Sari Robins - [Andersen Hall Orphanage 05] (12 page)

She’d done it with Lord Steele, and she was making that same mistake with this Good Samaritan.

Swallowing, Abigail tensed, prepared to move if the man was ready to release her.

But her rescuer held her tight. “They’re still around,” he whispered, his heavy breath heating her ear.

After an awkward moment, he muttered, “Why do you continue to prowl these neighborhoods? It’s not safe, especially for a woman alone. What are you seeking?”

You
, the secret thought flashed in her mind, shocking her. She suddenly realized that even though Reggie was at the forefront of her concerns, secretly she’d been longing for another exciting encounter with this man. Abruptly she recognized that the unquenchable
curiosity
that she’d been feeling, up close felt much more like…blazing
desire
. She positively
ached
with a longing she’d never felt in all her three-and-twenty years.

Involuntarily she shivered.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, sending a rumbling thrill racing down her spine.

“I’m not,” she whispered, her voice throaty.

He seemed to consider that a long moment, never once loosening his hold on her, for which she was thankful.

Passion licked at her belly and warmed her deepest places. Her body flamed, burning, yearning…The outrageous thought penetrated her consciousness:
No one would ever know
. Temptation fanned her desire until she felt singed by a yearning so intense, she quaked.

Licking her lips, she realized that she stood on a precipice, and all she longed to do was to jump. He couldn’t see her face any more than she could see his. The anonymity gave her a boldness she didn’t know she harbored. Still, she needed a little push. A small test of the waters, just to be sure.

With her heart racing, she bit her lip. She’d never done this, had never been so…wicked. Abigail shifted, pushing his thigh deeper into the crevice of her parted legs.

His sharp intake of breath caused a little thrill to shoot up her middle. His hips moved, just barely, and something long and hard pressed into her belly.

She gasped.

His grip on her tightened. “What…do you…want?”

With an audacity that belonged to the woman she was pretending to be, she lifted her chin. “You.”

S
teele couldn’t quite believe it, but the proof was in his arms. The mysterious widow wanted him. And he was desperate to have her.

Still, he hesitated. What kind of deranged lady prowled the worst streets of London well after dark?

A woman who felt soft and warm and luscious in his arms, that’s who.

What lady carried a blade and fought with thugs?

A woman who had lush breasts and shapely curves that he longed to explore.

What kind of lady kept her face veiled and her identity concealed?

A woman who smelled like desire and welcomed his touch.

She shifted against him, her legs widening, welcoming him into her softness.

Who was he to question her actions or motives when he prowled these very same streets concealing his features, too?

How mad must he be to be holding a complete stranger in his arms? Yet he wanted to take her up on her clear and tempting offer.

He needed this. Badly. He’d realized when he’d first kissed her hand that he had been too long without female company. That was why he’d been so attracted to the pretty young governess. That was why he’d been so distracted of late. That was why he’d been so restless, so anxious for confrontation. He’d ignored his manly needs for too long and was well overdue.
It would be completely anonymous
, he told himself.

The fact that the lady wanted him, simply for himself, was like an aphrodisiac, heightening his fierce desire until he barely kept a rein on his control. The widow didn’t know he was a viscount or solicitor-general. She couldn’t want anything from him except what he could give her as a
flesh-and-blood man.
And that flesh was on fire, aching with a need that drove all vestiges of gentility from his mind.

His arms gripped her tighter; her body clung to his like moss on a rock. A hard, long rock, aching with need.

Arching her back, she pressed her breasts against his chest. His hands naturally slid downward, easing into the curve of her buttocks. He pressed his face into her neck, smelling a scent that reminded him of cedar, of all things. He was almost glad she wore no perfume, nothing to remind him of anyone else.

She groaned, and he felt its rumble where it mattered most.

Her body’s sinuous movements against his frame were the salvos that crumbled his final resistance.

Leaning his face into her neck, he flowed with her, their bodies joining through the thin fabric of their civilized clothes. It was a dance of sorts to a
rhythm that intoxicated to the point of blotting out the world. They moved and pressed and rubbed and explored, until they were panting with lust and the need between them was so great, they were enveloped in a pulsing heat of desire.

Gripped by his need, Steele seized her hem and lifted her skirts, his hands raking up her leg and seeking the one place that would sate his hunger. She was hot and moist, ready for him. His passion peaked, and he knew he could not make it much longer—the beast inside him roared, demanding satisfaction.

Making quick work of his breeches and smalls, he reached his arms around her, grabbed her buttocks, and lifted her up. Her legs parted completely, wrapping around him, clutching him close.

Pressing her up against the wall, he braced his legs and their dance continued, but at a much faster pace. His member pressed into the juncture of her thighs, seeking that heat, yearning to plunge into her wetness. Finally he found his way and thrust deep inside.

Sight and sound were lost. He was overcome by the urgency pulsing inside of him, the thundering need that demanded to be met. She felt fantastic. Tight, hot and wet. He plunged deep inside of her again and again. Suddenly, her body tensed, a muffled cry rang out and her hands gripped his shoulders. Deep inside, her muscles clenched, convulsing around him.

It was too much. He pounded into her, his heart galloping, his breath shuddering, and his world shattering as he poured his seed deep within her.

Their panting breaths mingled even through their coverings. The air smelled of woman and desire. The
darkness was enveloping, and all Steele wanted to do was let his legs collapse, lie down, and sleep. But he was in an alleyway in one of the worst neighborhoods in London, and this was not to be.

Slowly he braced himself and gently let her slip off him until her feet were planted on the ground. Still she leaned heavily against him, as if she, too, was not ready yet to stand on her own. So they leaned into each other, buttressing themselves until the moment reality was fully restored.

“Wha’ ’ave we ’ere?” a female voice cried.

A tall, rail-thin woman in a dirty, low-cut gown stood with her hand on her bony hip, glaring at them. “This is my alley an’ none but me gets ta work ’ere!”

The widow stiffened, as if realizing that she’d just been mistaken for a prostitute.

“Off wit’ ya, ya little twat!” The whore shook her fist. “Or I’ll pound ya bloody!”

Pushing away from Steele, the widow slipped her hand inside her cloak and pulled out a pistol. She aimed it at the prostitute.

The woman’s pale face turned ashen. “’Old yer ’orses there! ’Old yer ’orses!”

“You’re the one who needs to be off.” The widow’s voice was as firm as any sergeant’s.

Despite himself, Steele was impressed with the way the widow handled herself. And, he realized, he’d missed the pistol completely when he’d been busy with the widow’s clothing. A failing that could be deadly in other circumstances, and a mistake he would not make again.

With a flick of the firearm, the widow motioned
for the prostitute to depart back the way she’d come. “Now.”

The whore flailed her bony arms. “Fine! Ya can ’ave it fer tonight!” She turned, muttering, “But it’s my alley an’ I’ll be back tamarra, an’ I’d betta not catch ya ’ere again or there’ll be ’ell ta pay!” Her clomping footsteps echoed down the alley.

An awkward silence descended.

Slipping the firearm back inside the folds of her cloak, the widow exhaled. “She was right about one thing, I’d better go.”

Steele started. “Yes, of course.” He was a little startled by how quickly she was ready to be free of him. Granted, he didn’t need any entanglements, yet the abruptness of it stung. And it struck him that she had to get back to her life—the one he knew nothing about.

Who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?
he admonished in his mind.
I need to get back to my life
,
too. And it’s a busy life
,
one filled with important purpose and achievements.

He forced himself to accept that this little interlude was over. “May I…may I escort you…somewhere?”

“No,” she barked. Then, as if realizing her tone, she amended, “Thank you. But no. I’m fine.”

“Well, then…”

“Yes, well, I suppose…I suppose…This is farewell.”

He told his feet to move, but they didn’t budge. Shaking his head, he shrugged. “Ah…I confess, I feel odd parting company with you after…well, and leaving you here…” He squared his shoulders.
Even if she wanted it this way, he was willing to play the cad only so much. “I can’t in good conscience leave you here alone.”

She nodded as if considering it. “Then escort me to Pryor Street. I can hail a hackney there.” She was decisive. Strong-minded. And didn’t mind telling him what she wanted quite directly. She was unlike any lady he’d ever encountered before. Well, he amended, at least not like any under sixty. He couldn’t help but think of Sir Lee’s friend Lady Blankett, who took speaking directly to a higher art form.

“To Pryor Street, then.” He extended his arm, and silently she accepted it.

It was an odd stroll through the dark, winding streets. Rats scurried; muttered voices could be heard from inside some of the buildings. The sound of horse hooves echoed in the distance.

She wasn’t one for talking much, he realized. Unlike most women he knew. But then again, most of the ladies he knew wouldn’t copulate in an alleyway, either.

At Pryor Street, she turned to face him. “Thank you. I’m fine now.”

“I’ll call for a hackney.” Sticking his hand beneath his bandana, he whistled. The jingle of a rig and the clatter of horses’ hooves neared.

A hackney came around the bend and rolled to a stop before them.

Reaching up, Steele opened the door.

Accepting his hand, she moved to step up inside the carriage, but she hesitated. “I want you to know something.”

“Yes?”

“I’ve never…I don’t…” She seemed at a loss, but then her shoulders squared and she looked up at him through her veil. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Part of him didn’t believe her and considered it a ploy. But he couldn’t discount the ring of truth to her voice. Years of interrogating witnesses had taught him its resonant hum. She wasn’t lying—or at least she didn’t believe that she was lying. The two could be very different.

He tilted his head. “If it makes any difference, neither have I.”

She nodded as if it did make a difference to her. Again he had to wonder at this woman, her motives, and her life. But his desire to remain anonymous squelched his natural curiosity.

She climbed inside the hackney and sat. With her dark clothing, she blended into the carriage’s interior. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

“Where to?” the driver called.

Steele supposed that the widow would not let him hear the address, but she surprised him by replying, “St. Lanyard’s Square.”

He closed the door and smacked it with his palm. The driver cried out to the horse, and the carriage moved off.

As Steele watched the black hackney melt into the night, he wondered if he would ever see the wicked widow again.

When the coach was almost out of sight, a cry rang out. “Whoa!”

The hackney suddenly stopped. The driver turned as if speaking to his passenger.

Steele stepped forward, wondering if something was wrong. Then the driver cried out and the horse took off once more. The hackney turned at the corner, going in the opposite direction from St. Lanyard’s Square.

Steele chuckled. The wicked widow was no fool. The only question was, would he be fool enough to try to find her again?

“U
nbelievable,” Abigail breathed as she peered over her shoulder to examine her back in the tall gilded mirror. She was completely naked, the glow of the single candle near her feet casting her body in golden shadows. A basin sat on the table by her side as she held soapy wet cloths in each hand, and the scent of heather filled the air in a comforting bouquet.

A nasty red mark stained the pale skin between her shoulder blades, and others dotted her back like raisins in a scone.

“I coupled against a wall,” she breathed, fascinated by the evidence of her conduct. “Against a blasted wall.”

Her lips lifted in a secret smile. “And it was bloody fantastic.”

Although she’d certainly been exposed to such language in her years at Andersen Hall Orphanage, she made it her business never to curse just in case she might accidentally use it in front of the children. But tonight she made an exception. Because tonight had been an
exceptional
night.

Her eyes traveled down to the white rounded mounds of her derrière, reminding her of the feel of the mysterious stranger’s hands clutching her flesh in fiery passion.

She shifted her bare feet, her skin hot, her body agitated. It was as if once roused, her desire had no wish to slumber once more. She should be exhausted, yet instead she felt vital, her every sense awake, her mind filled with wonder.

Her perception of her body and what it was capable of feeling had immeasurably changed. She’d never understood why certain women longed for coupling. She’d never comprehended that special secret that they’d already known—that at the hands of a skilled lover, breathtaking, mind-spinning sensations were achievable.

She’d never known that her body was capable of such an amazing symphony of passion. With the mysterious rescuer conducting every canto with a master’s hand, every part of her body had sung in a harmony of pleasure.

Phineas Byrnwyck had taken her virginity, yet he’d never shown her the satisfaction possible for a woman when bedding a man. Her stomach churned with mortification as she recalled what an innocent fool she’d been. Willing enough, certainly, to try to please the man she loved—but she hadn’t truly understood what he’d been about. She’d gone along without truly grasping the consequences of her actions.

And Phineas hadn’t appreciated the fact that she was wholly without understanding of what went on between man and woman. He’d taken advantage of
her ignorance and had pressed her to show her affection physically before she’d been ready.

He should have been more chivalrous.

“Chivalry is for poems and fairy tales,” she murmured as she gently rubbed the soapy cloth down her back. “Not twenty-year-old bucks who’ve had everything they’ve ever wanted handed to them on a silver platter.” She winced in pain as the rough cloth swept over the raw spot above her buttocks.

She couldn’t think back on her relationship with Phineas or that time without being angry at herself for playing such a fool. Stupidly she’d assumed that his sweet words of adoration would last her a lifetime. She’d trusted his assurances that he’d cherish her and never do anything to harm her. She’d believed him when he’d sworn that he would move mountains to marry her.

But those declarations had disintegrated to dust the moment he’d had to face his wretched father and cousin. For Phineas, a mountain might have been easier to move. Lord Byrnwyck and his foul nephew Silas had made sure that Abigail was without a job, without references, and definitely without a husband.

So she’d been ruined. Her heart broken. Her life in disrepair. And for what? Now she realized Phineas had been incapable of the kind of love she’d longed for. He’d been too cowardly to stake a real claim for her heart. And stupidly she’d given him the one gift that could never be returned.

Now, to add insult to injury, she realized that he’d been a lousy lover, too!

Compared to what Abigail had felt with her res
cuer tonight—well, being with Phineas would be like comparing days-old milk to fine champagne. And her rescuer was definitely the fine tipple.

Exhaling, she turned to face the mirror and rubbed the cloth up the column of her neck. She was decent-looking enough, certainly no diamond of the first water. Her eyes were the same as her father’s had been, rounded and a pale blue that sometimes appeared gray in certain light. Her nose was upturned and uninspiring, but certainly not ugly. Her skin was fair, a good complement to her blond hair just like her mother’s. Nodding, she decided that she was adequately pretty.

She tilted her head, examining her body in the candlelight with a critical eye. Rounded high breasts, each about the size of a grapefruit; a small curved waist that flared into reasonably sized hips. They weren’t quite what Mrs. Nagel, the marm at Andersen Hall Orphanage, would have called “birthing hips,” but they were enough to balance out her hourglass shape. All in all, she wasn’t bad off in the physical way of things.

Wistfully she wondered, if she hadn’t met Phineas, if she hadn’t been ruined, would she have ever married? Would she have ever found true love?

The soapy cloth had grown cold in her hand, she realized with a start. She dipped it in the tepid water and squeezed, the scent of heather soap filling the air.

Purposefully she pushed all foolish thoughts of a different future, a family of her own, from her mind. She couldn’t repair the past. She could only trudge onward, playing the hand of cards she’d been dealt.

As she rubbed the wet cloth over her breasts, her mind drifted back to the mysterious rescuer. It was dangerous, what she’d done. Trusting her body to a total stranger, throwing caution so far to the wind.

Of its own accord, her hand grazed her belly. What if she became with child? Slowly she shook her head. Somehow she just knew it would not be. Part of her longed to know the feeling of a babe inside of her, part of her knew that it would be the end of her job, of her career. And some deep inner instinct told her that it was not meant to be. She’d been with Phineas many times and nothing had come of it.

Had she been with child, would he have married her? Somehow she doubted it. Part of her wondered if she was barren, and that idea had a certain ironic ring to it. Maybe the good Lord was watching out for her in some odd way, and the thing many women found to be a curse, for her could be a blessing?

Still, her conduct tonight had been reckless in the extreme. But coupling with that stranger had been one of the most astonishing experiences of her lifetime. She couldn’t regret it. Couldn’t imagine wanting to live her life without
knowing.
It would have been a tragedy to die without experiencing the passion that her body was capable of feeling. The fiery sensations inspired by the masked rescuer’s hands on her burning flesh, the feel of his fingers driving her to madness, the force of his member filling her deep inside her core.

In her reflection, Abigail watched in wonder as her skin flushed pink, her nipples hardened to high pebbles, and her womb pitched with warmth.

Slowly she ran the cloth over her breast, raising
bumps across her warming skin. Stirring images flashed in her mind—the masked man touching her, pressing against her, thrusting inside her…

A bird cried out in the distance announcing a prelude to the dawn. Abigail knew that she hadn’t much time. Understood that soon she would be called upon to perform her duties.

But not yet…

She wasn’t ready for this exploration to end. She wanted to know more, wanted to relive those feelings.

The sound of movement echoed in the silent house, coming from behind the closed door connected to the master’s chambers. Lord Steele must be rising. The day beginning.

Quickly she dropped the cloths into the basin and reached for her dressing gown, fear and guilt making her movements jerky.

No one could know about her sinful conduct! No one could ever guess at her wicked thoughts! Thank the heavens that the masked man did not know her identity!

If anyone found out, she’d lose her position, her income, her future. She didn’t think she could face being ruined again.

Tying the sash of her dressing gown so tightly that it pinched, she rushed to the wardrobe to dress. She’d be the perfect governess. An exemplary employee.

Yanking open the wardrobe door, Abigail selected her most sober gown of gray wool, with long sleeves and a high collar. Then, in contrast to her high-heeled black boots of last night, she selected flat, worn slippers of faded brown.

Exhaling, she tried to calm her apprehensive heart.

No one would ever know that underneath this prim costume she was a scarlet woman, even more so because she couldn’t wait to sin again.