Her Mad Baron (25 page)

His breath was harsh and his hands less slow and soft on her skin. At least she wasn’t going down alone because his hands and mouth were eager as her body.

She gave up entirely.

“Nathaniel,” she said, angry and needy. “Come on, now. Now. Now.”

He obeyed, and she only wished she could embrace him as he at last covered her body with his and, fumbling between them, managed to slide into her.

Exactly what she needed and the sensation was more than enough to send her into that delicious release. She howled and pushed up against him. He held her and was too gentle, and she wanted him harder and deeper.

“Stop it,” she said, and moaned.

Then suddenly she was blinking in the candlelight, and air instead of his weight covered her body. He was off her and working at a knot at her wrist.

“Hey? What?” she said.

“You said stop.” He frowned at the knot. “Perhaps I should keep a knife by the bed.”

She groaned. Her body twinged. Unrelieved, unbelievable excitement. “I meant stop being so…so... Stop, ah.”

He’d worked the knots loose, and she opened and closed her hands, looking at her reddened skin. What had she meant? Stop being so gentle and considerate?

He climbed over her and knelt by her body to work on the other wrist. She wanted to tell him it was all right, she didn’t mind being powerless. Except she didn’t want to talk now. She wanted him inside and on her.

He kissed her belly and worked his way down to her ankle with urgent small kisses. She lifted her head and watched. No wonder it took so long. His hands were trembling.

“There.” He crawled up and lay down next to her. “Free.”

His mouth on hers was a long, slow, delicious kiss, and it brought her back to the need. Unfulfilled. She pulled away and looked into his eyes, which were the opposite of ice.

“You were right,” she said.

He kissed her and ran his hands up her sides, drawing her against him, and moving almost absently, pushing his erection against her. She put a leg over his side so he could push it exactly where she wanted it. But he didn’t.

“You like the danger,” he said, but didn’t sound as if he smirked. “And I liked having you helpless.”

“Yes,” she whispered, and shifted so he couldn’t avoid her waiting body. “And I wish you hadn’t stopped.”

“You said the word,” he said, and went back to kissing her. Now his hands slid down her back and lightly grasped her rear end. “You said stop.”

“Oh.”

“And at any rate,” he went on, “I wanted to feel your arms around me. You thrashing and helpless under me is lovely too. Next time, I won’t untie you unless you say the word twice.”

Next time.

She’d be bound and blindfolded and in his control. Just the thought made her squirm and wiggle. His touch and kisses added to that fast-growing need again too.

They were still side by side, her leg over his hip, when he thrust into her, hard this time, deep enough to hurt beautifully. She wrapped her arms and her one leg tight around him and moved with him.

Now she could struggle against him too, shifting her body so he could touch her exactly where she needed him, and it was need, a bone-deep requirement for his body to fill hers again and again. He must slide at just that point and kiss her again. Already she could feel it bearing down on her like he did, overpowering and beyond exciting, racing into something beyond her control.

She could hear her throat open as the release slammed through her. He groaned and sped up, going harder and faster at last inside her more sensitive body. That was even better for her to squeeze around his thick invasion, although with his pushes inside her she felt almost as limp and helpless as she’d been when he’d tied her to his bed.

He rolled her onto her back and was on top of her, thrusting impossibly deep. She raised her legs to meet him and gave a cry when unexpected smaller waves rolled over her. She trembled, and her breathing came as gasps. He pushed himself up on his hands and was touching her only with his cock, which moved inside her.

She tried to pull him close again, but he pulled away and then out, sliding over her skin until she felt the twitch and warmth of him trapped between their bodies. The rush of liquid. He’d released outside of her again.

That was good, she drowsily thought. Although, of course, nothing could be bad again. Nothing mattered but the velvet he’d created in her brain and body. Perfect.

He collapsed, covering her, though most of his weight must have been on his knees and elbows tucked into his side. “Jesus.” He groaned.

She was too worn out to say anything. Too happy and, even better, too content.

After a minute of feeling her heart and his breath slow, she said, “Thank you.”

He kissed her and sat up.

After he wiped her belly with the last ragged bit of what had once been bed linen, he went to the gaslight, turned it off and, in the dark, slid around behind her. He didn’t speak again but held her against him, his arm around her and looped between her breasts. Not polite, not distant, only there breathing with her naked, their slick bodies pressed tight.

She tried to stay awake and ponder all of the strange night’s happenings, but exhaustion overtook her.

She awoke in the dark to him curled around her from the back kissing her neck and could feel him hardening in the curve of her bottom. She had a delicious realization that she could have him again with only a shift and turn of her body. How could anyone willingly leave a bed with so many joyful discoveries to explore?

“Florrie,” he whispered in the dark. “What did you find at my uncle’s house?”

She’d forgotten about the sheaf of papers she’d stuffed into her satchel. “That man,” she said drowsily. “You said his name when we were in that room together. You told me to go to him if I got out. I didn’t read them, but there were letters from him to your uncle.”

“Oh, Christ.” He rose from the bed. “Maller.”

She wanted to get up and go to him, but the cozy darkness and comfortable bed, pulled her back to sleep.

The next time she awoke, she was alone. Her dress had been neatly folded and placed on the chest near the bottom of the big bed. There was no sign of her climbing clothes.

Someone knocked on the door. Naked, Florrie shrank under the covers. “Come in,” she said, more cheerfully than she felt.

A middle-aged, grey-haired lady with two chins and a pleasant, round face stood in the doorway, hands folded in front of her. “I am Miss Brock, ma’am,” she said. “I am here to assist you.”

“Good, good.” Florrie tried to sound unrattled and self-assured. “Please wait outside. Only a few minutes.”

Florrie knew that Miss Brock could have pointed out that any lady’s maid would be used to seeing her mistress naked, although something about her well-made clothing and sedate manner said she was more than a lady’s maid. But her only answer was a regal nod of the head. Her demeanor of calm respect helped Florrie feel less like a prostitute caught in the act.

Miss Brock left the room, closing the door silently behind her.

Florrie covered the scraps of cloth that had been a sheet with the counterpane. She scrambled into her undergarments—regretting her lack of stays or bustle—and then threw on the drab, loose-fitting gray gown. At least her clothing didn’t lend her the appearance of a woman of easy virtue. She’d more likely be mistaken for an untidy washerwoman.

When Miss Brock knocked again several minutes later, she carried a breakfast tray.

Florrie sat in one of the carved chairs that threatened to swallow her up. Nathaniel, or more likely one of his forbearers, had a taste for massive furniture that made anyone under six feet tall feel like a dwarf. Miss Brock set the tray on a table next to her and stood waiting.

“Please, sit,” Florrie said. “Do you happen to know where Lord Felston is?”

“No, ma’am. I met him briefly downstairs this morning. And of course yesterday when he interviewed me.”

“And your position in the household is...” She let the question trail off although she knew exactly why Miss Brock was here. She was the lady who’d help her select suitable clothing for her new part.

How could Nathaniel hire someone without even asking her opinion? Was this going to be the way he always worked? Making decisions for her? Just because the woman in front of her seemed to be someone she liked that didn’t make the matter any better. Nathaniel might turn out to be even more interfering and manipulating than Duncan.

If Miss Brock was surprised by Florrie’s ignorance, she didn’t show any astonishment. “I am newly hired. To assist you, ma’am. I have already summoned the dressmaker and the hairdresser, although I pride myself on my own abilities with the tong and comb.” She allowed herself a small smile.

Florrie looked down at the tray of food her new employee, no, Nathaniel’s employee, had brought. She couldn’t eat. She wiggled out of the chair. “Will you excuse me, Miss Brock?”

“Perhaps I should summon a maid to tidy up, ma’am?” Miss Brock frowned at the strips of the wrecked bed linen.

Libby, Florrie thought. And what a report she’d send back to her relatives. Had she already told Mr. Wentworth about Miss Cadero’s wantonly ways?

Florrie fled the room, barefoot and her hair loose.

She had a light step and good ears, and she knew how to be a sneak. She paused at each landing and listened for footsteps or voices and managed to avoid a pair of maids and the butler.

Her luck ran out when she opened the door to the library. Instead of Nathaniel she found a pale, thin man at the desk. He started and rose from the chair at once.

“I beg your pardon,” she said and drew back her shoulders, playing for dignity. “I’m looking for Lord Felston.”

He cleared his throat and obviously tried not to stare at her bare feet.

“I’m Miss Cadero,” she said. “You must be Mr. Burn-ummm.”

She’d only heard Nathaniel refer to him as Burny.

“Yes, I’m Burnbridge,” the man said, his eyes still wide. He didn’t hurry forward or make any other motion. He didn’t know her name? She wondered if Nathaniel hadn’t said anything to his friend because he’d been lying all this time about marrying her.

Mr. Burnbridge was speaking again. “Please do excuse me. How may I help you?”

“I need to find Lord Felston,” she reminded him.

“Of course,” he said. “He went out. He should be back soon.”

Had he gone riding? They hadn’t had enough exercise through the long night?

His secretary didn’t know her. Her mind returned to the possible web of intricate lies Nathaniel had spun to get her into his bed.

Miss Brock would clear up the question. How would Nathaniel explain that lady’s presence in the household? “Do you know Miss Brock? I mean the reason Lord Felston hired her.”

His eyes went wider. “She was hired to assist his lordship’s bride-to-be in her... Oh.” He blinked. “I say. Are you his betrothed? You’re here?”

She had thought Nathaniel would have intelligent friends and assistants. She dismissed saying
of course, you ninny
and only nodded. “Yes, indeed.”

His eyebrows went even higher, his pale face flooded red, and he stammered something like an apology.

She had no right to judge Burnbridge’s response. The respectable Nathaniel, Lord Felston wouldn’t have a disheveled, barefoot, bleary-eyed woman as his fiancée. Nor would he be likely to marry the sort of woman who’d stay the night before the wedding.

Ah well, she would brazen this situation out. She touched her hair and grinned. “As you can see, Miss Brock has a large task ahead of her.”

For the first time, Mr. Burnbridge smiled. “Not at all, ma’am.”

“You are generous.” She stifled a sigh. “I have left Miss Brock waiting for me. When he returns, would you inform Lord Felston that I would like a word with him?”

Burnbridge bowed. “I’m delighted to meet you at last, Miss Camero.”

She thanked him absently, wondering why Nathaniel hadn’t even mentioned her name. Soon enough she’d have to deal with her fiancé’s high-handed manner—not to mention his inability to communicate with herself or his secretary.

After rejecting the idea of a curtsey, she bowed her head to Mr. Burnbridge. The gracious baroness in training. God help her.

She walked slowly down the hall and back up the stairs, the stone and polished oak cold under her feet.

A gentleman’s bedroom was not the sort of place to meet with a dressmaker. Before she returned to Miss Brock, she stealthily opened doors and examined each room. One appeared to be a little old-fashioned sitting room attached to a lady’s bedchamber.

She wondered if she should announce to the butler that she was using the room but decided not to go looking for trouble in the large drafty house. It would find her.

In her absence, Miss Brock had discovered the bathroom and drawn a bath for Florrie. Hot water on demand. Amazing.

As Florrie soaked in the near-scalding water scented with something spicy and masculine, she reflected that Miss Brock was the consummate diplomat. She appeared not to notice the scent of sex or the strange presence of an unmarried woman in a gentleman’s home. The lady’s friendly yet business-like air was just what Florrie needed.