Lady Myddelton's Lover (3 page)

             
“What a fascinating woman,”

Aline jumped, nearly upsetting the cup of tea as Ri
chard came to stand behind her and blocked any attempt to move away from him with his arms, both hands flat against the wall on either side of the window. As she stared at the light dusting of hair on his hands, she realized did not want to escape. His breath tickled her skin, warm and steady against her neck and she half-hoped he would place his mouth on the inch of skin between her nape and the lace of her high collar.

“Yes she is,” She replied breathlessly. “I’ve known her and her husband for quite some time.”

“She invited me tea at her house—to meet the esteemed Sir Fredrick Wilson, of course.”

“A charming man. He rowed eights at Oxford, you know.”

“We aren’t going to waste time exchanging pleasantries about the Wilsons are we?” He shifted closer
, and she found she fit snugly beneath his chin.

“A
h…where are the servants?” She stalled. “I rang for them ages ago.”

“I told them not to disturb you,”
He murmured, moving his left hand to caress her arm. “Or rather, to not disturb us.”

“Y-you are scandalous, my lord.”
Her gasp turned into a shiver she could not suppress when he moved his lips to the nape of her neck. “No gentleman with any pretense to propriety would behave so freely with a woman he has just met.”

“In Australia, a man has to take what he wants when he wants it,” He took her earlobe in mouth and bit it gently.

“It isn’t in England, my lord,” She said shakily, tilting her head to give him better access.

“How do you people ever get anything accomplished, or express yourselves, if not frankly and honestly?”

“We are honest and forthright, Lord Myddelton, but we always weigh the possible ramifications of each action.”

“You mean,” He laughed against her throat. “You would have to think about the ramifications of what I’m doing to you right now”

“Always,” She bit her lip to stifle a groan when he cupped her breast in one hand.

“I like watching your face when I do something shocking,” He murmured between hot, wet kisses down the curve of her throat. The
teacup rattled ominously in her hands. “You look alternately surprised and interested, like a cat ready to pounce on something fascinating and foreign.”

“Ah, do I?” Aline was too muddled by his touch to make sense of his seductive rumble.

He nodded, the whiskers on his chin rasping against the sensitive skin of her throat.

“I, ah, am mostly fascinated by your utter disregard for what is and what isn’t done,”

              “It seems I have much to learn about what is and what isn’t proper, Aline.” He grinned and nipped her throat.

“You would make considerable strides in your education if you addressed me as Lady Myddelton, or informally,
Countess.”

“I’ve never known such formalities between relations.” He lifted his head.

“You don’t look at me the way you look at a cousin, my lord.” Aline said primly, turning her head slightly to look up at him.

              “How can I?” He kissed her swiftly on the lips. “It isn’t likely after you attempted to seduce me during our first meeting.”

“Yes, well, that was an honest mistake,”

“Really?” He lifted a brow. “I don’t like the thought of you seducing strange men.”

“I wasn’t seducing anyone, my lord,” She said hotly. “It was a—”

“A what?”

“A birthday present,” She admitted lamely.

His expression sharpened, and she had the strangest notion that he found the thought of her hiring a lover
arousing. She dropped her eyes from his and down to the hand over her breast, finding that witnessing his arousal was stimulating. He removed his hand and took the plate and cup from her hands, setting them down somewhere behind them. She turned, pressing against the wall as he approached. She instinctively placed her hands between them, but found herself curling her fingers around the lapel of his frock coat and pulling him closer, so that his wonderfully large body covered every inch of her.

“My lord—” She stammered, slightly uncertain of where this could lead.

“Richard,” He interrupted forcefully. “Call me Richard.”

“But it isn’t proper,” Her faint reply was automatic
.

“Forget propriety, Aline,” He lowered his mouth to hers. “I’m going to make you say my name, one way or another.”

The kiss was so sweet, so tender and unexpected, she gasped at the sensation, wanting to melt bonelessly into the feeling. Oh, her skin was on fire, the tingling, overwhelming burn coursing from the contours of her mouth down to her fingertips and toes. She curled those toes in tips of her shoes and grasped him tighter as he tilted his face, squishing her nose against his in the most delightfully sensual movement, deepening the kiss. He groaned softly, fingers sinking into her hair, and the funny-roughness of his tongue brushing against her own seeming to pass his own heat between them.

              She felt herself sinking; one leg at a time, to her knees, the diaphanous fabric of her tea gown billowing softly and swirling about them as he gently lowered her to the floor. Richard’s hands were strong and sure on her back, at her waist, and cupping her thigh beneath her gown to bring her flush against him. The hot bulge of his erection against her equally hot core was shocking, the contrasting coolness of his fingers between them, slipping into the slit of her drawers to touch her flesh, even more so.

Suddenly impatient with the barrier of clothing, she peeled his coat down his shoulders, groaning against his mouth in frustration when something obstructed her frantic tugging. Richard ended the kiss with a harsh gasp, his blue eyes dazed with lust as he leaned back, tore his coat from his arms, and began to untie his Ascot. She could not stop herself from helping, feeling greedy to touch the skin she had only glimpsed that morning, and quickly unfastening the buttons of his shirt. He tossed aside the tie and began to loosen the tapes running down the front of her tea gown, pushing it down to pool about her hips and tearing her ribbon corset from her waist.

“You wear too many clothes,” He growled, bunching her chemise in his fist.

“So do you,” She countered, plucking at the buttons of his union suit and sliding a hand between the flaps to touch his chest. She curled her fingers into the thick whorl of chest hair and tugged playfully.

“Ouch,” He said, batting her hand away and rising to his feet. “Take off the rest of your clothing.”

Aline touched her chemise and looked up at the rapidly undressing Richard, suddenly realizing just where they were and what time of day it was.

“Don’t you dare back down from this, Aline,” Richard was suddenly beside her, completely naked, his skin a deep, glorious tan.

“It’s daytime!” She stopped his hands from stripping her body of her chemise.

“The best time to make love, in my opinion,” He said impatiently, tugging at her last piece of modesty. “I can see you better.”

“And a woman is supposed to leave this on,” She scooted away from him.

His half grin faded. “Have you never made love in the day, the sun coursing across your body, skin to skin?”

“Hugh would have never asked me to do something so improper,”

She grew uneasy beneath the inscrutable, searching look her gave her. He wrapped his arm around a bent knee, and she hastily averted her eyes from his body, though not before the image of his sinewy thigh and the curve of his erection imprinted itself on her mind.

“I mean to have you, Aline,” He said curtly.

She laughed nervously at his frankness, darting a glance at his face to see if he were serious. The narrowing of his eyes and the tightness of his lips corroborated with his tone, but she reacted too slowly to his sudden lunge, fingers curling around her ankle as he pulled her towards him. Her chemise rode up against her back and her teagown bunched at her waist, but resistance to him was futile, for he quickly divested her of the so-called offending items, untied her drawers and tossed them all aside before pressing his body against hers.

A flash of mingled shame and outrage crossed her mind when he pushed away from her with one arm and studied her body as intently and invasively as artist. The feeling thawed reluctantly, and she tried to hold onto it, a lifetime of strictures and etiquette echoing faintly in her ears. She watched him touch her, his fingers lingering in the dip in her upturned elbow, against the curve of her waist, the slope of her hips, and tickling across her freckled ribs. She squirmed under this last touch, and he stared, completely fascinated by the soft jiggle of her breasts.

“You are everything I imagined,” He looked at her, his expression quite serious.

“We’ve only just met,” She lowered her eyes bashfully, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

His mouth twisted wryly. “I have your letters.”

This time Richard lowered his eyes from her bright, curious gaze. His embarrassment was absurd, considering that they lay much entwined and very naked in her boudoir, with the servants quietly going about their duties in the house around them. He stared instead at his hand, fingers spanning the smooth, pale expanse of her belly, saved from the appearance of impenetrable marble by her golden freckles. Her hand joined his and her fingers twined with his to interlock in a crosshatch of pale and tanned skin running weft and wale, respectively. He reluctantly lifted his eyes away from their hands, up her slender torso to those glorious breasts, topped with taut pink nipples, her mouth, slightly reddened from his kisses, and finally to her eyes. A remarkable shade of green fringed by black lashes, he was shocked to see them glistening with unshed tears.

             
“Aline, I—”

She interrupted him with a shush, placing her finger on his lips, and he groaned, surging up to blanket her with his body. He dug his fingers into her hair as she angled her face to his, meeting her lips in a violent, urgent kiss. He wanted desperately to plunge himself into her core and thrust, join himself to her completely; the arching and squirming of her body against his signaled she felt the same. However, he wanted this to last, to wring every drop of resistance and mortification from her, until she was comfortable baring her skin to him as she was when composing the letters he valued so deeply during the two years he lingered in Australia after her husband’s death. He was not ashamed to admit he wanted to eradicate, if not the memory of Hugh Myddelton-Thorpe, but his claim on her body.

He teased her with the kiss, slanting his mouth against hers, his tongue rolling slowly and carefully, simply tasting her sweetness. He grinned when she pummeled her fists lightly against his chest and groaned her annoyance. He loosened his grip on her hair and worked it loose of the pins and combs, tossing aside those infernal “rats” she would use, until her hair curled loosely about her shoulders. He lifted his lips to tug a few locks of her red hair over her breasts, loving the peeps of her pink flushed skin and rosy nipples between the strands. He wound a curl around one of her areolas until it puffed above the skin, and he bent to lick the button-hard nipple, worrying it softly with his teeth.

He jerked at the rough tug of her fingers on his chest hair, surprised by his increased arousal in reaction to the pain, but he found his control slipping when she parted her legs to reveal the plump, moist folds of her core, covered only by her curling red hair below. He always did appreciate redheads. He touched himself, closing his eyes with a hiss when her fingers joined his stroke, her touch tentative along the sensitive length of his manhood. Her soft laugh brought his eyes to her face, where, despite the rosy spots on her cheeks, she appeared very amused by his reaction.

“That’s enough of that,” He ground out, and brushed her hands away, catching them above her head in one hand while he used the other to position himself for entrance.

She was tight and hot, her smallest fluttering movements generating such exquisite friction he nearly came out of his skin. He gritted his teeth, his muscles trembling as he held himself above her, closed his eyes to block her from his gaze so he could calm himself. The score of her nails down his back did little to assist his attempt to make this slow and lasting; neither did the way she lifted her legs to press her knees into his waist, and her huffy breaths speaking her desire for him to begin more than words. Therefore, he obliged her—and himself—angling his hips for one, hard stroke. God, this felt so wonderful! The simple mechanics of love making were so mundane on paper or in his head, but the act of being inside of Aline, of feeling her squeezes and gasps of pleasure, glimpsing the way her eyes widened as he thrust, and thrust, and thrust, were richly and incredibly complex.

He blinked the sweat dripping from his brow, his aching arms forcing him to grasp her about the hips as he half fell, half rolled over her, thrusting and stroking inside her body the entire time. To his surprise, she grabbed his waist and nudged her hips, forcing him onto his back to watch her ride him. Her movements were awkward and self-conscious, her tongue darting from between her lips in concentration. He held her hips loosely, willing to wait until she found the right rhythm to create the most pleasure for them both.

He could not help the creep of his hands from her hips to cup her jiggling breasts, loving the way her softness felt against his work-roughened fingers. She leaned forward, running her palms across his heaving, sweat-slicked chest, rolling her hips so divinely he could only arch his back, eyes rolling in the back of his head. He blew a quick breath and lifted up, rolling her over so that he was on top once more. He would end this excruciating and delicious torment.

              He thrust long and hard, arms braced on either side of her, his gaze fixated on watching the play of expressions across her face. Suddenly, she looked directly at him, her green eyes lucid with such tender understanding he had to smile.  She smiled back, and he was unable to tear his eyes away from her, forgetting everything—their unexpected meeting, her reputation, the servants, her dead husband, his obligations in Australia; everything—but pleasuring her. His smile turned triumphant when her gaze lost focus, going dreamy and frantic, and she dug her nails into his arms as he slowly, steadily and thoroughly pushed her towards the edge. His breath burst in his lungs as he increased his pace, just hanging over the edge by his fingernails himself.

             
“Yes, oh, yes, Richard,” She groaned, sliding her feet across the carpet.

             
The sound of his name did it, and he jerked against her, spilling hotly within her with a hoarse cry of utter ecstasy.

***

              Aline never knew lovemaking could be so…sticky and wet. But it was a glorious sensation, she thought, stretching rather like a cat in the sunlight streaming through the window. She glanced over at Richard, who lay on his back, one arm over his eyes, utterly spent. His golden hair stuck out around his head, making him actually look like a bizarre sun, whose rays bent at odd angles. The sound of clocks striking vibrated through the house and she paused to count the chimes: one, two, three, four…twelve o’clock in the afternoon. Any other day—perhaps even just yesterday—she would be changing into a suitable gown for lunch and going to watch the cricket matches at Lord’s, then changing once again for a dinner party, and changing lastly for the theater or for a box at Covent Garden. Lying here, in the nude, beside an equally nude gentleman, was quite…scandalous.

             
She shivered at the thought: she was a widow just out of mourning, and had just shagged her husband’s heir on the carpet of her drawing room. She pressed her hands to her heating cheeks, unsure of whether to laugh or leap up from the floor, dress, and leave the house as though nothing untoward had occurred. She squeaked when Richard rolled over onto his side and gave her a look, as though he knew the precise thoughts running like a fox through the tangled brush of her mind. She shrugged her shoulders a trifle breathlessly, peeping at him through her lashes. His next words surprised her out of her confusion.

             
“Who is this fellow?”

             
“I beg your pardon?” She blinked at him.

             
He gestured towards the room. “The one you failed to mention in your letters.”

             
“No one—” Aline widened her eyes. “You must mean Sir Carleton.”

             
“Is he a rival I must run to ground?” He narrowed his eyes at her face.

             
“Lady Frederick Cornwallis is a gossip.” Aline rolled her eyes. “Sir Carleton Redgrave was a frequent visitor during the early days of my widowhood, and to her, we are practically betrothed.”

             
“Just who is he, exactly?” Another thought crossed visibly over his face. “And how old is he?”

             
“Oh, Richard!” She laughed, sitting up to look down at him. “Sir Carleton does not think of me in that manner and neither do I of him.”

             
“I like the way my name sounds in your voice,” He said abruptly, casually pressing a finger into the flesh of her belly.

             
“No…” She darted an amazed glance down his body. “You can’t—we can’t—”

             
“I can,” He said cheerfully, pulling her down to him. “And we can.”