Chapter Twenty-Eight
After their waltz, Malcolm felt so heated that he couldn’t bear another dance.
And he couldn’t march Scarlett out of the ballroom, either, and take her into the nearest closet as he would prefer.
Which left taking her to get a refreshment.
This plan ended up being more pleasant than he had expected. He had imagined standing next to Scarlett in an infernal riot of lust, unable to form sentences because all his blood was in his cock.
And, yes, he meant that literally, as he was currently sporting a rather stiff one.
Luckily, however, they found a private corner where he could actually hear what she was saying.
They could see the dancers, and he watched as her gaze fell upon Severn, who seemed to have gotten over the worst of his foul humor and was now dancing with Miss Wallington.
“Ah, good, he isn’t moping any longer,” Malcolm said with a chuckle. “My brothers all seem to be rather volatile these days. Well, except George, of course. But he has always had an unusually excellent temperament.”
“What do you mean? About Severn?” she said, alarm evident in her voice.
“Oh, Severn was in a pet earlier this evening. Anyone could see it.”
“Do you know why?”
“Not the slightest idea. Frankly, I don’t try to fathom Severn’s moods. He has become so urbane that none of us can puzzle him out—other than Beatrice, of course. She will be glad to see that he’s dancing with Miss Wallington.”
“Why is that?”
“I think she hopes they might take a fancy to each other,” Malcolm said, happy to let Scarlett into this harmless piece of matchmaking on his sister’s part. “I believe she thinks their natures may suit. And it would certainly be an advantageous match for Severn, in regard to fortune.”
“Do you believe he cares for her?”
He shrugged. He wasn’t sure why Scarlett was curious about Severn’s feelings for Miss Wallington, although the two did certainly make a handsome pair on the floor.
“I don’t presume to know.”
“I have never understood Miss Wallington setting her cap at George. And now I wonder if Severn explains it,” she said contemplatively, and then she went a bit pale. “Not to disparage George,” she said quickly. “He is a fine match.”
He laughed. He liked that she was a little more plainspoken than she should be. He found that it just suited him. At that thought, an uncomfortable ache set in at his breastbone. Dear God, he was in danger.
“Given that you are happy to have your own sister betrothed to him,” he said, in a low voice, so that they could not be overheard, “I do not take offense. However, I am afraid I don’t quite understand. What is it about Miss Wallington’s interest in George that perplexes you?”
“She is one of the most beautiful debutantes of the season. In London, she is admired everywhere. And her dowry is enormous. She could get a man of title.”
“And yet she is here, at this little rocky estate in Somerset, that is neither particularly prestigious nor particularly wealthy, my sister notwithstanding?”
“I am sorry—”
He laughed. “No. You’re right. When you put it that way, it is perplexing.”
“Yes,” Scarlett said, that blush he loved returning. “And George is a wonderful young man. Any young lady would be lucky to have him. But he is the type of eligible bachelor that mothers tend to appreciate over their daughters. Severn, however…”
“He is a rake. And he has no money.”
“He is very popular in London with the unmarried young ladies. They all swoon after him. While their chaperones and parents frown.”
“I see,” he said with a chuckle. “It is strange to think of Severn in that light. But there is much in London I am sure I do not understand.”
“You have truly never been?”
He shook his head, feeling his own cheeks heat.
“Aren’t you curious?”
“I was—I suppose. Yes. I had planned to go at one point. But then my sister married.”
He broke off. He didn’t want to say more.
“Wouldn’t that have made it easier?”
“In one sense, yes. But in another, more difficult.”
He couldn’t explain it to her. Not here.
And his eye had caught on something across the room.
Another of his brothers. George. He stood at the side of the room, his arms crossed.
He was in a cluster with Tilly, Mrs. Salisbury, Mrs. Perkins, and some others.
That by itself was usual enough. This entire party had been undertaken for George, and usually, he was surrounded by people.
And he was well-formed for such a role. He was always the conscientious host, the perfect gentleman, genial even when others would have long ago lost their tempers.
But now, he wasn’t smiling or beaming down at Tilly next to him.
No, now he was glowering. Glaring.
At Severn and Miss Wallington.
Scarlett must have discerned that he had changed his focus because she turned. He saw her trace the same facts that had caught his attention.
She looked back at him, her expression serious.
The footmen entered the room, and the music changed to the processional that announced supper.
“Come,” he said, offering her his arm. She accepted it with a weak smile. It made him wish that they did not have the distraction of her sister and his brothers. They added a difficulty between them which, at present, he didn’t appreciate.
By some miracle, he and Scarlett were seated by each other at supper.
He thanked God for this merciful intervention. But then he considered that, perhaps, it was not God that deserved his thanks, but his infernal sister, who had given him this gift.
Thankfully, they were not seated with any of their siblings either. They were surrounded by the local landowners and their wives. He hoped to spend most of the meal talking to Scarlett.
However, he was quickly thwarted.
Mr. Dermott immediately wanted to talk business. He was especially keen to talk Malcolm’s ear off about crop rotation. Worse, on Scarlett’s right, Mr. Lambet was asking her enthusiastic questions about the London theater and which famous actresses she had seen on the stage.
Luckily, Mr. Dermott required very little input from him to continue his diatribe, so Malcolm began idly fantasizing about what he would like to do if he got Scarlett alone. Dear Lord, he imagined that he might sink to his knees and put his lips—
And then he felt a hand, her hand, on his leg.
He almost cried out in surprise. Thank God he did not. Because not only would it have attracted notice, but he would not have experienced what came next.
Because now Scarlett’s hand had found his cock.
“Mmm,” he murmured, unable to help himself.
Christ, was he really going to let her do this?
He was fully erect—and extremely sensitive. After their night together, he hadn’t been indulging in any self-pleasure. It had felt so insufficient when what he had really wanted was her.
She stroked him through the silk of his thin evening trousers.
He could feel far more than one would suspect.
He had borrowed these trousers from Philip at the beginning of the house party for formal occasions, and he had only worn them tonight. His brother had told him that he could keep them for the duration of the party—he would be wearing his more fashionable cream trousers.
At the time, he had thought the entire discussion completely coxcombical.
Now, depraved as he was, he was deeply grateful for the trousers. Because the slip and slide of Scarlett’s hand felt delicious over the silk.
“And so I said to my steward, if we care a damn about feeding the village this winter, we’ll grow radishes in the field we used to leave fallow after a big wheat harvest—” Mr. Dermott continued his recital of well-worn crop rotation truisms as Malcolm swelled in Scarlett’s hand.
From what he could hear, she was being treated to a similarly interminable monologue from Mr. Lambet on Sarah Siddons’s 1783 run at Drury Lane.
Scarlett found the head of Malcolm’s cock and ran her fingers over it. He suppressed a groan, his face heating.
He needed to remove her hand from his lap. All he needed to do was take his left hand and stay her own.
But he found himself unable to do it. It was too difficult when he did not know when he would be alone with her again. When it seemed possible that he would never hold her close again.
He knew he couldn’t climax at the bloody supper table.
In the Parkhorne ballroom. But what was wrong with enjoying her touch?
He certainly didn’t need to attend to what Mr. Dermott was saying.
The problem with owning two thousand acres was that it tended to make a man think that qualification alone made him an expert on farming.
Scarlett’s fingers traced the head of his cock and sent a dangerous bolt of pleasure through him. He reached for his wine and took a sip, hoping to gain some composure. Instead, he nearly choked on the liquid when she stroked him with her palm.
She followed that leisurely rhythm—she could only move so fast given that they were at table talking to others—and his pleasure built.
“Mm-hmm,” he murmured, needing some outlet for the pleasure he felt.
“That’s right, my friend,” Mr. Dermott said, taking Malcolm’s sound for an affirmation of his statement about barley. “Although the ryegrass works wonders too.”
Ryegrass, yes, he thought. He was distantly aware that such a thing existed.
But the only thing that he really cared about at this moment was that Scarlett not stop.
No, he told himself, he was insane. He needed to stop her. He reached under the table and stilled her wrist.
But to his surprise, she merely continued stroking him, and the added pressure of his hand on hers only enhanced the riotously good feeling.
He knew, intellectually, that this course led only in one direction. But still he did not stop her. He seemed unable. Not with the pleasure of her strokes rioting through him and his cock begging him to let her continue.
He was going to be damned.
So instead of stopping her with his hand, he began to lead her onward, guiding her softly towards bringing him off.
He closed his eyes for a mere fraction of a second—the pleasure was so intense that he needed to work to keep his expression neutral.
He guided her hand in shorter, harder strokes. God, he was going to come. There was no stopping it.
Thank God his silk trousers were black.
When he came, he couldn’t control himself.
“Christ,” he stuttered out.
The pleasure throttled through him with even more intensity, because he was allowed to express so little of it. He looked down at his dinner plate as he filled his smalls with his seed.
“Exactly correct!” Mr. Dermott said next to him, completely oblivious.
Malcolm closed his eyes.
Then he opened them.
With a trembling hand, he took a sip of wine, only just able to swallow.
She had completely undone him.
He was depraved, mad, for her.