The Delicate Matter of Lady Blayne (48 page)

She twisted and pressed her breasts against his chest, trying to increase the sensation on her taut, aching nipples. However, her stays prevented it. Her frustration vibrated deep in her throat, another longer, more intense moan.

The sound startled her and, for a moment, it was as if she were staring down at the two of them. She didn’t recognise herself, but she couldn’t stop kissing him back. Couldn’t stop rubbing her breasts against him.

Who was this uninhibited strumpet?

His breathing changed, growing heavier. He cupped her face with his large, long-fingered hands, angling her head. She went even more boneless and allowed him to move her as suited his desire.

He probed more forcefully with his tongue, went deeper, compelling her to open further, to melt against him more completely. He slid his hand to her neck and threaded his fingertips through her hair. He lifted the heavy mass off her neck. Cool air rushed over her nape. In one quick movement, he tightened his hold on her hair and, with gentle but firm pressure, he pulled her head back. Her shocked gasp came out as a mere whimper, muffled by his demanding mouth.

No man had ever handled her like this. She’d never even suspected a gentleman would handle a woman—even one of his whores—like this. If she had any sense left, she ought to be frightened, offended—enraged.

Instead, her nipples pebbled painfully and heat twisted through her insides.

He tore his mouth from hers. As she gasped for breath, a sense of loss hit her so intensely that she felt disorientated. She stood there, leaning against his hard body, panting open-mouthed, with her head pulled backwards by his grip.

He studied her and tightened his grasp, pulling more harshly this time. A violent shaft of desire stabbed her, womb-deep.

Warmth, and what looked very much like satisfaction, shone in his gaze.

He laid his other hand along her collarbone in what could only be called a blatant, sexually possessive manner. The skin crinkled around his eyes. He was smiling, ever so slightly.

Something had just happened. She didn’t understand what. If only she could think, she would be able to reason it out. However, liquid warmth pooled in her lower pelvis and flowed out between her legs in a gush that came so suddenly she gasped. Her sex throbbed as if it were a beating heart.

Coherent thought was impossible.

He shifted and throbbing heat seared her, even through their clothing.

His erection.

Its long, thick weight was more substantial than William’s.

Ruel brushed his fingers against her back. Tugging, pulling.

Undoing her laces.

She froze and placed her hands on his chest. “Don’t.”

The gown slipped and she automatically clutched the dark purple silk to herself.

He took hold of her wrists, easily encircling them with the forefinger and thumb of each hand. “Let the gown fall away.”

He used the voice. The one from the dreams she only reluctantly admitted to herself. The  confident, commanding tone that the nameless, faceless man used in her nocturnal fantasies. Her secret lover who would press her down and—

“I want you to remove the rest of your garments and then I want you to lie on that crimson divan and display yourself for me.”

She threw a glance at the divan, her favourite spot in this whole house. The image his words conjured—her, lying naked on the crimson velvet, open for his perusal—burnt into her brain. Her inner muscles contracted several times—hard. The folds between her legs swelled and grew slicker.

Of course, despite her wayward dreams, she didn’t really want to do something like that.

She couldn’t possibly.

She barely knew Ruel. Yet there was that innate sense that she could trust him. That she could give in to his whims and it would be safe. A secret shared between them. Temptation tingled through her, increasing with every beat of her heart.

Reckless.

She had never been reckless in her life. A trembling began in her legs.

She turned back to him. His features were tight with desire, his stare commanding and compelling. She wanted to be reckless with this man.

“The door is locked. The others aren’t going to come in here—the gentlemen are all occupied with fencing and the ladies are busy with their watercolours.”

She’d never allow herself the luxury of surrendering to this. For this was pure emotion and it would be giving him too much of herself.

“I won’t do it.” She had intended to make her tone resolute. That thready, pleading voice couldn’t possibly be hers.

“It would please me.” His firm tone sent a new wave of lassitude through her limbs.

Need twisted in her lower stomach and a fresh cascade of wetness slicked her intimate folds. It slid down her inner thighs.

Wait—How had they come to this moment? Where the devil was the reserve and sexual coolness that had driven William into other arms? This virtual stranger held some kind of special power over her. God. It was unthinkable. It was terrifying.

“No.” Her strident denial echoed jarringly in her ears.

He released her wrists.

She pulled the gown up high and clutched it tight. She wanted to run. She should run. But his large, strong body still stood between her and the exit. Would he really attempt to stop her if she tried to flee? Her heart pounded at the thought. Because she knew that if he put his hands on her and stopped her, especially if he did it as forcefully and firmly as he’d behaved thus far, she’d melt for him.

What a revelation! She’d never suspected such a creature existed in her secret heart, waiting for someone to come along and draw her out.

“You’d better leave now.” She pushed the words past her shaking lips.

Also From Natasha Blackthorne

HER MYSTERY DUKE

Erotica Romance ~ Light BDSM ~ Rubenesque / BBW ~ Regency
Historical ~ May-Dec ~ Non-virginal Heroine ~ Kept Woman / Courtesan ~ Novel Length, approx. 85,000 words.
Is he insane? Or is he the answer to all her naughty dreams?
Jeanne Darling spent her adolescence coping with her father's increasing illness and insanity. Left alone following his death and plunged into poverty, she did what she had to do to survive. Now, still reeling from the overwhelming physical and emotional demands her father's care required, she values her peace above all. She doesn’t need anyone or anything except her writing and the safety of her rented garret chamber. She's about to rise above her past and create financial independence for herself. What she absolutely does not need is the mysterious and possibly insane stranger who walks into the coffee shop and into her life.
David Somerville, the Duke of Hartley, has known pain and betrayal from the people closest to him. Born to privilege, power and wealth, and filled with an idealistic vision for humane change, he gives all of himself to his political career. He keeps his life circumspectly under control. But one day, all the carefully arranged threads of his life unravel and his life intersects with Jeanne's in a way that challenges his view of everything he thinks he knows.
Leagues apart in society, they can have only one possible future, that of protector and mistress. And neither wants to risk deeper connection. However, their overwhelming attraction and resulting sexual games provide them with pleasures neither of them has ever known. Will their sensual journey lead them to discover a more emotionally profound side to domination and submission? Or will their seemingly insurmountable differences and passionate personal goals drive them apart?

HER MYSTERY DUKE is a work of historical erotic romance. Though it contains elements of light BDSM, it is not meant to be a guide to or an accurate portrayal of modern BDSM lifestyles or practices. This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual acts and frank sexual language. It also contains light bondage, anal play, sexual toys, cunnilingus, fellatio, masturbation, voyeurism and spanking.“Tender moments, HOT BONDAGE, feisty heroine...Everything a good erotic historical novel should have.”  ~ An Amazon review for HER MYSTERY DUKE

“Smokin' Hot Regency...Seriously Erotic...I want a man like that for my own!” ~ An Amazon Review

“Classy, very well written tale brings you back in time...sexy, sensual and erotic...light BDSM that makes you burn...you'll be fanning yourself while you melt in your seat.” ~ Five Stars From Let's Get Romantical

“The erotic elements in this book are off the charts! I cannot give you the words of how sexy and hot it was. There are light BDSM tones to the scenes and let me tell you, mmmmm...mmmmm! I read a couple of scenes twice. Another author who makes me so glad the BF is on speed dial...Seriously though...Her Mystery Duke is a well executed and thought provoking read. If you have a love of Historical Romances with an erotic twist to the tale...then ladies!...ladies, you have to read Natasha’s work. You will become a fan...I guarantee it.” ~ Salacious Reads

Excerpt from
HER MYSTERY DUKE

©Copyright 2013 Natasha Blackthorne

Chapter One

London, England

January 1813

Indecent. The tall gentleman’s stare was the most blatantly indecent assault Jeanne had ever encountered. Deeper than intense. Intimate, as though he knew everything thing about her.

That penetrating gaze set her palms sweating and made her mouth dry. It was a direct threat. No one could possibly know her. She kept herself too well protected, hidden beneath layers of aloof disinterest. Yet she found herself unable to look away. She just sat there and let that gaze burn her. Burn through the wall she kept between herself and the world. It even seeped under her skin and melted her blood into warmed honey.

A single pane of rain-splattered glass separated them. The thudding of her heart in her ears blocked out the sounds from the common room of the coffee shop and created a sense of isolation.

He wore no hat and his hair lay plastered like spilt black ink streaked across his high, broad forehead. Rain dripped over hard, chiseled cheekbones, down an aquiline nose and square jaw, over shoulders that were made even more impossibly broad by a dark blue greatcoat.

He was like something from a dream. A harlot’s very naughty dream.

Oh, really. A handsome, mysterious stranger, one who was intensely interested in her and seemed to know all about her? Her imagination was running away with her, taking on a life of its own. She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. The wine hadn’t been that strong as to make her conjure carnal fantasies in mid-afternoon. In public. She dared to look again.

The tall gentleman was gone.

There, see? An author of fairy stories couldn’t be fooled by a waking dream. And yet cold, heaviness sank through her insides, a feeling of loss. How utterly ridiculous. Irritated with herself, Jeanne bent over her mug, inhaling the fruity, spicy scent of mulled wine, and listened to the low rumble of conversations around her. Mrs. Roberts had a new blue bonnet and she was preening like a peacock. Mr. Taylor announced to his friends that he’d just become engaged to Miss Smith and his companions were alternately ribbing and toasting him.

Once a week, she ventured from her garret to this coffee shop to be among people, as an observer. A customer, keeping a protective distance.

“Miss Darling.” The slightly nervous, boyish voice broke into her peace. “You usually come here on Saturday.”

She forced the irritation from her expression and looked up to meet his freckled face. “Yes, Paul, this week I decided on a change.”

She kept her tone cool and polite, as always.

Mr. Ratherford, her publisher, had sent a note, informing her that she should present herself at his offices in two weeks and bring the fairy tales he’d requested. As an author of children’s stories, she’d been working for months on the stories but she still had one more story to write, the grand finale in what she hoped would be a published leather-bound volume of the stories. However, she’d been unable to write for several weeks. The harder she tried to create a story, the less she liked anything she wrote. Today, that note had put her into a state of desperation. She’d come here to try and stimulate her mind. It had worked a little too well judging from the daydream of the handsome, mysterious stranger.

“A special occasion?” Paul’s words cut into her thoughts again.

Oh bother!
She took a deep breath and struggled to find more patience. Once Paul Cook started, he never let up. But he was just a boy, and a kind one at that. She bit back an impatient response.

Her concentration, her peace, however: they were gone. Never mind. The wind was howling with more intensity outside, and the winter’s day was growing dark far too early. It was time to leave.

As she reached down to retrieve her reticule, the odor of wet wool intruded on her senses, mingled with the citrus-soapy scent of a gentleman’s shaving lotion. A body close to hers. Too close. She jerked her head up and faced her waking dream.

His greatcoat was opened to reveal a fine, silk, embroidered waistcoat that encompassed a broad chest, which narrowed into a flat-as-boards stomach. Water dripped from his hair, leaving wet spots on his hopelessly crushed cravat. He didn’t seem to be aware of his dishevelment.

She met his eyes. His gaze intensified, turning to brilliant, intimidating greenish fire, like an emerald catching the sunlight. Thick, dark lashes and heavy black brows made the color appear even richer.

“Thérèse.”

His voice was deep yet hushed and utterly masculine. It sent another curl of heat through her, stronger, penetrating all the way down from her chest to her navel and into her womb. However, it was the note of despair that made her catch her breath.

Pressure swelled in her throat, a pang of sympathy. Sympathy for others was the most dangerous emotion of all. It could lead one to make painful, unwise sacrifices.

She’d never had such an immediate reaction like this to any man. Tingles raced from her midsection to her toes, not arousal this time but an urge to run. He was dangerous.

And Thérèse? Clearly he was grossly mistaken. Or foxed.

She stood, then took a deep breath, released it, and raised her brows in a haughty mask. “Pardon me, sir?”

His expression sharpened. He took her arm, harshly. “Don’t toy with me.”

She pulled back and he tightened his grip. His hand was large. His hold stronger than any gentleman she’d known.

He leaned so close she could have brushed her lips against his. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know me!”

His deep, hushed voice sent pleasurable shivers through her but Jeanne pushed the sensation aside. As his hot breath wafted over her, she inhaled deeply but couldn’t detect any odor of spirits. Nor were the pupils of his eyes dilated, as they might be if he were under the influence of some strong drug. Prickles raced over her scalp like a thousand needles.

Perhaps the gentleman wasn’t in full control over his mental faculties.
Dear God.
Just like Papa. She’d spent her youth caring for her father in his varying stages of insanity. Life with him had become a prison. Since his death, she had lived in fear of the unbalanced. Another series of prickles raced over her scalp.

She met the stranger’s gaze levelly. “What’s your game?”

“Thérèse, don‘t be this way.” His whisper, laced with steel, was so low, that she unwittingly leaned closer. “We needn’t make any dramatics here. We’re going home.”

This near to him, Jeanne noted the glassiness of his eyes. Again, she sniffed. No hint of alcohol. But then again, having experienced all of Papa’s variances of sanity, she had an instinct for spotting others who were likewise afflicted. This man was definitely afflicted in his mind.

This was the exact situation she always dreaded. Since her girlhood, she always watched others, seeking any sign of madness. She’d had to cope with Papa, that had been her duty, but she was always careful to keep others who showed any inkling of mental instability at a safe distance. How stupid of her to have let herself be distracted by this man’s masculine beauty.

Angry at herself, she jerked her arm, trying once again to free herself. His grip remained relentless.

“Thérèse!” Again, the low steely whisper. “Behave yourself.”

How unwise of her. An insane person could react unpredictably. She ought not to provoke him. Yet she knew it was important to present a strong, confident front.

“Sir, I am not your
Thérèse
and have no wish to be. So please unhand me.” Her heart was hammering at her chest wall so violently, she had trouble keeping her voice even. She lifted her chin and stared at him steadily. “Now.”

“You are deliberately pushing me, Thérèse. I don’t appreciate it.”

Boots sounded on the floorboards. The sound drew her attention to how quiet the public room had become. She glanced around. The other patrons were staring.

“Miss Darling, is everything all right?”

The tall gentleman turned to Paul and regarded him with an icy, haughty stare. “The lady is a friend. Please go back to your counter and mind your business.”

At the velvet over iron tone, the young man’s eyes grew round. He took one step backward and then another, then stood looking uneasy.

“Are you having a spot of trouble here, Miss Darling?”

Jeanne turned to face the shop owner, a large, barrel-chested man.

The stranger exhaled long and loud. A sound of complete exasperation. “As I told the boy, the lady is a rather close friend. I would appreciate a little privacy.”

The shop owner turned to her. “Miss Darling?”

Her heart froze and her chest constricted. She placed a hand to her throat. She didn’t know what to say.

“The gent don’t look right to me.” The owner’s wife squinted at the stranger.

Jeanne glanced at the gentleman’s handsome profile and the proud jut of his jaw. He gazed at her sideways and she caught her breath. There was something about that brief gaze. A lost, disorientated air. Just like Papa when he had been in one of his worst spells and he was trying to hide it by acting arrogantly assertive.

But she had seen. The stranger was truly not in his right mind.

He swayed then braced his large hands on the back of the chair and caught himself. Arrogance fell over his face like a mask.

Jeanne’s throat ached. He was so vulnerable. So alone.

Mrs. Cook motioned to the chair Jeanne had vacated. “Sir, you better sit.”

The gentleman stared at the matron—well, rather he
glowered
down his nose at her. “If you please, the lady and I have some personal business to attend to.”

His eyes jerked from side to side. At the alarming motion, Jeanne started. He seemed to lurch forward. She looked down and saw his hands gripping the chair back. The knuckles were white. The ache in her throat increased.