, running the length of the opposite wall.

He was sitting at the desk, which was covered with papers and folders and books all in a jumble, and was making notations on one of the papers—it was hard to make out, but it appeared to be some kind of elaborate map or drawing. He set down his pen, wiped his fingers on the blotter and came to me.

He said nothing, only took my hand and led me toward a door. I hesitated, for I knew it was the entrance to his bedchamber. Was that what he intended should happen between us tonight?

“I know what you’re thinking, Hannah. I simply thought we’d be more comfortable in here.”

His bedroom was nearly as plain as the sitting room. The bed itself was magnificent, a huge Jacobean four-poster that had probably been built at the same time as Bexington Hall itself. But it bore no embroidered hangings, no costly damask cover, and instead was draped in a plain linen coverlet. In front of the fire were two hopelessly old-fashioned high-backed chairs, their upholstery threadbare in places. A low cabinet held decanters and glasses, their crystal glinting in the firelight.

“What about your valet?” I whispered.

“Jessup’s in London,” he said, his smile infinitely understanding. “When I’m in Dorset I shift for myself. But I can lock the door if you like.”

As he moved to secure the door, I dared to look at him properly. When my husband had come to my bedchamber, he’d worn a thickly quilted robe over his nightshirt and a matching velvet cap on his head. Even in the heat of midsummer he’d always worn that ridiculous robe and cap.

Leo, by contrast, wore the same trousers, shirt and waistcoat he’d had on earlier. He’d discarded his coat and tie, as well as his boots and stockings. I had never seen a man’s bare feet before.

“I had on new boots today,” he explained, seeing how I stared. “They pinched. Will you come and sit by the fire and have something to drink? I remember you said you don’t care for spirits, so I had a bottle of claret brought up. Shall I pour you a glass?”

“Yes, thank you,” I said, and took the goblet from him. I drank from it, perhaps a little faster than I ought to have, and the warmth of the wine spread rapidly through my veins.

He sat in the chair facing me, only a yard away, his legs splayed wide, and took a sip from the glass of whiskey he’d poured for himself. I could feel his eyes upon me, and the sensation was unnerving. What did he see in me that interested him so?

“Where were you at dinner?” I asked, desperate to fracture the silence.

“I was reading. When I saw how late I was, I thought it best to have a tray brought to me here. You know how my father tends to go on.”

Another long pause as he swallowed a mouthful of spirits. “Did you miss me?”

“It’s only that your parents were, ah…”

“I know. Leo the wastrel, etcetera, etcetera. Nothing I haven’t heard before. Did you miss me?”

“I…yes. Yes, I missed you.”

“Good. I was thinking of you, if it makes any difference. I was thinking about what I want from you, and what you must want from me.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Because that
is
why you’re here, aren’t you?”

I wasn’t ready to answer, not yet, so I fiddled with the stem of my wineglass and tried to think of what I should say.

“You can be honest with me, Hannah. You’ve nothing to fear, I swear it.”

“Why?” I blurted out. “Why me?”

“You intrigue me, that’s why. You give every appearance, on the outside, of conforming entirely to the identity my mother has conferred on you. The drab drudge of a lady’s companion. The poor relation who lives in the shadows. The ghost who—”

“Stop! Just stop. I know who I am, what I am. I’ve no ambition to be anything more.”

“But you do. I can see that so clearly now. When I think of the way you responded to me in the library, I know you’re more than that.”

He was wrong. He had to be wrong. “You mistake me. Boredom has driven me here—that, and simple curiosity.”

“About what? Come now, Hannah—what are you curious about?”

“Everything.”

There. I’d admitted it. I sagged back in the chair and gulped at my wine.

“Then ask me. Ask me anything and I promise to answer truthfully.”

The first question was out of my mouth before I could stop it. “How old were you when you first had relations?”

“Fourteen—nearly fifteen, I think. It was with Betsy, one of the maids here. She was eighteen. Wonderfully enthusiastic.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“God, yes. It was all I’d been thinking about for months and months. Of course, I was so undone by the experience that it was over quite quickly. But Betsy was very kind to me and before long I knew what was what.”

Another swallow of wine gave me fresh courage. “How many women have you had relations with?”

“Hmm…I honestly don’t know. I’ve never been one for keeping count of things like that. When I was younger, I’d fuck anyone who looked at me. Now I’m somewhat more discerning. Perhaps five or six different women in the past year?”

“Who are they?”

“You want their names?”

“No, of course not,” I clarified. “I meant—are they generally maidservants like Betsy and Ida? Or are they women from your own circle?”

“If a maidservant approaches me—as I said, I’ve acquired a reputation here and at my London house—I’m happy to oblige. Within reason. In general, though, I prefer widows. They have a degree of independence, they know what they want, they’re discreet about it and they’re usually unburdened by romantic illusions.”

“Have you ever harbored such illusions yourself?” He didn’t answer, so I pressed on. “Have you ever been in love?”

“No. Have you?”

“No,” I answered honestly. “At first I hoped…I thought perhaps, with Charles. But no. In the end, no.”

He didn’t look at me as I spoke, and I was glad. Speaking of love, at that moment, was almost unbearable. I ought never to have mentioned it. Best to return to the purely physical plane.

“When you were having relations with Ida, you did so in an unconventional manner—”

“When I fucked her from behind?”

Oh, how I wished he would not use that word. “Yes. Is that because it’s more pleasurable?”

“I wasn’t parsing the whys and wherefores at the time, but that position has a great deal to recommend it. To begin with, it allows me to keep my hands free. And it does let me fuck a woman that much deeper. So, yes, I like it.”

“Do you prefer it to the more usual form of lovemaking?”

“You mean with the woman on her back? Both have their merits. And of course they’re only two of many ways in which the act may be accomplished.”

Would he ever cease surprising me? He laughed, took another sip of whiskey and ran a hand through his hair.

“Shall I rhyme them off for you? Let me see…a woman may ride the man, either facing him or with her back to him. She may lie prone beneath him—a variant, I suppose, on what you saw me doing with Ida. He may fuck her while they’re both standing, preferably with a wall or cabinet or something of the sort at her back. How is that to begin with?”

I realized, after a moment or two, that my mouth had fallen open, rather like a fish gasping for air. A woman riding? Standing?

“And of course I’ve only mentioned activities that involve penetration. Oral sex allows for many more varieties in these positions.”

He was grinning—a really broad grin, like a schoolboy would have when ragging a friend. How naive I must appear to him. I resolved to persevere, despite my mortification.

“What is your favorite position?”

“It depends on the woman. Ida, for example, has the most marvelous bottom. So it would have been a shame to ignore it. You, on the other hand…”

I could feel his gaze dropping, focusing on my bosom with an assessing gleam.

“Will you let me see your breasts, Hannah?”

My face flushed scarlet, my cheeks hot with shame. To expose myself so completely was such an extreme step. I wanted to comply, but something held me back.

“I won’t touch you, not yet. I simply want to see more of you, and learn what pleases you.”

Still I made no move to disrobe.

“I know. I’m asking you to set aside every moral stricture that your parents and husband and my sainted mother have drummed into you. But you’re here because you want more. So drink down the last of your claret and open your bodice for me.”

And I did just that. I undid the hooks and eyes of my bodice, all the way from my chin to my waist, and pulled it wide so he could see the swell of my bosom over the top of my corset and chemise.

“Remove it, if you please. Good. Now I want you to take off your corset. Do you need any help?”

“No. It’s not laced tightly.” I unfastened the closures of the metal busk, took a wonderfully deep breath and tossed my corset on the floor, on top of my discarded bodice.

“Your chemise too.”

There was no way to remove it without taking off my skirts, and he’d said nothing about that, so I undid its ribbon bow, loosened the gathers at its neck and drew my chemise down over my shoulders, lower and ever lower, until my breasts were entirely bare. I shut my eyes tight and waited for his next command.

His growl of satisfaction was the greatest compliment I’d ever received.

“Hannah, your tits are a marvel.”

“They’re not overlarge?”

“They’re certainly a generous size for someone so delicately framed. But they suit you perfectly. And they’re very pretty, just like the rest of you. I love your nipples—see how pink and tight they’ve become? Can you feel it?”

“Yes. It feels…odd. Almost ticklish.”

“May I touch you now? Yes? Then come and stand before me.”

I did it. I went to him and stood between his knees. And I waited, my nipples tingling with anticipation and fear, my mind awhirl with the suspense of what awaited me.

He still held his tumbler of whiskey, but instead of drinking from it he did the oddest thing—he dipped the thumb and forefinger of his right hand into the spirits. Reaching up, he painted my left nipple with the liquid, his thumb circling, his fingers lightly pinching and pulling and twisting. It was the most mesmerizing feeling, and it sent a lightning bolt of sensation directly to the wonderful place between my legs.

He repeated the exercise with my other nipple, exploring and pushing and demanding, letting the tumbler fall to the floor, forgotten. Then both his hands were on me, cradling the weight of my breasts, pushing them high, rubbing them with his palms. There were calluses on his hands, which surprised me, and their roughness felt delicious against my shivering skin.

“I’m going to use my mouth now. Don’t be alarmed.”

That sounded very strange. “You mean like an infant?”

“Rather like that, but for entirely different purposes.”

He began to suckle at my breasts, his mouth pulling and nipping at one while his hand worked its own magic on the other. My knees buckled, but he simply twined an arm around my waist and continued his worship. My skin was burning from the rasp of his unshaven face, and the throb between my legs was even worse. I couldn’t bear it, not for much longer, but neither could I stand to interrupt him.

“Raise your skirts and hold them out of the way,” he said, his voice brusque. “Do it now.”

I dragged my skirt and petticoats up, gathering them at my waist in unsteady hands. He reached between my legs, his fingers parting the slit in my drawers, moving surely to the place where I ached so badly.

“I doubt this will take very long,” he muttered.

One finger, or perhaps it was his thumb, found the pearl between my legs and began to rub at it, though not as gently as when he was instructing me earlier.

In seconds the thrilling sensations were overtaking me, forcing the breath from my body, the strength from my limbs. I clutched at his shoulders, heedless of my tumbling skirts, and clung to him as if I were drowning. On and on the feelings went, and I bit down on my lip, hard, afraid of betraying us with my cries.

“How was that?” I heard him ask as I floated back to earth.