Where Destiny Plays, page 9
“And who, pray tell, is sleeping in the neighboring bedroom, Nicky?”
“Arthur.”
“Of course. And does the earl know about this hidden access?”
“No.” His lips twisted in mirth. “I leave it up to you to tell him if the occasion arises.”
She grimaced. It was too obvious.
“Don’t blame me, Vinny. Helena got the idea from Sophia.” He drew a delicate circle in her palm with his finger. “My bedroom also connects to yours.”
She jerked her hand away. “Nicky, stop.”
He smiled and stood. “I’ll leave you alone with your thoughts, Vinny.” His gaze swept over her bosom. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
She watched as he left. Ever since her first affair—with Julius—she had never had to be the seductress. Even with the younger men she helped navigate through Society, something eventually ignited on their side and they were compelled to take her to bed. Julius had instilled the confidence in her to simply wait. Men would come to her.
This time though, she couldn’t wait. Her heart still ached for Nicholas and that heartache had dredged up memories of Julius. She needed someone to take the heartache away.
She might have to seduce a man.
How on earth did one go about doing that?
* * * * *
London
Grace sighed heavily, breathing out the day, and closed her eyes, trying to imagine her limbs as buoyant balloons rather than the lead weights they actually felt like.
It was late. Afternoon had bled into evening. There had been too many patients and she had done what she could. She knew some basics—how to tell if a baby’s cry meant the doctor needed to be seen right away or could wait another day. She could instruct in soothing simple rashes, could patch the scrapes on an overly enthusiastic boy. Simple tasks that left Julius with the patients most in need—symptoms of pregnancy, painful menses, women in hysterics, unexpected bleeding.
She still fielded the occasional query concerning Dr. Nicholas Ramsay. It had become rote to explain he had changed his name and become the Earl of St. Albans and, after a moment of surprise on the part of the patient, to go through a litany of affirmations, including how she was sure he was happy being an earl and living on his estate with his pretty wife.
Except Dr. Ramsay—or Atherley or whatever he preferred—had seemed so happy as a doctor. And Julius had never been overworked with Nicholas around.
Julius was with his last patient of the day in the smaller examination room, the room with his device. The main examination room had been left in disarray so Grace set about putting it in order. Julius had uncharacteristically left his notebooks strewn on the desk and jars of herbs on the counter. She stacked the notebooks in a neat pile and put the jars back into the cupboard. She’d have to check for needed replenishments in the morning. She didn’t want to do any more work. She just wanted Julius to be finished with his patient so she could take him upstairs and make him eat something. Far too often he got so involved in his work he’d forget to eat.
From the next room came a woman’s surprised yelp of sensual satisfaction. The whir of the vibrating machine stopped. Grace waited for Julius’ “good evening”, the rap of the patient’s heels in the hallway, the click of the latch in the front door.
Grace found him seated on the low stool before the examination table, leaning against the end between the metal stirrups, his head resting on the padded top.
She offered a hand to help him up. “Jules, you need your supper.”
He emitted a low chuckle as he took her hand between his. “I’ll be fine.” He rubbed her palm then brought it to his lips, his kiss sparking a much-needed jolt of energy. He patted the edge of the table. “Come sit with me for a moment.”
She hopped onto the table between the stirrups. He bunched her skirts up over her knees then leaned back against her, wrapping his arms around her dangling legs.
“We should take a holiday.”
“A holiday?” What a peculiar notion. “And what would your patients do while you’re away?”
He chortled as he caressed her calves above her boots. “Have you ever been to the seashore?”
“No. Only the banks of the Thames.” She bent over to stroke his hair. “I’ve heard stories though. I’d love to see the ocean one day.”
He tickled the backs of her knees then circled his hands to tantalize the tops of her thighs. “I know a lovely place in Penzance, on the Cornwall coast.”
She kissed the top of his head. “That sounds wonderful, Julius.” It would be a dream come true.
He stood and gathered up her skirts farther then lifted one of her legs to settle it on the stirrup. “Just you—” He did the same with the other leg. “And me.”
She lay splayed open before him, incredulous at the idea. Just the two of them. Alone.
He loosened the tie of her drawers then slid his fingers along the fabric of the opening to the crotch, pulling the two halves of the garment apart.
He stared at her sex and licked his lips. He saw women’s privates all day yet would still look at hers with marvel. This time there was something else, his wide-eyed expression tinged with a ravenousness that sent a shiver of anticipation through her. He stroked the hair covering her mons then urged the folds of her flesh open with his thumbs. He sat on the stool, his face so close to her his breath blew hot on her quim.
He lowered his head even closer. And then he did something he had never done before. He licked her.
Grace jumped. He gripped her calves against the metal stirrups, holding her steady as his tongue slid through her slit. He teased her clitoris with flicks of his velvety tip, shooting shards of pleasure to stab at her core.
He feasted with mouth and tongue and she succumbed, melting before him in a sensual puddle. She writhed, encouraging him, his expert ministrations heightened by the tickling strands of his beard and his knowledgeable touch. He lifted his head with a groan of admiration then pulled back the hood of her clit and nibbled on the sensitive bud.
She thrashed on the table, jerking her hips. He answered by delving his tongue deep inside her, thrusting and licking, easing her into submission before he once again returned to tormenting the excited nubbin.
He knew how to take her to the peak, let her slide back down and take her to the heights once again. It was glorious but, oh, so maddening.
“Julius…please…” She pleaded for satisfaction. He liked it when she begged.
He plunged three fingers into her flexing cunt, palpating her slick walls as he sucked hard on her yearning clit. She was delirious from his touch, dizzy from lack of breath. Was she moaning? She must be. He loved her moans and he was chuckling against her, the vibrations tormenting her further, driving her more quickly toward culmination.
She screamed her climax and bucked up, but he persisted, drinking the wetness of her release, his hands under her butt, holding her against him.
She shuddered an exhale. He let her down gently onto the table.
She wanted to ask why he did such a thing when he had never done so before. But Julius was mysterious, impenetrable at times and often answered vaguely. She’d mark his words, his actions—maybe ask him later when they were lying in bed.
He circled around to the head of the table, wiping his lips, a faraway twinkle lighting his eye. “Now let’s go see what Mrs. Jennings has prepared for our supper.”
His countenance was that of a man already thoroughly slaked.
“Yes, Julius, let’s.”
Chapter Eight
St. Albans
Lavinia leaned her head against the wood paneling of her bedroom entryway, willing her nerve to quash her better judgment. Nicholas was beastly to have riled up her senses with a kiss that afternoon, to perpetuate the memory of his seduction in London over a month ago and the memory of their affair last year.
To have stirred up memories of her disastrous affair with Julius, a man she fell in love with so hard, she’d let him get away with murder.
She shuddered and pulled the collar of her dressing gown more tightly around her. She swore she would never let a man take possession of her emotions like that again, yet here she was gliding stealthily down a darkened hallway, hoping for a glimpse of one such man, a glimpse of that man and his wife. A glimpse, he had reminded her, of what she might have had.
A few lamps glowed in the corridor of the bedroom wing, enough to discern which door led where. Each suite had two doors. The one flush with and matching the hall paneling opened into the sitting room. A set of slender, gilded double doors set back in an alcove marked entry to a bedroom. Not only did this ensure bedroom privacy by being separated by a public room, it seemed an ingenious way to mark an otherwise monotonous hallway with both decoration and practicality. Servants and guests would know exactly what to expect behind a closed door.
Or what to hope for.
The newly well-oiled knobs and latches would be silent should one dare to enter through the bedroom doors. Or open them just enough to engage in a bit of peeping on one’s former lover.
Luckily the doors to Nicholas and Helena’s bedroom had been left ajar. The newlyweds must have been in a hurry to further celebrate their wedded bliss.
Lavinia knelt down on the hall carpet and peered through the crack between the doors. Framed by the elegantly carved and gilded wood was a scene of beautiful sensuality. Haloed by the glow of oil lamps Helena rode Nicholas, straddling him back to front, her very pregnant belly protruding in Lavinia’s direction. Nicholas pushed into her from below, holding her steady at her waist. She gasped and stilled then let out a little cry. He raised himself up to cradle her body in his finely sculpted arms, lifting her as he folded his legs underneath to gain more leverage. As he rocked into her from behind, one gloriously masculine hand cupped a breast while the other reached between her legs, his finger stroking as she writhed, his lips whispering unheard obscenities.
They were two people sharing love and joy, who were meant to be together, the joining of their perfect bodies utterly riveting, utterly engrossing.
Utterly private.
Still Lavinia could not rip her gaze away.
Guilt shirred her flesh as she slid her hand under her dressing gown, over her nightdress to fondle her clit, imagining Nicholas’ touch, rocking her hips as if he were driving into her from behind—
“What the devil is going on?”
She jumped at Arthur’s hiss, tumbling backward to the carpet. He grabbed her around the waist, lifting her quite readily, hauling her down the corridor. His anger was palpable, his fingers digging into her side, the knuckles of his other hand white as he clutched a book.
He slammed her against the wainscoting of a recessed doorway, threw the book to the floor and dug the heels of his palms painfully into her shoulders.
“What the hell do you think you were doing?”
His breath fanned hot on her lips, the hint of tobacco and brandy flaring her nostrils.
She struggled to extricate herself from his cruel grip. He ground a hip against her. Her bones ached against the hard wood.
“Do you make a habit of watching my niece in intimate situations, Lady Foxley-Graham?” His lips grazed her ear.
“Arthur, please, it’s not what you think.”
He grunted darkly. “Then tell me what it is I should think.”
“I wasn’t watching Helena.”
He loosened his hold only slightly, his body still trapping hers.
“No?” His gaze darted back and forth as he searched her face barely an inch away. “Then what—?” His lips tightened. “Nicholas.” It was a realization.
“Yes.” She nodded.
He relaxed his grip and eased back. “You were his lover.”
She couldn’t look him in the eye. “Yes.”
He lifted her chin and met her gaze. “Does Helena know?”
His expression had softened to one of concern. For his niece’s heart perhaps.
“Of course. It began long before they met. Before he became earl. When he was just Nicky.”
His hands trailed down her arms and stopped at her waist. “I should have known.” One hip continued to pin her against the wall. Except the formerly brutal action blossomed with new intent.
His thumbs traced the curve of her waist, prickling the peaks of her breasts under the fine cambric of her nightgown. Unbidden she reached up to finger the slick satin at the collar of his smoking jacket.
“It was abhorrent, I know. Absolutely horrid of me,” she babbled, trying to tamp down the heat welling between her legs. “I should not have violated their privacy. But their door was open and I just, I mean, when I saw Nicky, I, well, it’s not as if I want him back, I—”
“Shh, shh—” He cupped her cheek and smoothed her hair. His gaze fell to her mouth.
“I just want to feel again.”
His lips lay hot on her forehead. Tears burned down her cheeks as he continued farther, pecking tenderly at her mouth, softening her. She opened under him, needing him, wanting him, somehow remembering him. His tongue found its way inside her as he pulled her more closely to him. She clung to his strength, yielding to him, twining her tongue with his, mewling her satisfaction.
Abruptly he pulled back, staring at her incredulously.
“It was you.”
“Me?” She gaped in distress. “What do you mean?”
“Countess Winthrop’s.” His breaths puffed raggedly. “My odalisque. My God. You’re my odalisque.”
Disbelief tightened her lungs. “The sultan.” Her heart pounded. “You were the sultan.”
He traced a finger around her lips. “You made that very same sound.”
“What sound?”
“A moaning sigh when you kiss.”
“I do not.”
He chuckled. “We’ll just have to ask Nicholas about that.” He stroked her hair. “Or we could continue what we were doing and you could pay more attention.”
His mouth descended on hers once again, sweeping her away to a blissful state of mouth on mouth, tongue tangling with tongue, his hands stroking and caressing everywhere, hers clutching and tugging, her senses reeling in satisfied indulgence, a moan rumbling within—
“Damn you, Petersham.”
He grinned. “I swore I would find you.” He unfastened her dressing gown, his fingers trembling. “I dreamed of this moment every damn day.” He trailed kisses down her neck as he pulled the robe slightly off her shoulders and began unbuttoning the placket of her nightgown. “And I frigged myself practically every damn night, fantasizing about these glorious globes.” He yanked aside the linen and lace to uncover one breast, gaping as he palmed it, sweeping his thumb over her nipple until it puckered in excitement. “Perfection,” he sighed then drew the tip into his mouth.
She arched against the wall, allowing him more access, the wet heat of his mouth tantalizing more than just her yearning peak, its pleasure tugging and teasing her clit. He kneaded her other breast before attending to its crinkled tip, wetting the fabric of her nightgown as he sucked eagerly. She held his head steady, needing his attentions, needing the reminder of a memory that had thrilled her, left her satisfied, left her hopeful.
“What else did you fantasize about, my lord?” She rocked her hips, hinting at further fulfillment.
“I think you know, my lady.” He scrunched up her nightgown, tucking it behind her.
She fumbled with his trousers, his drawers, pulled off his jacket and one strap of his braces to free his cock. He was iron-hard, as ready as she.
He rammed inside her in one movement, his groan mingling with her sigh. She gripped his shoulders and wrapped a leg around his hips, seeking purchase as he drove into her, his pace frenzied, a man in need of release. She climaxed around him, wanting more, undulating her hips to take him deeper, bracing herself against the wall.
With a gravelly curse, he crushed his weight against her and pulled out, splattering his emission on the paneling below. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom, her bedroom, kicking the door closed.
He put her down then slipped off her robe, letting it fall to the floor. He lifted the hem of her nightgown and pulled it off over her head.
Lavinia gasped. She stood bare before him.
He picked her up again and lay her on the bed, stretching himself over her.
“I fear I was overly excited, my lady.” He kissed her face, her neck. “Will you forgive me?”
“I will grant you the opportunity to redeem yourself.”
He chuckled as he tickled her with kisses over her breasts, down her waist, across her hip, along the top of her thigh. He licked his lips as he parted the thatch of hair before him. “My penance is your pleasure.” He pressed the wet heat of his mouth to her clit.
Lavinia yelped in delight, wriggling her pelvis in encouragement. His tongue was absolute heaven and relentlessly sought to wrest her bliss. She speared her fingers through his hair, gripping the strands as he coaxed her toward ecstasy.
He was too good.
Her orgasm released a deluge of pent-up desire as she bucked against his greedy mouth. He stayed there for her as she came down from the heights then tore himself away from the bed.
He stripped completely. Impossibly he was hard again, his cock bobbing provocatively as he gazed down at her. “You of all women.”
She offered a quizzical expression.
“I’m a lucky man.”
“How so?”
“I rather like you out of bed as well.” He stretched out at her side and skated his fingers across her flushed skin. “A man of my age is usually not so vigorous.” He continued to the hair at her mons, delving into the sticky wetness to massage her clit. “But when given the opportunity to be with the woman of his dreams—” He lengthened over her, opening her thighs with his knees. “He becomes as a youth again.”
He plowed into her, the force of his desire melting her into the mattress. This was the seduction she craved. With every plunge she forgot Nicholas, with every ragged breath she forgot Julius. With every groan she remembered the sultan, with every caress she remembered Arthur.
