Chapter Nine
Once more, Malcolm Brown awoke mid-orgasm.
But this one, he immediately knew, was different from all the ones that had ever come before.
Because this time, the woman in his arms was real.
She was plump and delectable and completely nude.
He had his face pressed into her citrus-scented auburn hair.
And while he wasn’t buried inside her, the way that he would usually be in his dream, his cock had somehow wedged itself between her ample thighs.
He could feel, though, the sweet, wet pressure of her quim on the top of his cock, even though he wasn’t inside her.
And he was coming, actually coming, between her thighs, not within her.
The pleasure was more than he had ever experienced.
Because, after all, it was his first time holding any woman in his arms in such a carnal embrace. Never mind this type of carnal embrace.
So, when he came, which he was very much at the moment doing, he cried out, both in pleasure and in complete and utter shock and dismay.
Because he had no idea how this woman had come to be in his bed. And he had no idea why he was currently embracing her as if they were lovers.
Nevertheless, he spilled between her thighs, coating them with his own slick wetness, of which there was an indecent amount, it seemed to him, even in his half-conscious state, and marking her as if he had a right.
She startled in his arms, flinching, and then let out her own cry.
With surprising strength, she pushed herself away from him, leaping off the bed and toward the far wall.
Moonlight, unusually bright, streamed through the window, allowing him to see her even in the darkness.
She turned toward him, panting, and he realized, with a strange drop in his stomach, that he knew this woman.
She wasn’t the figment from his dream made real.
She was Miss Scarlett Perkins.
And if he had thought she looked beautiful at dinner, well…
His mouth parted as he took in her strong, full thighs, the delicious soft swell of her stomach, the thatch of hair over her quim, and her round, achingly large breasts—
“Mr. Brown!” She gasped.
A whoosh of cotton fell over the dream before him. He realized, with a shock, that she hadn’t actually been nude. She was wearing a chemise—it had only been pushed up—by him?—over her breasts.
“I-I-I…” He truly had no idea what to say.
He was not usually a wordsmith, as their dinner that evening had proven, but this experience of speechlessness was beyond anything he had ever experienced.
After all, he had just emptied his bollocks between her thighs.
“Mr. Brown!” Scarlett repeated in the same whisper-scream.
It was difficult to think of her as Miss Perkins in this scenario.
“I will bring the whole house down on us.”
“Please…” He gasped.
“Did you come into my room with the intention of defiling me?”
For a moment, Malcolm felt his entire existence flash before his eyes. The room seemed to spin before him.
Had he?
He had only had one glass of wine at dinner, but had he fallen into some kind of drunken lust and assaulted Miss Perkins like a beast? Stumbled into her room and set upon her?
God knew, he had fantasized about her before falling asleep. Hell, he had ached with lust for her. Had he walked to her room while sleeping? Was that the depth of his depravity?
He was, after all, his father’s son. After a lifetime of inhibiting his baser impulses, perhaps his frayed, lust-addled consciousness had been unable to bear the thought of Miss Scarlett asleep a few rooms down from his own without setting upon her.
He imagined Mrs. Salisbury finding out about what he had just done. What it would do to the house party. To George. To Parkhorne.
Would anyone want to marry George when his brother had committed such a crime?
His thoughts went further. Would they call the constable? He could be brought up for rape, he was sure. He imagined himself imprisoned, disgraced, perhaps hanged.
For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.
And then he realized one simple fact.
They were in his room.
Not hers.
He had come into his room—of course he knew his own room—earlier this evening and fallen asleep in his bed. And he was still in it.
“Miss Perkins,” he managed, “we are in my room.”
“Nonsense,” she bit off. “I was shown into this room earlier today.”
“That may be,” he said, trying to find a logical explanation for this catastrophic mishap.
“If so, I was never informed. Because I have slept in this room every night for the past twelve years. Check the closet if you must. You’ll find it filled with my things.
And those are my books on the shelves. You can ask anyone. ”
They stared at one another. Her eyes were wide with alarm, fear even—and perhaps something else. Something strange that he couldn’t name.
“I-I that isn’t my fault,” she spluttered. “I was shown into it. I was told it was to be my own for this month.”
They merely stared at one another, then.
“Of course,” he finally rasped. “It was a mistake. Neither of us knew the other was here. I came in and got into bed in the dark. I was tired. I fell immediately asleep. It never occurred to me that I wasn’t alone.”
“And as to what happened next?” she hissed. “I was asleep. What is your excuse?”
“As was I,” he countered. “I didn’t realize that you were in the bed, not until—” He swallowed, remembering how he had awakened. He cringed, imagining how her thighs must be wet with his spend. “I awoke.”
A hot, possessive wave sluiced through him.
He liked it, beast that he was.
He liked knowing he had marked her.
Bastard.
Scoundrel.
“You were asleep?” she countered.
“Yes,” he said. “I sleep very deeply. As, it appears, do you.”
They stared at each other once more—her gaze laced with suspicion. He had no problem believing that she had been asleep during their intimate embrace. Her gasp and her wide-eyed expression convinced him that she had been totally unconscious.
She shook her head. “You expect me to believe that you were asleep? I can believe, Mr. Brown, that the servants mixed up the bedrooms, but you expect me to believe that you grabbed a woman unknown to you and-and-and…” She trailed off, clearly unable to describe what had transpired between them. “All while asleep.”
He realized, with dawning horror, that he needed to convince her.
“I am very sorry,” he said quickly, sitting up in fervor, and then realizing that he was completely unclothed. “I know it must seem incredible. But it is true.”
“I don’t see any reason I shouldn’t inform Mrs. Salisbury and everyone else in the house of this,” she hissed. “And you’ll be taken in by the constable!”
“Please,” he heard himself begging. “You must believe me. I was asleep, and I—”
He closed his eyes. He had no idea what to say to convince her. He only knew he needed to keep speaking.
“I understand that for a lady, what has happened here, and with me, must be nothing short of disgusting to you. And for that, I am deeply sorry.” He opened his eyes again.
She was looking at him with an expression poised between horror and plain hatred.
“I think I didn’t wake because—it is embarrassing to admit, since I have never told another living soul.
But I have these dreams, you see,” he continued, reaching for anything that might provide a plausible explanation.
“Where I am with a woman. As we just were. Or nearly. Lately, I have had them almost every night. Perhaps that is why I didn’t … I just thought it was a dream.”
She crossed her arms, and he was sure he was doomed.
“Very well,” she whispered finally, looking away from him. “We must tell no one.”
“Of course. Whatever you desire.” He said the words without thinking, relieved that she seemed to have abandoned the idea of going to the constable or, worse, Mrs. Salisbury.
But then he realized, with fresh horror, that he had just spilled between the thighs of this woman. He might not be an expert in London society, but he was pretty sure that act qualified as ruining her.
God, he was an idiot.
Of course, the answer was clear. There had been no need to tell her about his dreams. God, he was pathetic.
“We must marry,” he blurted out. “I have my honor … and your virtue. We have been too intimate. It has already gone too far.”
“What?” she spat out.
“We must marry.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she whispered. “We are not going to marry.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
“Listen here, Mr. Brown. Nothing fatal happened. It was a terrible mistake—and terribly improper. But as we are the only two souls who know what just transpired, we have the chance to recover from this cruel perversion of fate and save ourselves.”
Of course, he realized with stunning clarity, she did not want to marry him.
For her, marrying him—what did he have to offer her?
—was probably nothing short of a death sentence.
And she was correct, of course. While they had engaged in a gross impropriety, they had done nothing that anyone might ever discover.
He was fairly certain, from his years on the farm and his knowledge of the world, that what he had done would not get her with child.
“If that is your wish,” he said stiffly.
“Of course it is my wish. We hardly know each other.”
Her other, unsaid criticisms of him hung in the room—unspoken but very much present.
He was uncouth, a bore, a lech, a rough countryman who could never belong with a polished, elegant lady like herself.
He bowed his head, hating how her judgment stung him. He hated how much he cared.
“We will get through the rest of this party,” she said. “And never tell a soul.”
He met her eyes. “And if our siblings marry? Will we just keep this secret for the rest of our lives?”
“Obviously,” she retorted tartly. “I am sure we will both forget about it in time.”
He found himself almost angry at her insistence. He wanted to say more, to be cruder in his words. We will keep it a secret that I have spilled between your thighs? That I have held you as no man should hold a woman who is not his wife?
He imagined long years stretched out between them, all the intervals in which he would see her, and how he would long for her and think of this mishap. He already knew how he would yearn.
“Surely you cannot think I could ever forget this,” he snapped.
“Mr. Brown,” she said. “If you are a gentleman, you will.”
Shame rushed through him. She was right, of course. He was no gentleman, but he had his own sense of honor.
“I will leave you, then,” he said, his voice strangled. “And I will forget.”
“Thank you,” she said, flushing even deeper.
Her beautiful complexion was nearly crimson. Scarlet. Scarlett. Christ. How had this happened.
“Avert your eyes. I must dress.”
She turned toward the wall and, like the bastard he was, he admired the sweet curves just visible underneath her chemise. The ones that had minutes before been pressed up against him—
He bit back a moan. No. He deserved to be flayed for these thoughts. It proved that he was no better than his father.
He drew back the coverlet and quickly dressed in the clothes he had left out the night before, when he had come into his room in the dark. He had lit no candle, used to moving in this darkness. He had wondered why her scent was all around him. Well, now he knew the reason.
When he was dressed, he said to her, “You may turn around.”
But she didn’t. “Just go. Please.”
For some reason, he wanted her to watch him take his leave. He felt—and he knew it wasn’t fair—that they had shared something together that was unmistakably intimate. He wanted her to feel that way too. But she didn’t, and he needed to accept that.
“Very well. Goodnight, Miss Perkins.”
And he left.