Chapter 18
Violet was in the study, leafing through the pamphlets she’d discovered on foot scald and fleece rot, when Benedict finally returned home that afternoon.
He was dusty and a little rumpled, with dark curls poking every which way atop his head. Quite honestly, he appeared exactly as she most desired him.
“How did your meeting with Mr. Hayward go?” She set down the pamphlets on his desk, leaning against the sturdy wooden surface as he came forward to greet her. Of all the matters swirling through her head, that one currently took precedence.
“It was productive, I suppose. He confirmed as I suspected: he’d never heard tell of any river diversion arrangement.
” Benedict joined her at the desk, his long limbs uncharacteristically slack as he, too, rested his weight against it.
“We spoke again with Mr. Clark, the solicitor, who produced Denham’s so-called irrigation deed.
It was signed by Aldercombe’s former land agent, Mr. Morris, and witnessed by another solicitor who just so happens also to be deceased.
How convenient for the lordling that the men supposedly involved in this deed are no longer around to refute it. ”
His mouth took on a sardonic tilt, and his fingers tightened into a ball before splaying across the thigh of his black trousers. “Nonetheless, Mr. Clark thinks he’ll be able to disprove its validity. Hopefully before Denham makes much headway with dam repair.”
He set to work on removing his gloves, then raked a hand through his disheveled hair—not that it did anything to contain the one curl hanging over his forehead.
“I hope so.” She managed a small smile. “That’s a promising development.”
He nodded, his hands suddenly back in his lap. His brow became tight with concentration as he peered at her, his eyes very dark. “Is everything well here?”
“Yes.” She spat out the word quickly. Too quickly.
She had so much to tell him—the news of her sister’s betrothal announcement, the story of the pamphlet on the doorstep.
However, looking into his solemn face, inhaling the outdoor scent of him—air and earth and a trace of something masculine—she didn’t want to reveal any of it.
As soon as she uttered the words, this moment of tentative calm would be blasted to pieces, and she couldn’t bear setting disaster upon him.
Not yet, when he’d just stepped foot through the door, on the verge of feeling optimistic.
She summoned another half-smile, forcing lightness into her tone.
“Quite well, although I’m afraid there won’t be much on the dinner table this evening.
Most of the servants have already gone to enjoy the Whitsun festivities.
” Off to Dayleford, where they’d be immersed in merriment, their responsibilities out of mind for the night.
An idea began turning in her head. “We could go, too,” she said. “There will be music, games, dancing, and more ale than anyone has a right to drink.”
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Benedict frowned. “I’m not certain.”
No, he wouldn’t be, would he? He didn’t drink ale. He likely didn’t dance, either, or play mindless games, or do anything that could be considered unrestrained or frivolous.
Not usually, anyway.
The memory sprang forward of him tumbling into the bath. Of the hardness of his manhood, her nipples between his lips.
Why did she think of that now, when this fragile moment of peace was about to get pulled out from under them? Why, despite everything that had happened this day, did the curl on his forehead cause heat to pool between her legs? Why did even the hint of sweat on his skin have to smell appealing?
“We can stay home if you prefer.” Her voice came out throatier than she’d imagined it would. Her lashes flickered maybe a touch too coquettishly. “We’re very nearly alone in the house.”
Had she really spoken that last part aloud? She hadn’t intended to, although the subtle twitch in his jaw revealed that yes, in fact, she had.
His spine became taller. His shoulders more rigid. Yet instead of backing away, he stayed very near.
Very near, very dark and alluring and male, and while she’d vowed she wouldn’t push him, that she’d let him come to her on his own terms, she needed just a taste.
She brushed her lips against his, the severe line of his mouth surprisingly soft to the touch.
That was all she took before drawing back so she could see his face and examine each sharp angle and contour.
Had she startled him? Pleased him? She didn’t know what his expression meant, only that he remained still.
Studious. Only knew that the air in the study suddenly felt cloying, and she heard him draw in a breath, detected the slight movement of his chest.
It was the last thing to hit her awareness before his mouth crashed into hers, and he was stroking her, nipping at the edges of her lips, pulling her close.
Lord, he felt good. The pressure of his mouth, the caresses of his tongue, the weight of his palm against her nape.
She combed her fingers through his hair, losing herself in the pleasure of their embrace.
Moaning as his free hand skirted the edge of her bodice, and he dragged it down to capture her nipple amidst the layers of muslin.
She had no business wanting him this much. Not right now, when two disastrous revelations loomed over her head, demanding to be shared with him.
But if anything, wasn’t that a reason to give in to desire? To keep the truth at bay for just a little longer? Suddenly, something burned even hotter than her own need: a need to give him pleasure, to see him loose and unraveled and sated before circumstances rendered him tense and distant.
She broke the kiss, pulling away from the blissful attention he bestowed upon her breast, so she could drop to her knees in front of him. It gratified her to lay eyes on the telltale bulge tenting his trousers, and an answering surge of desire pulsed between her legs.
Slowly, she brought her hands to his hips, then dragged her fingers inward to the top buttons of his fall.
He hissed out a breath, his thighs jerking against the desk, his fingers seizing her chignon and pulling her head up so her eyes locked with his. Those glittering depths filled with raw, insistent need.
“Will you let me touch you?” she whispered, her fingertips hovering over the buttons. So, so close, but just above the polished silver surface. “I want to touch you.”
There was a moment of silence, of anticipation, for his lips were clamped together far too tightly for speech. After another beat, however, came the motion of his chin. A brisk, barely there nod.
With her heart pounding, she recaptured the buttons, her attention returning to what was right in front of her. Deliberately, carefully, she slipped each one free—giving him the opportunity to stop her if he had second thoughts.
He didn’t stop her, though. Didn’t do anything but grip her hair and take ragged breaths, the muscles beneath his trousers visibly tight.
She was unsure where the sound came from when she undid the final button and his fall dropped. Was it his gasp? Hers? She’d never seen a man’s … manhood in real life, and the sight robbed the air from her lungs. He was swollen and ruddy, thick—
Hot. She placed her hand near the base of him, the heat setting her nerve endings ablaze. His skin was like fire, like silk, and so very hard beneath.
She curled her fingers, tentatively stroking toward the tip.
He likes that. At least, that’s what she took the hitch in his breath to mean.
Emboldened, she slid her fingers down and back up again, squeezing a little harder.
That’s what the women in the pamphlets had done.
An act that had caused the men in the stories to shudder and groan and shout all manner of adoring—and salacious—words.
Benedict could be brought to completion this way as well; she was nearly certain of it.
Except she didn’t wish to stop with only her hands.
He’d granted her the searing pleasure of his mouth upon her breasts, and she wanted him to experience that pleasure, too.
Wanted, for herself, to know how that combination of velvet and steel would feel beneath her lips. How it would taste.
Thanks to the pamphlets, she knew such things were done. In Benedict’s—no, Alexander’s—story of the three merry kitchen maids, the groom they favored had liked the act very much, indeed.
She stilled her hand at the base of his shaft, leaning forward to press her mouth to the head and give it the tiniest caress with her tongue.
“Jesus, Violet.” His body jolted, his erection springing free of her lips. “Fuck.”
She recoiled, heartbeat stuttering, stomach plunging. “Did I hurt you? Do you not like it?”
“No, but …” His face tautened with hard creases, making him appear as if in agony. “It’s … it’s the middle of the day. In the study. It’s … not honorable for me to want such a thing from you.”
So, that was the problem. The last tattered thread of his restraint, fighting to maintain its hold.
As far as she was concerned, restraint could go hang. There would be plenty of time for that later, when she revealed the truth of what she’d discovered today. For this one brief span of time, though …
“It’s what I desire,” she said, drawing near to him again—close enough that he would feel her breath upon his shaft.
“What I want to do for you. But if you think it unsuitable …” She shrugged as if her thighs weren’t wet with her arousal.
As if every inch of her body weren’t buzzing with the force of her need.
“Perhaps I should leave. Perhaps I should get off my knees, retire to the drawing room, and spend the rest of the day perusing the agricultural pamphlets I found. Do you think I should do that, Benedict?”
His eyes were huge. Black. His thighs quivering. She could see the battle within him, the way he grappled with the potency of primal desire.