16 - The Lady’s （Continued） Delight
16
The Lady’s (Continued) Delight
When Archie opened his door to Clementine’s knock around ten o’clock—he, too, had begged off early, though not as early as she had; someone had to be responsible for keeping up appearances—she began talking the moment she entered the room.
“I may not have a great deal of practical experience, but as we have discussed, I have always been a great observer of nature.”
“And a good evening to you, too.” Her hair was down, and she wore the same yellow shawl he’d seen on her several times. She looked exceedingly . . . relaxed. She wasn’t wearing her shift, though, so that was something.
“I know for a fact that what we are doing is meant to involve the both of us.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Perhaps I should speak plainly.”
“Please do.”
“I want you to lie with me.”
“I did.”
“You did not.”
He sighed fondly. “Must you be so literal-minded?”
“Must you be so obtuse?”
He wasn’t trying to be. “Did you not enjoy yourself? Wasn’t pleasure the relevant point?”
“I did, and it was, but I want you to enjoy yourself, too.”
“I did!” That was understating the matter entirely.
“You know what I mean!” She huffed a sigh and tilted her head back as if seeking divine patience. He knew the feeling. “Archie, you are not a virgin, are you?”
He laughed, but quickly sobered as he didn’t want her to think he was mocking her. “No—alas.”
“Why ‘alas’?”
Why indeed? He had no idea why he’d said that. “Perhaps you would care to sit down rather than stand arguing just inside the doorway?”
He considered her question as he led her to a sitting area at the far end of the room, under the window. His tongue, without the approval of his brain, had added that alas qualification because some absurd part of Archie, some soft inner core, wanted Clementine to be the first. The only. He shoved the thought aside. It would only muddle his thinking, and the sight of Clem in her yellow shawl with her hair down, as if she were rattling around her own house—with him, so it must be his house, too, in this flight of fancy—late at night was already distracting enough.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not,” she declared, and he realized she hadn’t followed him all the way across the room but had, in fact, stopped near the bed. “That way we’re not both clueless.”
He chuckled, which he was fairly certain had been her aim. “All right, Clem, but we shan’t be lying together in the sense you mean. There is too much risk of getting you with child.”
“But what about the methods to which you alluded? Did you not say there were ways to prevent that?”
“They require an intimate knowledge of your, ah, womanly cycles. They have to do with timing and are suited for a couple that is settled together for some time. And they are never entirely foolproof.” Though he supposed there were French letters, though he didn’t have any. God, though, the thought of getting to be inside her body, of being engulfed by her.
Archie generally thought of himself as an easygoing sort, but his imaginings were making him rather agitated. He cleared his throat. “However, I think I can offer a compromise.”
“How so?”
This kind of talk should have been embarrassing. With her, somehow, it was not. “We can pleasure each other. You can experience the release you did last night, and I can spend, too.”
“Yes, I want you to spend.”
Dear Heavens. She was only stating her desires, and doing so in a moderate, matter-of-fact fashion, but there was something about it that was making him lose hold of himself.
“But, tell me, how will that work?” she asked.
“I wonder if it is better to show you than to discuss it theoretically.”
“Yes.” She let the shawl fall, and although she wasn’t wearing her shift, she also was far from properly dressed. The back of her blue dress had been unbuttoned, so when the shawl fell, so did the entire front of the dress.
“Lord above.” She had perfect breasts. Perfect small handfuls of flesh dotted with the prettiest pink rosebuds. One of them had three freckles on it. He could stare at them forever.
He hadn’t realized he was standing there, frozen like a simpleton, until she, letting the dress slide down her legs, said, “May I suggest that you also disrobe?”
“Yes!” Because why stare at Clem’s breasts when he was allowed to touch them? He made quick work of his clothing, and was gratified when, as he rose, he realized she was staring at him with her mouth hanging slightly open.
Smiling, he walked toward her, his prick at attention, and because they’d already established what was going to happen, he let it make contact with her stomach. That prodded her out of her trance, and she sucked a loud inhalation at the contact. “What do I do?” she said, wonder in her voice.
He bent his head to kiss her, smiling against her lips. “All in good time,” he whispered, walking backward toward the bed, pulling her along with him. She wound her arms around his neck and pasted herself against him as he laid back on it, and, God’s teeth, it felt so good to have the friction of her skin against him.
She was impatient, and wriggled away from him, sat up, and, Heaven help him, took hold of his cock and said, “All in now time. Show me.”
So he did, showing her how to grasp him, and stroke, how to retract his foreskin and let her hand trail over his cockhead the way he liked. He heard a moan rip from his throat as he allowed his eyes to close and his body to go still. He allowed himself to surrender to Clementine Morgan.
But only for a minute. He needed this not to be over just as it was beginning. So he pushed her gently off him and guided her down so she was on her back, swallowing her protests with his mouth, stroking deeply into her mouth with his tongue, letting the throbbing of his prick be like a drumbeat exhorting him to kiss her ever more deeply. Soon, she was moaning, and he loved to hear it. He would never get tired of hearing it. He had to push away the thought. His feelings on the matter were not relevant because he wasn’t going to hear the sound of Clementine moaning anymore, not beyond this trip.
He had been so careful, up till now, not to involve his lower body in their coming together. He’d meant what he said about not wanting to risk getting her with child, not wanting to trap her. He had heard what she said about not wanting to marry. He wasn’t going to be the one to force her into it.
But he also wanted this to be about her. He’d wanted to show her pleasure and care and affection—all the things he feared Clementine Morgan had not had enough of lately, or possibly ever. But now that he had permission to involve his body and not just his mind, he let himself lower his body over hers as they kissed. He let himself rut against her, and, God, it was so good. He felt like he might explode. He wanted to explode, yet at the same time, he wanted this torture to go on forever. When she suddenly wrapped her legs around his waist, he had to bite back a curse. He allowed, for one brief, blindingly glorious moment, the tip of his cock to enter her, just an inch, just for a moment. He did curse then, at the soft heat of her. Making himself pull back, he took himself in hand and slid his cockhead over the pink bud between her legs, used it, along with his thumb, to rub and press until she was panting. “Archie,” she muttered, “Archie.”
“Yes. I’m here.” He kept going, maintaining a steady pace and pressure.
“Archie, it’s more than it was before. I don’t know if I can—” She wailed, but it was a good wail. She began shuddering, and it caused a surge of pressure in his bollocks.
He wanted to wait for her to come down, but he couldn’t, not if he wanted to come with her hand on him. Which he did. He would have given up his title for it. He would be selfish, just this once. “Can you touch me again?” he panted, trying harder than he’d ever tried not to spend.
“Yes!” she exclaimed breathily. “Yes, of course.”
And she did, grasping him like he’d shown her before, squeezing and pumping him.
“Harder,” he exhorted. “Faster.”
She did as he asked, and for a moment, he was afraid he was going to pass out as light exploded in his field of vision.
He did not pass out. Eventually the sparks of light faded and what was left in their place was Clementine. Smiling down at him with her hair wild and her face pink and her eyes dancing.
“That,” she said with a grin, “was most satisfactory.”
* * *
One thing Mother had always told Clementine was to live in the present day. It wasn’t wise, she said, to look too forward to something, because one often ended up disappointed when one actually arrived at the thing one had been so keenly anticipating. Conversely, it was not advised to dread something because that only robbed one of the present day’s joys, flooding one’s day with fears of a future that might or might not come to pass.
It was good advice.
It was also good to remember that though Clementine and her mother were very different, that didn’t mean her mother hadn’t taught her things. Hadn’t loved her.
Oh, she missed Mother so much sometimes.
Still, she couldn’t help it when she said to Archie as she was lying half atop him, half next to him, their legs entangled, “If I found a way to stay at Hill House, we could keep doing this.”
“I suppose we could.”
“You dazzle me with your enthusiasm.”
“It’s nothing personal, Clem. You can tell by the way I am unable to move any of my limbs that I enjoyed myself immensely last night. And this morning.” She smirked. They had napped, but had largely spent hours giving each other pleasure. “But carrying on in this manner, on an indefinite timeline, would be an unconventional arrangement.”
“Would it, though? Don’t men take mistresses all the time?”
“Men might, but I won’t. I would not do that to a wife.”
Of course he wouldn’t. What was this but another example of his robust sense of honor? “Ah. You plan on taking a wife.”
He paused before saying, “It is customary for a man in my position.”
She was taken aback, though she did not know why. Archie had never seemed overly concerned about marrying, but he did have the title to consider, the succession. If he wanted an heir, he would need a wife. Her stomach began to hurt.
Who on earth would Archie marry?
Most likely someone he did not know yet, else he would have already wed. She tried to picture this woman, this ghost-wife. She would be the Countess of Harcourt.
“Well,” she finally said, “we could carry on until that time.”
“No, Clem, we can’t.” Archie sighed, and even as he absently stroked her arm, said, “We should not have done this.”
“You regret it?” She managed to keep the question mild, though his statement shook her. How could she have enjoyed herself so thoroughly, so profoundly, yet his reaction to the same experience was regret?
“Not exactly. I regret . . .” She hadn’t been able to stifle a hurt intake of breath, and he turned his head sharply. Studied her face. “No. No regrets, Clem.”
“We have one more day.”
“Yes.” He sounded sad. She wasn’t sure why that should be a surprise. She suddenly felt rather melancholy.
She knew the solution to that. “I know I’m meant to get up and sneak back to my room. But what if we both get up and sneak outside?” Who needed sleep? She had the rest of her life to sleep. “We could have a ramble before we need to leave for Doveborough. Just a quick one?”
A slow smile blossomed on his impossibly dear face. “Yes.” The smile grew wicked. She wondered what he was thinking about. “Let us ramble.”
* * *
What Archie regretted, what he hadn’t told Clem, was that now he was going to know what he was missing. Cutting things off after this holiday was going to be hard enough. Doing so after her proposed time-limited affair would be impossible. He felt strongly that he wasn’t going to offer Clem a carte blanche. Even if he did, even if he could see his way past the revulsion the notion inspired, it would only be a matter of time until they were caught, or she accidentally fell pregnant. She would be forced to marry him. And the one thing Archie knew with certainty was that he was never going to be the man to force Clementine Morgan to do what she despised: hunting, marrying, any of it.
As they strode out through the gardens just as the sun was coming up, he considered trying to explain. But his speech would be inelegant, and she would only argue with him. He told himself not to think overmuch on the matter. They had today. And tonight.
As soon as they cleared the gardens and entered the forest, he took her hand. Spun her around as if they were performing a Scottish reel among the trees. She laughed, and as their spin wound down, he walked her backward and pressed her gently up against the trunk of a large oak.
“We don’t have time!” she laughingly protested as he tugged down her bodice and bent his head to kiss the small mounds of breasts exposed by his adjustment.
“We do, though!”
“But it took ever so long this morning. Last night. Whenever.”
“That was by design. It needn’t take long.” He was fairly confident he had her measure and could deliver a most expedient release.
“Elaborate.”
He dropped to his knees.
“What are you doing?”
“Applying myself to the task at hand.” He lifted her skirts and handed them to her. “Hold these.”
He moved aside her small clothes and kissed between her legs.
“Archie!” she exclaimed.
“Shh.” They didn’t have much time, so, with regret, he dispensed with further teasing, and spread her inner lips with one hand. Let his mouth come down on the pink bud he found there.
“Archie,” she said, her voice a low warning, a bit uncertain.
He paused. “Trust me?”
“Of course.”
The speed and vehemence with which she answered shot a bolt of lust down his spine. He lowered his mouth again, and licked. When she gasped, he did it again. And again, with a bit more pressure each time. Dear Lord. She was soft and vulnerable and somehow also like a gale-force wind, whipping his entire body, his entire being, into a frenzy.
It wasn’t long before she was moaning, and, judging by what he’d observed about the sounds she made when she was close to release, he calibrated his ministrations so he began sucking as her moans deepened.
It only took another few moments until she was fluttering beneath him. Like a foolish, unschooled boy, he ripped open his breeches, took himself in hand, stroked, and soon he was joiningher.
Mindful of the time, he forced himself to stand, took her skirts back from her, smoothed them, and adjusted her bodice. “There. No sign whatsoever of what has just occurred.”
He was tucking himself back into his breeches, when she stopped him. Her hand came to rest on his prick gently, but her tone contained a distinct note of pique when she said, “I wanted to do that.”
He laughed. “My apologies. Time was of the essence.”
She pouted, looking for a moment very like her sister. “Well, what I really wanted was for you to lie with me. In the true way. Right here against this tree. Is that scandalous?”
Oh, how he wanted to lie her down on a blanket of pine needles and push into her. Or to do so against the tree, like she’d said. To pretend for a moment that he was a country boy, without the weight of title and society and marriage and the like. Without a mother who didn’t know him. Clem could be a country lass, always and forever free to roam the land—and perhaps inclined to allow him to roam alongside her from time to time.
“Not scandalous,” he said. “But also not practical. I will not risk getting you with child.” He almost added, “Because then you’d have to marry me,” just to see what her reaction would be.
But he didn’t. Because he already knew. She’d told him half a dozen times in no uncertain terms that she was opposed to marrying—she’d likened it to captivity. And she’d told him men never listened to her.
He did. It was the one thing he knew how to give her. “Not that I didn’t enjoy what did just occur,” Clem said. “I rather think that was scandalous.”
“Depends whom you ask, I suppose.”
“Let me see your shoulder,” she said suddenly, reaching for the loosened neck of his shirt. He was in his shirtsleeves, not having bothered donning a waistcoat or coat for their ramble. His exertions beneath her skirts had discomposed him, and the edge of the wound from her shot at the inn nearly a fortnight ago—a lifetime ago—was visible in a way it probably had not been in the dim candlelight of his bedchamber.
He pulled his shirt back into place. “No.”
“Let me see it.”
“No.” He wasn’t sure why he was being so obstinate. Part of it, he supposed, was that although he had teased her for being the cause of the injury, he didn’t want her to truly feel bad. He was fine. “You merely grazed me. It is well on its way to healing. There very likely won’t even be a scar.”
Absurdly, he wished there would be. It could serve as a memento of sorts of Earls Trip 1821, which he was quite confident would stand the test of time as the most extraordinary Earls Trip ever.
If he was lucky enough to scar, he would run his fingers over the mark in the months and years to come and think of Clementine Morgan.
The notion was disconcerting. He shoved the image down, took a step—a large one—away from Clementine, and put his attire to rights. He had a turtle race to attend.