Chapter Twenty-Five
“A dead body ?” Lord Perlsea jumped to his feet and ran to the windows, where it was impossible to see past two feet.
Verda attempted to rub the chill from her arms through her second-warmest frock. Her hands were clammy, her face hot, her mouth dry. Sitting was out of the question. The muscles in her legs were so tight that if she sat, she feared being able to rise again.
Docia was smoothing her hands over her muslin skirts. “Yes, I’m the one who spotted Cracked,” she told her audience of two and a half—the half being Julius, who’d slept through her entire monologue.
Noah’s mouth hung open, and Verda might have detected a tad of envy there as well. “Cracked Colbert, dead.” He shook his head.
“I’m the future earl, I should have accompanied Uncle Sander and Baldric into the village,” Lord Perlsea bit out.
“Oh, I don’t believe that would have been wise, Lucius,” Docia said. “You’d probably catch your death and that would leave Noah running things, and he’s much too immature compared to you.”
Docia’s youthful affection for the young Lord Perlsea was clearly lost on Noah and, before Verda had time to step between them, Noah’s finger was pointed in the young lady’s face, not quite touching her nose. “You’re nothing but a coddled brat.”
Verda found her feet. “There will be no casting of aspersions, Master Noah.”
“But she—”
“That’s enough. We shall speak later. Miss Docia has a task to complete,” Verda said. Docia groaned and had Verda been able to manage a grin, she would have been forced to hide it. She faced her charges’ upturned faces from her position before the fire, her legs wobbling beneath her skirts. “We’ll talk, then. Lord Perlsea, come away from the windows. Make certain you place the coverings back in place.”
“These ugly, black curtains are abhorrent.”
“That may well be, but they go far in keeping the room heated. Come by the fire.” She invited the small group. “Now, shall we continue with Elizabeth Fulhame’s experiments?” She was a little surprised that her voice held only the minutest tremor.
*
Dusk had set in by the time Sander staggered into his chamber. A difficult feat, as his body was as responsive as an icicle on the Arctic Circle. The frigid rain hadn’t ceased the entire day. He shivered then forced himself to disrobe.
All day, thoughts of Verda had haunted him. Her terror-stricken eyes in the depths of the trees, her stilled body, as if she’d grown roots like the trees surrounding them. Docia had shown less shock. Sander’s instincts had been honed since the age of six when he’d stood outside his mother’s chamber to have his father slamming the door in his face, never again to see his mother alive.
Those instincts now screamed at him. A shrill so intense, he was tempted to cover his ears.
And yet Verda had patted his arm, condescendingly so, telling him she didn’t require saving. But if that was so, who would be there to save her from the ghosts so prevalent behind her dark-green eyes?
Fletcher entered his chamber hoisting the copper tub on his shoulders, followed by a couple of younger imps with pails of steaming water he’d requested.
Within an hour, Sander, now warmed through, refreshed and dressed modestly but comfortably, was equipped enough to face the uncertainties and contradictions that crafted the enigma that made up Miss Verda Fairclough. He suspected it wouldn’t matter how long it took to know her. He would never learn enough to satisfy his curiosity.
Never .
The walk to her chamber was long and cold, but the anticipation of her flaming hair flowing over his fingers heated his blood. Whether or not she would allow such liberties mattered little. He spotted a stream of candlelight flickering beneath her door and rather than tapping at the bedchamber door where he suspected Lizzie was still residing, he approached the sitting room, as decorum dictated. He was only there to check on her, he assured himself.
He knocked lightly.
The door creaked back. “Mr. Oshea?”
The sight of that dark-red hair, drawn over one shoulder in a loose braid and clasped in her hand, sent his fantasies into a zealous riot that surged the fire in his veins to sweltering. He tamped back the urge to pull her into his arms. “I came to see how you were faring?” The words came out raspy.
“Well, thank you.” Rubbing her upper arms contradicted her actual words. Body language spoke volumes. She was not well, thank you .
“May we speak?”
She glanced toward the door leading to the smaller bedchamber, not the master bedchamber of the suite. “Of course.” She stepped back. The gray frock she wore did nothing for her fair complexion. She should be wrapped in silks, lace, and the finest muslins.
He stepped by her and was inundated by the powdery violet he would never be able to banish from his senses. “Lizzie?”
She smiled. “You will be thrilled to know she has retaken residence in the smaller chamber. At her insistence, of course. Would you care for tea?”
“I would, indeed.”
She took a seat on the settee, where a book lay face down. She swept it up, closed it, and set it aside. She poured out a cup.
“Two sugars,” he said.
She stirred in the sugar, the delicate China tinkling, then held it out.
“What happened to you? In the forest,” he added, as if she needed clarification.
The cup rattled and he quickly rescued it from her trembling fingers. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”
Without a single sip, he set the tea on the low table and shifted to beside her on the settee, took her hands in his. White and bloodless fingers told a different story than her mumbled words.
“Verda, what happened out there? I’ve never seen you…” He shook his head searching for the right word. “So… distressed.”
She pulled her hands from his. “It was nothing.”
“ Nothing ? Do not insult my intelligence, madam.” With an inward wince at his sharpness, another thought struck him and he pinned her with a hard stare. “What was Lizzie inferring when she mentioned nightmares?”
Her emerald eyes glittered with self-contempt. She again reached for the pot of tea, but he brushed her away and refilled her cup himself. He tipped a dab of milk and started for the sugar.
“No sugar,” she said, her voice not yet controlled, quaking.
He waited for her to say something. Anything.
Then… “Do you wish to enter a liaison?” Her question knocked the breath from him. And everything else in his puerile brain.
What of marriage— he wanted to rail. “In a heartbeat,” he whispered, setting her cup beside his. He lifted his fingers, touching all that red fire dangling over her shoulder. Closing his eyes, he brought a handful to his nose and breathed in spring at the height of winter. Was there anything more delectable? He couldn’t think of a single thing.
Her cold fingers lay over his. He flipped his hand and encased them, willing his warmth through her.
Sander leaned in, his head angled, and breathed in the gentle scent of her essence that mingled with the powdery violets. He rested one of her palms to his cheek. Its coolness was a soothing balm to his heated skin. He turned his lips to the softness of the inside of her wrist and, unable to resist, flicked out his tongue, smiled at her sharp gasp. His eyes opened and he glanced at the maid’s sleeping chamber. “Are we safe from intrusion here?” he whispered.
“No,” she returned.
“How shall we remedy that, Verda?” He was still smiling.
“I-I suppose we should remove ourselves… to my bedchamber.”
“A very sound notion.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. He swooped in for a quick, hard kiss, lest she thought to change her mind.
He needn’t have worried. Her fingers clenched in his long-sleeved linen shirt. He pulled back. “Lead the way, my sweet.”
To his relief, she didn’t hesitate. He took no chances, however, keeping her hand hostage.
Only after entering her chamber did he release his hold to stir up the embers in the hearth and toss on more fuel.
His lady was not missish. She went around the chamber lighting candles before coming to his side and taking his hand. “You’re so warm,” she said. Her face was downturned to the link connecting them.
Sander brought her hand to his lips and brushed her knuckles. “Yes, and you’ll be as well.”
She shivered.
He let go of her hand and placed his on her shoulders and spun her about. He leaned in and dropped tiny kisses along the long length of her neck, testing its sensitivity with the tip of his tongue. “You will instruct me to stop at the first instance of uncertainty. Am I clear on this?” He nibbled between words, his fingers deftly at work on the fastenings, his proficiency because he’d visualized the task so often. Only every night since he’d met her.
“So masterful you are, Mr. Oshea.” Her teasing, confident tone encouraged him.
The dress parted and he spun her to face him again. “Who is mastering whom, I wonder?” he whispered against those full, red lips. Her mouth parted and he tenderly accepted the invitation. His tongue caressed hers—better, her tongue explored his. His body coiled with a hunger that would not be satisfied with food, drink, even mild kisses. His cock was primed for her.
Only her.
He tugged her frock from her shoulders, pooling it at their feet. Her corset plumped her breasts, offering hardened nipples through the sheer chemise for his taking. He found the corset tie at her lower back and tugged it free, then loosened the boning.
All the while, her tongue chasing his, intensifying his craving until he was fit for the lunatic asylum. His erection pressed against her stomach, leaving no doubt of his desire. Her corset sagged and with a pained curse, he broke from her luscious mouth.
“What—”
“Shh. How am I to concentrate?” Concentrate ? He was not jesting. His fingers trembled with the fastenings. But success was imminent and he dropped the offending garment to the floor. He freed the stays, sending them by way of her dress and corset, then brought his hands up filled with her chemise.
She lifted her arms for him to pull it over her head. He sent it flying and floating like a cloud. His hands landed on her back and drew her into him, her breast warm against his still too-clothed torso.
Her fingers crept behind his neck, her body pressing closer. It seemed she couldn’t get close enough.
Not for him. Not until he could seed himself deep, feel the snug sheath of her inner fire.
Verda fumbled with the tie on his shirt. She tugged it from his breeches. He bent, giving her the same advantage he’d been granted. She sent her prize sailing and landing gracefully over a chair.
She started for his breeches, but he clasped her by the wrists and held her arms for a look at her. His gaze raked her body. Her breasts, the size of ripe peaches, beckoned—his mouth watered. The curling hair at her apex matched the hair on her head, all red fire. He smoothed his palms under her arms, his thumbs brushing her nipples and pebbling them to stiff nibs. The silkiness of her skin was irresistible as he made his way to her waist and flattened his hand on her stomach, inching his way through the dark curls and the dampness between her legs.
She let out a squeaked, “Oh.”
He went on one knee and took the left breast in his mouth. A second later, he went for the right one. He burrowed his nose between them, brought his hands up on each side and cupped the perfectly shaped mounds, moaning.
Her knees wobbled and he came to his feet. They needed more stable ground for the play he envisioned.
He swept her from her feet and carried her to the bed. The spicy scent beneath the powdery violets overwhelmed him. He stood her before him and drew back the coverlets.
“Your breeches. You don’t perform with them on…” Her brows furrowed. Adorably so. “Do you?”
“Not on your life,” he growled, and he shucked them then swept her up and dropped her in the middle of his new leisure palace—a bed with the woman he couldn’t imagine being in one without.
She landed with an “Oof.”
He crawled up beside her and took her mouth with unfettered restraint. Her response was nothing short of Eden. Her mouth open, receptive, the giving and taking of unspoken promises. Her hands began their own exploration, searing a river of fire over his skin.
Exhilarating.
Enlightening.
Freeing.
If he didn’t slow things down…
He didn’t dare allow her near his cock. One feathered touch and it would be over. He flipped her to her back and laughed at another of her quick, surprised, “Oofs.”
He pushed her knees apart. “Time to feast.”
“ Feast ?”
“Will you be squealing like a mouse all night, my love?” He licked the inside of one thigh.
She gasped. “I fear so.”
He inched closer to his treasure.
“Are you certain what you are doing is legal?”
“If not, we shall perish together.” He dove in, for the spice that had been teasing him for what seemed years.
She squirmed beneath him and he grasped her hips to still her. She rocked against his mouth until she stiffened and flooded his senses with her release. He pressed his tongue against the living pulse of her then licked his way up her delectable body.
He rested his forearms on either side of her, kissed her. She didn’t repel the taste of her on his lips. No. Not in the least. She returned his ardor with great enthusiasm. No hesitation.
Desperation rippled through him. He positioned himself at the core of her heat. His cock twitched. Her dampness drew him like a magnetic force. He pushed into her tight intimate channel. So snug. He pulled back and pushed again. Pull back, push in. “I’m sorry,” he gasped, doing all he could to control the impulse to surge.
“No—”
He froze, unable to contain the pain-filled moan.
“Don’t… stop,” she panted. “ Please .”
It was all he needed to hear—and he plunged forward.
Her legs wrapped his hips and he was gone, his mind a clean slate, his senses filled with scents of soft violets and tangy spice. His lips registered the satiny glide of her shoulder. He bit down lightly then licked. Her nails dug into his buttocks and he flew over the cliffs, pumping his seed into her, blinded by the bursts of white exploding behind his closed eyes.
“God,” he whispered against her shoulder. He couldn’t quite make himself shift to her side, but neither could he sag against her.
She drew her knees up alongside him and wriggled. His over-sensitized cock screamed. He moved one hand between them and pressed against the top of her sex. “Oh. Oh. Oh. Yessss.” The squeal was back, but it sounded nothing like a mouse.
He maintained the pressure until the panting against his shoulder gave way to her cry and her body once more pulsed against the still-hard rod of his penis.
Seconds later, he forced himself to pull from her snug sheath and fell to her side, tugging her atop him, the silence in the chamber broken only by their shared, harsh breaths.
“I hurt you?” he asked.
“Never.” Her soft whisper sated his heart with tenderness.
He rolled from the bed.
“You’re leaving?”
“Never,” he returned, smiling. Sander leaned in and dropped a kiss on her puckered lips before rising. The basin of water on the sideboard held fresh water, he was relieved to see, though cool. Something they could both use. He dipped a cloth and wrung it out. “This will help any soreness you experience.”
“No, I don—”
He shot her a leering grin. “Spread your legs, darling. I’ll be gentle.”
She threw an arm over her eyes but did as he bid, gasping at the cold, as he could discern from the heat through the cloth.
He cleaned her up then rinsed the cloth, noting the smear of blood. The sight constricted his throat as he rinsed it as clean as he could get it then spread it out near the fire. He gathered their clothes in the event of a catastrophic moment then pinched out each candle’s flame before crawling back in the bed. He took her in his arms, drawing his fingers through the red fire of her hair. “How do you feel?”
Her smile curved against his bare shoulder. “Debauched. Thoroughly and decadently debauched.” She nuzzled her nose over his skin. “And quite sleepy.”
“Then, sleep. I shall maintain a vigil for intruders.”
“Lovely,” she whispered. Seconds later, she relaxed beside him and her breathing leveled out.
Sander didn’t wish to sleep. He wished to relive the magnetic forces and wondered briefly if his lustful partner had any knowledge of the illustrious Oersted and his studies on electromagnetism. The thought rendered a grin. But it faded soon enough as the intruding thought of how he could manage to convince her to marry him. It felt as if he were walking a tightly woven rope constructed of thread.
He tugged her close, reveling in her body next to his and how right his world was in that moment. Perhaps he could guilt her into accepting his suit…
She would abhor that. Resent him for any kind of manipulation. Frustrated, he buried his nose in her hair and inhaled, deeply. The essence of her flowed through his veins and he fiddled with the silky strands of her hair.
The motion acted as a balm and with it, brought on the ability to let go, until drowsiness and the sense of contentment drifted over the chamber. Over him.
He could close his eyes… just for a moment.