Chapter 11
Annabelle
Iclench my shaking hands.
I refused to let the crowd see my fear.
But I was afraid.
I hate to admit it.
Nevertheless it is true.
Worse, he saved me.
Mr. Alfred Saintsbury.
I hadn’t been completely defenseless when he had appeared.
Simmons has worked for my family for many years, but we have no relationship of note. I could not expect him to put himself in harm’s way for me beyond the common obligations of his post.
And Mr. Thompson is not malicious by nature, but I have no illusions about his real opinions of me.
I am sure he agrees in substance with the crowd’s vitriol, even if he objects to the crudeness of their expression and to the disorder of rank suggested by menacing the mistress of Trescott Abbey.
If it had really come to it, Thompson would have done little to truly help me.
No, I hadn’t been completely defenseless, only perilously near it.
I need to begin carrying a weapon.
Next time, I will not be caught without a rifle in the carriage.
I am rattled.
I knew the village hated me. But I did not expect they would be ready to inflict violence upon me. The de Laceys have been the masters of Trescott for centuries and the squires have not always been popular men with the townspeople.
However, they were all men.
For women the standards are different.
For what, after all, have I done to warrant such loathing?
Nothing that women don’t do all over England every day. But that, of course, is not why they hate me.
It is that I dare to reach for what I want in this life, to be a woman with desires, and then to not shrink away ashamed.
I am scandalous and I am powerful and wealthy.
They can’t stand it. Not Liddell or Mr. Thompson or the toffs in London.
They did not mind a soiled dove—although they may decry her a shame without much thought—as long as she has no power over them. As long as she is a pitiable creature.
Pulling myself away from these somber thoughts, I consider the man across from me. Mr. Saintsbury looks out the carriage window, his pretty mouth heavy with consternation.
What does he think of me? Does he hate me?
I don’t know. He has no reason to think of me kindly.
He certainly did not need to intervene on my behalf.
I do not like the idea of being in his debt.
Although, perhaps, he was attempting to curry favor.
To get himself out of the sticky corner in which I have trapped him.
Well, such chivalry will not work on me, and he should know it.
“I would have walked,” he says abruptly, “although I appreciate your concern.”
“It would hardly be fair. Given what you just did for me. Although you should know that your display of bravery does not alter things between us in the slightest.”
He still does not meet my eye. For once, he seems to have no cockstand.
I shift, a slight anxiety sneaking up my spine. Foolishly, I hope that this incident won’t cool the man’s ardor for me. I have no taste for bedding a reluctant man. I am enjoying his frantic passion. I can admit that.
“I had not thought that it would,” he says brusquely, almost as if he were offended.
“I hope it does not cause any trouble for you. In the village. As Mr. Thompson suggested it might.”
I am trying to be civil. I owe him a bit of softness after what he just did.
Alfred shrugs.
“It may. Among some. But I think Mr. Thompson exaggerates the matter.”
I can’t tell if he is truly nonchalant about the possibility of alienating the townspeople or if he is disguising his feelings. It irks me that he is so opaque.
“I would not want you to come to any trouble on my account.”
His gaze snaps to me.
“You mean trouble that is not of your own doing.”
I smile. “Yes. That is exactly what I mean.”
“You needn’t worry. No lady deserves to endure such inhumane behavior.”
“Is that so? You would have come to any woman’s aid?”
I toss the words off, keeping my tone cool. However, a little sinking feeling goes through me at his rebuke. At the idea that he offers me no special consideration.
“Of course. I would help any innocent person being menaced by a mob.”
“Oh, but I’m not innocent,” I say, giving him my cruelest smile. “I’m guilty of all the sins they charge me with.”
Alfred looks back out the window.
“You have nothing to say to that?”
He is silent still, but his jaw is clenched.
“Look at me,” I demand. My heart begins to beat a humiliating panic through me. I am not sure why.
He obeys me though, settling his green eyes on my face.
“I am all they say,” I repeat.
“That does not mean you deserve to be harmed.”
“What would the Church say?”
“The Lord forgives.”
“Not in my experience.”
“And it would be hypocritical to judge you,” he continues. “When I have—I have sinned. With you.”
I laugh. “Hardly.”
“I have.” He blanches. “It may mean little to you. But it is everything to me.”
He says the words with no trace of consternation or sense of mortification. Dangerous emotion swirls within me.
“You are still a virgin,” I object.
He shakes his head. “Stop.”
His eyes are on me now, looking slightly dazed and very heated. He shifts in his seat. I look down at his trouser front and see that he is hard. I lick my lips. I want his cock. Badly.
“But you won’t be,” I continue, “for much longer.”
He lets out a small sound—not quite a whimper, not a moan, but an acknowledgment that my words are affecting him.
“Very soon, I will force you to fuck me.”
“Miss de Lacey,” he objects.
“Call me Annabelle,” I say before I can think better of it.
“Annabelle,” he echoes back immediately. My Christian name on his lips has me flushing from head to toe.
“How would you like to take me the first time? What scene in your little book do you like best?”
He blushes.
“I wish you wouldn’t speak of that.”
“Why not?”
“It shames me.”
“Don’t worry about that here. Tell me. Which scene do you like best? Which do you return to again and again?”
“I-I-” he stutters. His cock tents the front of his trousers now. “I don’t know. I am at your mercy.”
I bite back a whimper. Somehow, he always says exactly the words that please me. And he says them so earnestly. With such yearning and helplessness in his expression.
Still, he is only a man.
“Everyone has favorites, Alfred. Tell me. Which is yours?”
He still won’t meet my eye.
I decide to help him.
“With the man on top? Or where he takes her from behind? Or where she rides him?”
He groans.
“Which one?”
“The last,” he whispers.
“Beautiful. I will ride you then,” I say. “It will be better that way, you are right. That way I can control our pace. I will only give you a little at a time.”
He groans again.
“Please,” he says. “You see what you do to me. Touch me.”
This, of course, is not the nature of our relationship. I am to take pleasure from him, use him, and then discard him without a second thought once I have extracted what I desire. A child. An heir.
But I am tempted.
And after all, don’t I make the rules here?
I look out the window. We are on the secluded path that winds through the woods. No one can see us through the carriage windows.
I look back at Alfred. I think of all the wicked things that I could do with him. But there is something in his pleading, desperate expression that makes me hesitate. He is a grown man, eight-and-twenty, and yet he is so untutored.
And I don’t quite feel in control of myself. I am not ready to take him. Not here. Not now.
But nor can I stand the look of lustful agony on his face.
“No,” I say. “But I will tell you how to touch yourself.”
His brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”
“Just listen to me. Take out your cock.”
He hesitates, his hands braced on his knees.
“Do you want relief or not? We will be at your house in minutes.”
Slowly, he undoes the placket on his trousers, letting himself spring forth.
God, his cock is beautiful. Large and pulsing and angry and already wet with his desire.
“Stroke yourself,” I say.
“I don’t—I don’t know how.”
“You’ve truly never done it?”
He shakes his head. “Not in a long time.”
It is unbelievable. I don’t understand it. He must have had a very strict upbringing. So did I of course. But it appears that we reacted very differently to such rearing.
“Would you like me to show you how?”
He nods vigorously.
I lean forward in my seat and place my hand on his cock. Very gently. I keep my touch feather light so as not to overwhelm him.
“Ahhh,” he moans.
“Shh,” I say, “You must be quiet. We can’t have Simmons hearing. My employ will keep him loyal to a point, but I can’t promise his secrecy.”
Alfred’s eyes widen in surprise.
“We don’t have to go on,” I say roughly, “if the risk is too much.”
He shakes his head. “No. Please. Touch me.”
His desperation sends me reeling again. For a moment, I am not sure it is wise to touch him. Not with the strange tenderness swirling inside of me.
I shake my head. I have no idea why I am being so sentimental. I can touch him like this. It will not overwhelm me to do so. It is not too intimate, not too much for a heart that, after all my years of apathy, now seems surprisingly vulnerable.
“This is your shaft,” I say, stroking downwards. “And a very nice one it is.”
“That feels—so good,” he pants.
“And this will feel better,” I say, bringing my hand up to the head of his cock. “Here is where all of your pleasure is centered.”
He groans in response. Moisture wells up into my hand.
“You’re so responsive,” I say. “That is very good.”
“Is it?”
His eyes meet mine.
My breath catches in my throat.
I look back down.
“It is by touching here that you make yourself come.”
I swirl my fingertips along the cum-slick head again and he jerks in his seat.
“Annabelle,” he pants.
When has a man ever said my Christian name in such tones?
Never, I am certain.
Sometimes my lovers use my name. But they never sound like that when they do.
Alfred Saintsbury might be a virgin—but he is a seducer of the first rank. And he doesn’t even know it. The only problem is his particular skill lies not in wringing orgasms from my body but tender sentiments from my heart.
I need to steel myself. I am being silly.
And I need the man to come so that I can deposit him at the vicarage. I need to stop drawing it out. I am savoring him far too much. And his moans, his tender submission to my touch, are endangering me far more than I care to admit—even to myself.
I rub him with his own wetness, letting a little roughness into my stroke. With this roughness, I express frustration at my own vulnerability to him. Frustration at my surprising softness where he is concerned.
In response, he lets out an abandoned sound—and unfortunately, it goes straight to my quim and heart at once.
He is so responsive. It was true what I said.
“You are clearly a sensual man,” I say without thinking, “who has been imprisoned within what passes for morality and respectability.”
“I—am—wicked,” he says, his eyes riveted where my hand strokes him.
“No,” I object. “It is a tragedy for a man such as yourself to be denied pleasure. A pretty, strong man like you. Who comes so beautifully.”
“I wish to be good,” he says.
“Oh, Alfred, you are. Just not in the way you have been taught to be.”
“I don’t understand,” he protests.
I do not feel like explaining. And I do not half know what I am saying. I am losing myself in sweet nothings. I must stop.
“How does that feel?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle despite the violence of my thoughts. I continue to stroke him.
“So—so good. Like heaven. It shouldn’t be this good. Not when I am meant to refuse it. But I am weak.”
He is raving now. He is near his climax.
“If you think this is heaven, wait until I ride you.”
“Oh God,” he moans, shutting his eyes.
“No, look at me,” I say, continuing my slightly rougher pace.
His eyes fly open.
I want him to look at me. To see me.
“I am the one who gives you this pleasure, do you understand?”
“Oh God—I am—please—”
“No, not God. Only me. Say it.”
“Yes, yes,” he says. “Only you. Annabelle, I am going to spend.”
I stroke him once and then again and again.
“I—I—” his arse is nearly off the cushion seat.
“Come, Alfred,” I murmur, hating myself for this display of tenderness, but unable to stop. “It’s all right. I have you.”
And he does, his seed spurting up with force.
He continues to spill, warm and copious, into my hand and all over his trousers and my mantle.