An Improper Wife (21 page)

Reality returned with an adder’s bite, and the sting of tears nearly wrenched a sob from her. His warm fingers gently squeezed the hand still entwined in the crook of his arm as he led her across the street towards the market. She moved alongside, legs numb, mind blank, except for the broken picture that had shattered inside her head.

* * * *

Caroline stood in front of the full-length mirror in the corner of her bedchamber and stared at the deep-blue velvet gown she wore. Despite the carefully coiffured curls pinned atop her head, she looked just as Fiona had intended—
déshabillé
—partially dressed with a careless flair that said the dress had been
thrown on
. Caroline traced a finger along the lighter blue trimmed bodice that dipped to reveal the valley between her breasts. Her sister-in-law was to be the death of her. In the space of a few hours, the girl had planned a ball in honour of her and Taran’s marriage—to be held tonight. Then she had sent over this dress. Caroline might have thought the girl meant to amend for shooting her brother last night, but she knew better.

When Caroline had seen her at the breakfast table this morning, she knew Fiona sensed her unease. Caroline’s cheeks warmed as they had when she’d entered the room and found Taran dressed as he had been on the night of the masque, in a white linen shirt and belted plaid. His gaze lifted from the morning paper and she couldn’t help wondering if he hadn’t purposely dressed in that fashion. But, of course, he had. This was the Scottish Highlands, and men didn’t all wear breeches or trousers as they did in England. To top it off, seeing his legs when he stood in deference to her as she seated herself had caused her knees to weaken. She nearly plopped onto the chair.

“Are you well, madam?” He frowned. “I have sent for Blakely.”

Her mind was still grappling with the sight of his lean frame, so her only recourse had been to lift her chin and reply, “He may tend to my arm as long as you give him five minutes to look at that leg.” Though she had taken great care not to be in the room when the doctor had lifted Taran’s plaid to examine the exquisite thigh beneath. The knowing glint in Fiona’s eyes hadn’t stopped Caroline from adding, “I will not have your father bring me up on charges of murder if you die from infection.”

“It was not you who shot me.” Taran cast his sister a glance that Caroline could have sworn carried a hint of admiration.

“I feel certain he will not blame his daughter,” Caroline had said.

Taran’s barked laugh had mingled with Fiona’s. “You do not know the earl,” he’d said. “But in this case, he would gladly send you to Newgate as murderess in exchange for keeping your money. Unlike me, who will share.” He had added the last with obvious relish.

Pain stabbed at her arm. Caroline stirred from the memory to see she’d wrapped her arms about her shoulders and had squeezed the wound. She tugged the sleeve down and found the bandage Blakely had applied an hour ago, still firmly in place, no blood staining the snow white bandages. A shame. If she was bleeding, Taran would be forced to let her remain in her bedchambers for the night. She grimaced. More likely, he would confine her there for the next week, or until the wound was completely healed. Then, no doubt, he would stay with her, day and night, torturing her with all the luscious things he would do to her body.

Caroline shivered. She’d woken this morning with images filtering through her mind. Taran’s mouth was on her breasts, fingers dipping inside her warmth and—she swallowed, her throat suddenly dry—her on all fours while warm hands held her hips steady against the firm cock that pounded into her from behind. Warmth spread through her. She’d believed they were fantasies her laudanum-clouded mind had conjured, yet her body was pleasantly sore. Not all had been dreams.

Her reflection in the mirror came into focus, gaze on the exposed cleavage of her breasts. Hesitantly, she covered the mounds with her hands. Her cool hands warmed with contact of flesh on the edges of her palms.

She slipped a hand inside the bodice. The nipples went taut, pebble-like against her palm. She slid her hands down a fraction to cup the full mound. Weight of the soft flesh that overflowed in her fingers sent a thrill through her. Was this what Taran felt when he touched her? She grazed the nipple with her thumb and gasped at the sensitivity that tightened her pussy. Her heart sped up and she cast a glance at the door. Dared she? She took the nipple between finger and thumb and rolled the pink tip. Her clit tightened and moisture wet her channel.

In her mind’s eye she saw herself pulling up her skirt and reaching between her legs. Her heart pounded harder. What would it be like to part the folds and trail her finger through up the wet crevice to the sensitive place at the tip? Would her fingers please her as Taran’s did? A tremor rocked her stomach. What if he caught her? Would he thrill at the sight? She envisioned herself on the bed, him gently pulling her skirt above her waist, then standing back as she dipped a finger into the wet heat, probing, massaging, flicking the tiny nub until she writhed in pleasure. Would he be so moved by passion he’d join her? The jiggle of the knob on the door between the lady and lord’s room jerked her back to the present.

She yanked her hand from within the bodice as the door opened and Taran filled the space. She stood frozen, their gazes locked in the mirror. He wore the same belted plaide and a clean linen shirt, but Caroline didn’t dare let her gaze stray from his face for fear the heat in her cheeks would spread down her exposed neck and give away every erotic picture that was now etched into her brain. His keen eyes dropped from her face to the rise and fall of her breasts, then lifted back to her face. He stared for a breathless moment, then strode towards her. Her pulse sprang into action like a too-tightly coiled spring when he stopped beside her, gaze still on her reflection, and wrapped an arm around her waist. He pressed a kiss to her temple. A quiver radiated through Caroline. The kiss had been chaste, but the gleam in his eye was anything but virtuous.

“Lonely, madam?” he asked, lips still pressed against her flesh.

A compulsion to bolt like a frightened rabbit shot to the surface. His arm tightened around her and Caroline attempted to pull away. A corner of his mouth twitched and she wanted to box his ears. He couldn’t possibly know what she’d been thinking…
doing
. He breathed deep and exhaled, his warm breath bathing her cheek. She shivered. He lifted his free hand. She jerked and he paused, brow quirked, clearly daring her to explain why the small action unnerved her. With a finger, he traced the edge of her bodice as she had. Warmth pooled between her legs and she fought the urge to fidget.

An unexpected desire surfaced to grasp his hand and guide it downward until his fingers pressed against her pussy. Even with the fabric between them, his touch would be beyond belief. His hand dropped away from the bodice and, arm still around her waist, he slid behind her. Caroline gasped at the feel of his erection pressing into her buttocks and she stood frozen as he shifted, working the hard length between the cheeks of her arse. When he stilled, grasped her skirt, and began inching it upward, her legs weakened. He pulled her more tightly to him.

At last, the skirt was high enough to hint at the curls between her legs and Taran pressed his mouth against her ear and whispered, “Show me what you want.”

Her eyes widened and she shook her head frantically. “My lord, I—”

“What do you want?” he interrupted.

He released her waist and grasped her hand. She stiffened, but he kissed her ear, then gently took the lobe between his teeth and bit down. Desire exploded through her.

She jammed her eyes shut as he guided her hand downward. “My lord.”

Her fingertips brushed her curls and he swirled the tips against the fringes, tickling her mound with the slightest of touches. Her pussy tightened an instant before her fingers grazed the already swollen nub. Caroline jerked back against Taran and jarred with awareness of his cock trapped against her arse. She leant forward and he plunged the fingers between the warm folds. She gasped at feel of the moist warmth.

“Aye, love,” Taran whispered. “Feel yourself as I do.”

He undulated his hips so that her clit pulsed against her palm while he guided her fingers into her hot channel.

“Open your eyes,” he coaxed.

She gave another frantic shake of her head.

His low masculine laugh sent a shiver through her. “Show me what you like.”

“You—you know what I like,” she burst out.

His laugh was deeper this time. “Aye, love, but I can make pleasing yourself all the better.” He moved suggestively behind her and she swallowed.

He thrust the finger deeper into her channel, then out, then in again. Pleasure radiated through her. She opened her eyes and met his stare in the mirror.

He gave a small nod. “Yes.”

In and out, he guided her movement while slowly pulsing his hips so that her clit rubbed against her palm. Pressure mounted and she couldn’t resist the urge to make the finger more rigid. Satisfaction lifted a corner of his mouth. He abruptly pulled the digit from within the warmth and began massaging her clit with it in fast strokes. He eased back. The rhythm broke and he cursed, but released her hand. He yanked the skirt higher, crushing it against her abdomen as he yanked up his plaid and stepped close again. Flesh against flesh, his steely length met the soft curves of her rear.

He grasped her hand again and urged her back into the luscious rhythm that mercilessly teased her clit. “Do not stop,” he ordered, and released her hand.

She swallowed, but continued as instructed. His gaze dropped to where her fingers worked their magic. His intake of breath startled then thrilled her. Skirt still held firmly at her waist, he grasped her hips and thrust his cock upward through the crack in her arse. Her brain flip-flopped between the pleasure her fingers brought and the feel of his cock tightening as it slid upward, then loosening with the downward slide. Her breath quickened. He abruptly threw an arm around her waist and lowered himself a few inches so that he could slide the hard length between her folds. The tip bumped against her fingers and he sucked in breath. Caroline faltered.

“Do not stop,” he commanded again as he bent her forward and, before she realised his intent, he pushed into her channel.

Fingers shaking, she rocked against the digit, her arse bumping against his belly, his cock sliding forward then back. His head fell back and he thrust with the rhythm she created. Pleasure built in her core. His grip tightened. Faster. Harder. Lust coiled tight in her belly. His hold on her hips turned iron. She slicked her fingers through the moist warmth of her folds, fingertips coming in contact with the cock pounding into her.

Memory burst forth of last night in Taran’s bed. She sucked in breath. The laudanum had clouded her brain, she hadn’t dreamed the encounter. Taran had bedded her as no husband bedded a wife. He had fucked her on all fours. Taken her as hard and savagely as he fucked her now.

“Please yourself,” he ground out.

Caroline flicked the swollen nub with a fast motion that brought a sudden flare of pleasure that sizzled along the nerves connecting to her very being. Taran pumped faster. She gulped air, body jarring with the impact of his hips to her buttocks, but he held her, thrusting harder. Pleasure splintered through her. She cried out with her orgasm. Her knees weakened, but Taran held her upright for a final thrust. He erupted, spewing his seed deep inside her. Caroline massaged her clit in another quick motion and a second, more powerful orgasm rolled through her.

“Fuck,” he growled, and thrust again, then one last time in unison with the final wave of pleasure that turned her knees to pudding. He caught her to him, breath hard and heavy against her flesh as he buried his head in her neck.

They stood for a long moment, his powerful chest heaving against her back, her body trembling. At last, his breathing slowed and his hold loosened. Mercifully, her legs held her weight. Taran released her and the lush velvet skirt fell down across her legs without so much as a tiny crease. Relief flooded her and she smoothed the fabric at hip length, twisting so that she could see the backside in the mirror.

Taran grinned. “No worse for the wear, madam?”

She paused and looked at his reflection. Male satisfaction was written on his face. “No thanks to you,” she retorted, despite the warmth that crept up her cheeks and the trickle of fluids between her thighs.

His brow lifted. “I made good on my promise.”

Caroline frowned.

“I said I could make pleasuring yourself all the
more
pleasurable.

She couldn’t halt a gasp of surprise or the blush that reddened her cheeks. A knowing gleam entered his eyes and a rush of fear displaced the embarrassment. What they had just done was something no wife did. Such illicit behaviour belonged in the world of the demi-monde…belonged to Aphrodite.

Chapter Nineteen

Taran scanned the ballroom for his wife. He’d last seen her on the dance floor. Their eyes had met and her expression had said she would murder him at first opportunity. He couldn’t prevent a smile. No doubt the wench was remembering another such soirée where the room had been just as stifling and she’d got herself into a pickle by giving her maidenhead to the very man she was trying to cuckold.

For the first time since discovering her identity, he wondered what would have happened had she succeeded. He couldn’t halt the vision of her in another man’s arms, his mouth on her breasts, finger insider her channel as he brought her to climax before filling her with his cock. Taran recalled the previous night in his bed, her intent to cover her deception. She had tried to avoid his bed, but that was because she feared he would sense the familiarity. She had intended to hide the fact she betrayed him.

“What are you doing to yourself?” he murmured.
“A woman has only that which is given her,”
she had said.
“I decided to take something for myself.”
How could he blame her? Any woman of substance would have seen marriage to John as a prison sentence. She couldn’t know he was any different and had, in fact, done everything short of running away to get him to cry off.