Cheryl Holt (21 page)

As she’d calculated, he followed her like a fish on a line. “What have you there?”

“Some of my sketches.”

Ignoring him, she tipped one drawing toward the moonlight. The individual Olivia had depicted was difficult to identify, but she could discern that it was a man and that he was nude.

“It’s one of my lovers,” she fibbed. “He was so pleased with me that he permitted me to draw him after we were finished.”

“Did he enjoy fucking a child?”

“I’m
not
a child!” she repeated.

“You could have fooled me.” He snatched the pictures away from her, leaning toward the railing so that he would have a better perspective. “This chap’s hung like a racehorse,” he declared. “Did he take you like a bitch in heat?”

“Of course,” she claimed. “I let him do whatever he wanted.”

“Do you know what I think?” he asked, bending down. “You didn’t create these. You’ve never come within a hundred yards of a naked man.”

“I have too,” she maintained. “I’ll prove it to you! I
would sketch you, right here, right now, but I’ll wager you’re too scared to disrobe.”

“As if I’d strip down for the likes of you.” He scrutinized the pages. “They’re very good. Very sensual. Where’d you find them?”

“They’re mine.” The illustrations weren’t having the effect she’d hoped. She stood and attempted to yank them away from him, but he dangled them just out of reach. “Give them to me.”

“No.” He lifted them higher, and she jumped in her efforts to retrieve them. “Is your mother aware that you have these? I wonder how she’d react if I told her?”

“Blackguard!”

“Tut, tut,” he scolded. “Is that any way to speak to your elders?”

She started to struggle in earnest, kicking with her feet, and lashing out with her fists, but she couldn’t land any blows. Tired of pestering her, he tossed the papers away, and he pinned her wrists behind her.

“Your mother has failed in raising you.” His fingers slithered inside the bodice of her dress, and he tweaked her nipple. “You could benefit from firmer discipline. Perhaps a whipping would suit you.”

“Let me go!” she hissed.

“Is that what you require? A spanking?” He was angling her onto the bench. “You are such an impossible brat. I’d be more than happy to administer one.”

Suddenly, she was lying down, and he was on top of her, though he was too tall to fit completely. A knee was on the floor, the other draped across her legs.

He loosened his grip, and she endeavored to slap his arrogant face, but he easily prevented her. “If you don’t behave, I’ll tie you up. Now do as I say.”

“I won’t!”

She continued to battle him, but not vigorously. It
was so fascinating to be held down, to be incapable of moving, while guessing what he might do next.

He’d tugged at her dress so that her breasts were bared, her nipples visible, and he was twirling and squeezing them in a painful fashion that made her squirm and grow wet between her legs.

He began kissing her, and she turned her head back and forth, striving to avoid him, but he clutched her chin. He stuck his tongue into her mouth, and he tasted like an adult male, like brandy and tobacco.

She hadn’t been kissed like this before, and she was titillated by the naughtiness of it, by how different it was from the tepid mauling of the boys in the stable, but she wasn’t about to let him know. She bit him. Hard.

Lurching away, he retaliated by crushing her nipple so that she cried out in agony, but he smothered the sound with his large palm. He whispered, “You hellcat. Try that again, and I’ll strangle you.”

Dipping to her bosom, he rooted and gnawed on her nipples, and she battled him, feigning aversion. It seemed much more gratifying, much more depraved and dangerous, when they were wrestling.

The alcohol she’d gulped was disorienting her. Before coming outside, she’d filched plenty of sips in the house, and the total quantity, coupled with the glasses of wine she’d had at supper, had her dizzy, irrational.

He was being very rough, and in a tiny part of her mind, she recognized that this wasn’t going as she’d planned, that he wasn’t pleading or groveling. They’d traveled beyond any sensible limit, and she should call a halt, but she truly didn’t wish to. She craved this, had yearned for it for a very long time. It was far and away the most revolting, shocking thing she could conceive of doing.

There was no adult present to dissuade her, or order
her to refrain. No one knew where she was, or what she was about. She was free of her mother’s criticisms and complaints, unfettered, and on her own.

He was hoisting her skirt and petticoats, meandering up her calf, then her thigh. She wasn’t wearing any drawers, and with no warning or delay, he slipped his fingers inside her, and crudely stroked them.

“You’re dripping, you strumpet.”

“I loathe you. I’m sickened by the sight of you.”

“That’s not what your body is telling me.”

As he pushed her skirt up to her waist, she glanced down at her crotch. Most of his hand was impaled, and the vision was bizarre, absurd. She couldn’t credit that she was lying there like a limp noodle and allowing him to fondle her.

He sundered her nether lips and inspected her.

“I don’t like fornicating with a woman who has hair on her privates. Steal a strop and a razor, and shave it off before our next meeting.”

“That’s disgusting. I won’t.”

“You will,” he decreed. “Shave under your arms, too, so I won’t have to look at it. I want you smooth and soft, like a young girl.”

He wanted her to seem younger than she was? How very peculiar. She’d been trying to act mature, so he would reckon her to be much older. There was something important and vital concealed in his ultimatum, but she was too inebriated to deduce what it was, and she giggled, deeming the circumstances to be hilarious.

Down below, he was fiddling with his pants, and promptly, he was propelling himself into her, but not with his fingers. Whatever he was using was enormous, blunt, and it was stretching her to an uncomfortable width.

She whimpered, even though she hadn’t meant to,
and she grappled to press her legs together, but he was wedged between them and inching into her, and his purpose dawned on her. For an eternity, she’d been weary of her tiresome virginity, and she’d sought methods to be relieved of it, but she was questioning her decision, and not positive she should go through with it.

Especially not here. And most especially not with him. He was too elderly. Too assertive and domineering. Too diabolical.

“You’re hurting me,” she protested. “Desist! At once!”

“Not bloody likely.” He clasped her arms to her sides. “Go ahead. Fight if you want. Your petty skirmishing is amusing to me.”

“I don’t like this.”

“Too damned bad. You’re about to get exactly what you’ve been pleading for me to give you.”

“Well, I don’t want it anymore!”

“How many lovers have you really had?” He flexed his hips, and with a single lunge, drove himself into her.

The pain wasn’t nearly as intense as she’d imagined or had heard it could be, but it wasn’t as exciting or romantic as she’d heard, either. It was actually quite foul, and she mentally detached from what was transpiring. Her state of intoxication made it seem unreal, as if it were happening to someone else.

They were both sweating, and there was a strange smell in the air created by the joining. He was thrusting into her, squashing her so that she could scarcely breathe. While he appeared to relish what he was doing,
she
didn’t note any emotion except for a fervent desire that it would soon be over.

He spilled himself inside her, and even that was a disappointment. He groaned and shuddered, then he collapsed onto her, and she suffered a frantic instant when she wondered if he’d had an attack of the heart.

Good God, had the oaf died?

But as he exhaled, her fears were allayed. Pulling out of her, he stood and adjusted his pants. He was calm as you please, while she was partially naked, her bosom still exposed. She didn’t want him seeing her so disheveled, and she sat up. At her center, she was sore, wet and sticky, and she dragged her skirt down and tucked her breasts into her bodice.

He was insolent, preening, and he glared down at her. “We’ve determined, without a doubt, how many lovers you’ve had, haven’t we?”

“You may have more experience than me,” she sneered, “but the extra practice hasn’t helped. I’ve dallied with boys who are better than you. You don’t even know how to kiss!”

“I don’t have to waste time
kissing
to get what I want from a woman.” Scooping up the brandy, he took a swig, then wiped his sleeve across his lips. He offered her the bottle, and when she refused, he grabbed her by the neck and forced her to imbibe.

“You must learn to do as I say.”

“You’ll never make me.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

He compelled her to drink, and she tried to keep her mouth shut, but he would have gladly sloshed it down her front, so she complied, gulping several draughts that burned her throat and watered her eyes.

“You need a stern master,” he announced, “and I’m just the man for the job.”

“Hah! You’re never going to see me again.”

“Yes I am,” he replied. “You’re like a dog at a bone, sniffing around. You’ve had a small taste, and you’ll be back for more.”

“I won’t!”

“Your soul’s as black as mine. You won’t be able to resist.”

Did she have a black soul? Was he correct? She’d always been different from everyone else, bored with the morals and restrictions others placed on her. It was thrilling to lie and steal, to engage in stealth and secrecy. There was constantly the risk of being caught, and it spurred her to increased recklessness.

Trifling with him was the very worst thing she could have done, the farthest line she could have crossed, yet she felt no remorse. At the very least, the loss of her virginity warranted that Margaret couldn’t auction her off like a prized cow to a pompous, fusty old man, as she was trying to do with Olivia.

Was she evil? Debauched?

She grinned. Corruption was a bloody sight more fun than being a bluenosed puritan. Snatching up the brandy, she partook of a lengthy swallow, and he smirked, clearly expecting nothing less.

“Be here tomorrow night,” he said. “I’ll bring more liquor. And some opium. Have you ever tried it?”

“No.”

“It will tickle your fancy.” He picked up Olivia’s sketches and held them out. “Now, return to the manor before you’re missed.”

“So what?” she chided. “I don’t care.”

“I’m not ready to be discovered with you. Not yet, anyway.”

She had no idea what he meant, and it didn’t occur to her that she should ask. Too rapidly, she rose and reached for the drawings, but she was dizzy and muddled. He attempted to steady her, but she yanked away.

“I don’t need your assistance.”

“That’s what you think.”

“You’re a pervert, a prig, a . . . a . . .” Her brain wasn’t working as it should, and she couldn’t muster the names she yearned to hurl at him.

“Yes, I am,” he freely admitted. “Tomorrow at midnight.”

“I won’t come. I hate you.”

“If you don’t show up, I’ll sneak into your bedchamber. I’ll tie you up and whip you. Then, I’ll make you do it to me with your mouth. Even if you beg me not to.”

“You’re despicable, repulsive.”

“So are you. We’re destined to be great friends.”

He shoved her toward the stairs, and she stumbled, then straightened, and departed without giving him the satisfaction of glancing back. She started down the pathway, and had just rounded the curve, when she ran into Olivia who, apparently, was out for an evening stroll.

“Penny?” she queried. “What on earth? I thought you went to bed an hour ago.”

“I needed some fresh air,” she fibbed.

“You’ve been tippling.”

“What if I have?”

The gazebo was a few yards away, so they could hear Freddy mounting his horse and trotting off. Olivia frowned and peered through the shadows, trying to identify who was quitting the property.

“Who was that?” she inquired. “What have you been doing?”

“None of your business.” She endeavored to walk around her stepsister, but Olivia blocked her.

“Was that Mr. Blaine?”

Penny shrugged, neither confirming nor denying who it was.

“Oh, Penny,” Olivia admonished, clucking her tongue in dismay. “Tell me you haven’t been out here with him.”

“What I do isn’t any of your affair.”

“Oh, but it is. Would you embarrass your mother? And me? At the earl’s house? We’re his guests. What’s come over you?” She stared into the darkness, as though she could behold Freddy’s retreating form, but he was long gone. “Promise me that you won’t speak with him again.”

Penny remained aggravatingly, doggedly silent.

“If you won’t give me your word,” Olivia threatened, “I’ll go to your mother.”

A wave of fury swept over Penny. Who was Olivia to be issuing orders and chastising? It was irritating enough to listen to Margaret’s incessant harping. She wasn’t about to tolerate it from her whiny, mewling sibling.

“No you won’t.”

“I will,” Olivia insisted.

She and Olivia were the same height, the same weight. She advanced until they were pressed up together, their skirts tangled, and she captured Olivia’s forearm and pinched as hard as she could, causing Olivia to lurch away.

“I know about you and the stablemaster,” Penny informed her.

“What?”

“I have some of the pictures you drew.” She retrieved them from under her cloak and brandished them. “If you tattle about Mr. Blaine, I’ll show them to Margaret.”

Olivia blanched, fading to a ghostly white. “Penny!”

“We’ll see who’s in the most trouble then, won’t we?”

Visibly afraid, Olivia studied her. “You could never do anything so wicked to me.”

“Couldn’t I?” She moved nearer, and her timid sister flinched. She liked the power she wielded, enjoyed witnessing Olivia’s fear. “I don’t care about you. I’ve
never
cared about you.”

Appalled, aghast, Olivia recoiled. “You’re mad.”

Penny laughed, a low, malevolent chuckle that boded ill for any person foolish enough to cross her, then she turned and sauntered to the mansion, leaving Olivia quaking out on the lawn.