Out Of Her League, An Erotic Romance (11 page)

“No, don’t stop,” she said. “I need you.”

She wrapped her legs around him, pressing the dainty curve of her heels into his tight, male ass.

He let out a throaty laugh brimming with dark pleasure, withdrew from her sheath, then drove back in, impaling her on his long, thick cock. Kate moaned her satisfaction. It was exactly what she needed, exactly what she craved. She looked down, astounded by the sight of his hot, rigid shaft disappearing inside her. The image was at once foreign and fascinating. He moved in and out, stroking her tight, wet sheath. Her quim wrapped around his member, clenching his length like a velvet fist.

He moved slowly at first, then drove his hips faster in an ancient rhythm. A rhythm that made her frantic with desire. She’d had no idea that coupling could arouse such primitive need. Such rabid passion. She arched her hips, meeting his thrusts, gasping when his penis stroked sensitive spots within her she hadn’t been aware she had. With each deep, rigid stroke, a shiver of raw delight spiralled through her body. She dragged her nails down his back, clutched his buttocks. Somehow sensing what she wanted, he drove harder, faster, plunging more deeply into her body.

A tremor built within her, tingling down her thighs. Her muscles tensed, then a flood of sensation racked her heightened nerves. Kate panted and arched her back as spasms of pleasure burst in her belly and rocked up her spine. She heard herself give a cry of startled release as her climax swept through her. She shuddered and buried her mouth against James’s shoulder, his skin slick and salty against her tongue.

The muscles of James’s back bunched as he drove into her one last time. A low groan escaped his lips. He stilled, his seed pouring into her, then he collapsed on top of her. His breath came in long, deep pants.

Mindful that his weight would crush her, or perhaps simply recovered enough to command his body to move, he wrapped one arm around her waist and rolled to one side, spooning her back against his chest as though unwilling to let her go. He brushed a light kiss against her cheek, her ear, her hair.

Kate drank in the afterglow. The dampness of their tangled bodies, the wetness of the sheets, the feel of James’s softening member slipping from inside her and coming to rest on her thigh. A sigh of total bliss escaped her lips. She felt drowsy, safe, secure. Utterly drained. She curled up against him, allowing her slick bottom to press against his groin as sleep overtook her.

Late afternoon shadows filled the room as Kate padded barefoot across the library. She stood with nothing but a sheet wrapped around her, gazing out the tall windows at the street below. She could feel James’s questioning gaze upon her, but she didn’t look at him, needing a moment to gather her senses and collect her thoughts.

London had changed while she slept. The streets looked cleaner, the flowers bloomed more brightly, the crowds appeared better dressed. No, Kate decided, silently amending the giddy rush of her thoughts, it wasn’t London that had changed. She had changed. After three and twenty years of dutiful obedience, of playing the part of the prim and proper miss, it was if a curtain had parted, giving her a glimpse of a world she’d never known existed.

A world where a simple touch, a soft word, nay—a single glance—could send a shiver of scorching anticipation racing down her spine Where a kiss could make her heart hammer, and a light caress send an aching, empty need throbbing between her legs. A world of passion, secrets, and desire. It was as though she’d subsisted entirely on bread and water, when life offered such a dazzling feast. A veritable banquet for the initiated. She was enraptured by it all.

James came up behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against him so that her back leaned against his chest, the top of her head nuzzled beneath his chin. She noted the power of his corded muscles and the bronze of his skin, so opposite to her own soft, creamy white curves. Two disparate halves somehow combining to form a perfect whole.

“Regrets?” he asked quietly.

“At having relinquished my virginity?”

“Yes.”

She gave her head a light shake. “No.”

She turned in his arms and searched his gaze, her heart swelling at the fierceness in his expression. Her virginity was a commodity prized by society, not by her. For it was a commodity that had value only when bartered for marriage, and it was highly unlikely that was in her future.

James nuzzled his jaw against her cheek. “I thought I could light a spark within you.”

“I think you touched off a flame.”

He smiled. “More like a dormant volcano.” He was entirely naked, his penis no less fascinating in a state of non-arousal.

“People do this?” she asked.

“This?”

“What we’ve done. Here.” She gestured to the bed, which looked preposterously normal despite the earth-shattering events that had occurred within it.

“Yes,” he responded. “Every day. Perhaps not as well as we do it. Not as enthusiastically.” He kissed the tops of her breasts. “Not as reverently...”

She gave her head a light shake, determined to follow the train of her thought. “And afterwards, they go about their everyday lives as though nothing had happened. They visit shops, send letters, stroll in the park, drink tea with their grandmothers...”

“They do.”

“How extraordinary.”

James studied her for a long, silent moment. “Yes,” he agreed. “Extraordinary, indeed.” Abruptly recalling his duties as host, he inquired, “Is there anything I can get you? Anything you need?”

“Yes.” Standing on tiptoe, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “More.”

James hadn’t been expecting a visitor but Roger Chalmers, Earl of Longford, was a welcome sight. They’d known each other since their days at Eton and shared a rowdy history of misspent youth. Nothing too terrible, just the traditional London attractions for boys eager to prove their manhood: gritty pubs, dockside taverns, risque brothels, gaming hells.

Dusk threw soft shadows across the front parlor as Roger arrived. James walked about the room, turning up the oil lamps.

Roger watched him move, not bothering to hide his scrutiny. “Your leg?” he asked, speaking in the shorthand of long acquaintance. “Healing?”

“Quite. The cane is a bit of an embarrassment, but overall I’d say I’m on the mend.”

“Who are you seeing?”

“Dr. Michaelson of St. Thomas. He’s prescribed a radical treatment of movement and exercise. Unusual, but effective.”

“Must be deadly boring for you.”

James hesitated. “Not precisely the phrase I would use to describe the situation.”

Roger cocked his head, rightly sensing there was more to the statement and silently inviting James to continue. James, however, was disinclined to say more. He was not quite sure how to put his relationship with Kate into words.

He didn’t want to trivialize it as torrid affair, nor did he want to over-dramatize the depth of his emotions, not until he’d gotten a handle on them himself. All he knew for certain was that it was too soon to hold their liaison up to the light of public scrutiny.

In the end, he simply poured two tumblers of scotch and passed one to his guest.

Roger took the drink and cast a glance around the barren room. “Obviously you won’t be insisting I sit and enjoy it.”

Owen, who had been occupied at the rear of the manse and had not heard Roger’s arrival, appeared in the doorway. James glanced up at his footman. “Apparently my troublesome guest requires a chair.”

Roger let out a breath. “A chair? What a novel idea. But if that’s asking too much, an empty produce bin will suit.”

Owen, unable to hide his horror at the suggestion of the Earl of Longford should sit upon a crude wooden bin, turned to see to the task. James stopped him. “If you can’t find a bin, I suppose a chamber pot would do. One with a sturdy lid, preferably.”

Roger smiled. “You do make a guest feel welcome.”

Owen, the color draining from his face, left the room in a rush. He returned within minutes and quickly had James and his guest comfortably ensconced in a pair of tufted leather club chairs.

“So,” Roger said, eyeing James appraisingly. “You’re in an obscenely good mood.”

“No complaints,” James replied, sipping his scotch.

“Tell me, is this the fashion now? Cavernous rooms with no furnishings to speak of,” he paused, gesturing through the open door into the library, “save that horrendous wooden board you call a bed.”

“The bed is highly functional, and has recently become highly sentimental as well. As to the rest of the house,” he paused, giving a vague wave, “I’ll get around to it eventually.”

Roger nodded, but didn’t look convinced. He shifted uncomfortably, swirled his drink. “If it’s a matter of funds, I’d be happy to lend—”

James cut him off with a bark of laughter. “I’m hardly broke, Roger. The truth is, my profits on cargoes have gone up threefold since the war. I dare say I should be offering you money to keep up that ridiculous, rambling estate of yours.”

“Then why—”

“I thought I’d leave it to Vanessa to do,” he replied with a shrug. Damned if he knew why, but women seemed to enjoy that sort of thing. They obviously possessed some nesting instinct that men lacked, enabling them to spend countless hours visiting furniture makers, cabinetry men, ordering fabric swatches, settees, lamps, rugs, draperies, and the like. He could swear he even saw that dreamy expression in Kate’s eyes as she surveyed the rooms. It must be endemic to the species.

“Ah. Vanessa. I wasn’t going to bring it up, but since you did…”

James looked at him. “You’ve heard, then?”

“I stopped by White’s after the cabinet meeting.”

James grimaced. London was a great clockwork city. He’d forgotten, or chosen to forget, that the gears upon which London spun were greased by idle gossip. “What is being said?”

Roger shifted. “At present, nothing of substance. It was expected you would announce your engagement at your mother’s ball two weeks hence. The suddenness with which your relationship terminated is causing some untoward speculation.”

“You think I care what gossips say?”

“You know as well as I do that rumors—even baseless ones—can have devastating effects.”

True enough, James silently agreed, battling a surge of irritation. He didn’t care about his own reputation, but he’d be damned if he’d tolerate any damage to his family name or embarrass his mother or his brothers.

“If you wish to champion my honor,” he said, his voice dripping irony, “simply let it be known that the lady has transferred her affections to a more suitable candidate—with my most sincere felicitations to them both.” He swallowed the rest of his drink and regarded Roger steadily. “So there you have it. I am neither destitute, grossly crippled, nor am I withering away from the effects of a broken heart. London will have to forgo speculation on my behalf and find another victim upon which to feast.”

“Excellent. Because there is another matter I need to speak to you about.” Roger set his drink aside and stood, his demeanor serious. “You know I’ve recently been appointed to a position in the War Office.”

James nodded, not interrupting as Roger spoke at length of the recent series of disastrous battles in the Crimea. Battles which had been brilliantly planned and orchestrated, but which met with utter failure, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of Englishmen.

“The papers are putting the blame for the string of defeats on the incompetence of our generals,” Roger said. “But I’m afraid it’s not as simple as that.”

“Oh?”

“The enemy had information prior to each engagement. Detailed information. Troop sizes, commanders, weaponry, point of attack, dates, times, everything all laid out for them. In each instance, our men were expected. It’s a wonder we weren’t entirely decimated.”

James slowly digested that. He understood how the army worked. The often baffling orders that were sent from man-to-man, employing battle strategies and tactics that did not become truly coherent until the whole was grasped. Even top generals were only privy to the movements of their own troops. “There are only a handful of people in all of England who would have that much information...”

“Yes,” Roger confirmed grimly. “My conclusion as well. I won’t bore you with the details, but we’ve tested that theory and it’s been confirmed. The leak came from somewhere within the War Office.”

James drew in his breath as quiet rage flashed through his body. One of England’s highest ranking politicians, or perhaps a peer of the realm, had deliberately betrayed his own people. His thoughts turned to the men who had died in foreign battlefields, all of whom had left behind families and loved ones. Treason of that magnitude was almost impossible to comprehend.

“Obviously the traitor needed a way to get the information into enemy hands.” Roger continued. “As It turns out, our man in London had been using an army physician in the field to do his dirty work. Rather brilliant, actually, sending his missives along with hospital supplies. The physician was traveling between enemy lines under the guise of exchanging wounded soldiers with the enemy, when really he was passing battle plans.”

“I assume you arrested the bastard?”

“Absolutely.”

James refilled Roger’s glass, then tipped a finger of scotch into his own. “There’s a reason you’re telling me all this.”

“I need your help.”

“Me? What can I do?”

“That unfortunate episode taught us we need to tighten our surveillance. Put more men on the ground listening to rumors, looking for irregularities—particularly among the foreign service. The French spotted the leak before we did. Damned embarrassing.”

James sipped his drink as he studied his friend. “What exactly are you asking?”

“The War Office could use a man like you. Our diplomatic corps is stretched too thin, and majority of them have no actual combat experience. I’m asking you to come back into the service. Not on active duty, but where we really need you: in France.”

“France?”

“It’s essential we have someone there representing the War Office. A man we can trust absolutely, and I know of no one better suited than you. You have the experience and the intellect, and now that you’re free of any emotional entanglements that might keep you here in England, it seemed the perfect opportunity.”