The Outcast Earl (11 page)

She opened her mouth, but instead he smacked her hard and went on with the lecture. “As fair warning, let me assure you that the next time I am obligated to pursue such a demonstration, I will not be so lenient. Your dress and any petticoats will be removed, your chemise raised at the back, and I will look and touch at my leisure, both before and after I spank you—for certain I won’t be able to help myself, so there’s no use pretending otherwise. If you are not ready for such intimacy, mind your manners.”

Forgetting her attempt to apologise for a moment, Abigail gasped. Meriden took her wordless response as less than acceptable and delivered a volley of smacks that echoed loudly in the room. Despite the three layers, a deep heat was beginning to form in Abigail’s seat. Surely he wouldn’t?

Would he? She was already in a less than dignified position and doubted not that he could physically manage raising her skirts with little effort. Ineffectually, she kicked and grabbed the side of the sofa for leverage but he steadily spanked, ignoring her little squeals and gasps of pain.

After what seemed to be a lifetime, he paused, resting his hand again against her bottom. Abigail broke in hurriedly, before he took it into his head to smack her more. “It was unpardonable of me, I know, to question your intelligence. I apologise.”

Still, he kept his hand on her rump, then, to her shock, slowly rubbed his palm over the expanse. “And?” he asked, after a moment.

Rapidly, she thought, trying to remember, but the sudden realisation that she was oddly wet between her legs distracted her as much as the warmth that had spread from her bottom throughout the rest of her body.

Abigail stilled as Meriden smacked his hand down hard again and repeated, “And?”

After very few moments, she managed to gasp out, anxiously, “And I’m sorry for accosting you.”

Meriden stopped smacking and rubbed the tender flesh of her bottom through the skirt. Abigail remained very still, and to her surprise he spoke instead of releasing her from the undignified position. “I have a confession to make,” he said.

Abigail licked her lips, wondering, but whispered, “Yes?” And she started to sit up.

He kept his left forearm upon her back, preventing her from rising. “It’s simple, really. I have to confess that I shouldn’t be completely unhappy if I must punish you again, although I’m sure to be truly displeased at the cause. Such an encounter would give me an excuse for seeing and touching an utterly fascinating and desirable part of you—I won’t deny that I find that thought immensely stimulating.”

Even turned away from him, Abigail felt the blood rise in her neck and cheeks.

“Do you consider the touch of my hand unpleasant now?” he asked then, continuing to palm her warmed curves. “And do not think to lie to me, little one.”

Her face red, Abigail swallowed. She was quite aware of the warmth she’d identified earlier as desire, and in a rational moment she’d equated it to lust. According to what little she’d learnt of the subject, lust wasn’t necessarily good because it could shame her family. Still, he was shortly to be her husband. Surely, if she felt lust, it was best directed at one’s spouse?

Abigail reminded herself that she did not need to find him repulsive. It was better if she was fond of him—their marriage would be more enjoyable if they were affectionate. And even if Meriden’s touch was unpleasant, Abigail had the idea that if she said she disliked it, he might actually be hurt.

The mere thought made her gasp. If Abigail was sure of anything, she knew she didn’t want him to be angry, or to hurt him. She wanted him to touch her, to ease the strange new ache in her body.

“No,” she whispered in hesitant confession.

She turned her head in time to see his mouth quirk as he looked down on her again. “Come then,” he urged, lifting his arm and helping her to rise and stand between his legs. “I shall happily forgive and forget both the insult and the anger, and you shall please me and be in an improved humour by returning to your room in a few moments and resting until you must dress for dinner.” Meriden traced his hands boldly from Abigail’s hips up over her breasts and cupped her cheeks, one in each hand, even as she reddened and looked at the floor, trying her best to suppress the sudden shiver that racked her.

“No, don’t fight it,” he whispered huskily, noting her helpless response to his touch, and deliberately using his thumbs to caress her jaw on each side. “Let yourself shudder, moan, gasp, arch, clutch onto anything, squeal,” he went on, then shocked her by leaning forwards and pressing a caress with his lips to the upper curve of her breast. “I want to know how I make you feel, how your body reacts. There’s no shame in it, Abigail, not between us, not ever.”

Cautiously, Abigail reached out and touched his cheek with her fingers. “Thank you,” she whispered.

He blinked and met her eyes. “You’re welcome,” he returned promptly. “But what, may I ask, are you thanking me for?”

Abigail wasn’t sure she could explain, or even that she understood clearly herself. But, she reminded herself, it was important. “For not being the man I accused you of earlier,” she finally said quietly, then bent forward and kissed him full on the mouth.

He seemed surprised by her boldness, but welcomed it and her. Abigail was timid, but was intensely aware of his fingers as they explored her frame at will. She found herself standing between his knees as he sat on that same sofa. She held on to his shoulders and his arms, and at times clutched at his neck so that she could pull him closer.

She shuddered and whimpered and, when at last his lips teased the neckline of her gown along the upper slopes of her breasts, she clung to him in a frantic bid to keep on her feet.

Meriden didn’t hesitate, but twisted her so that she fell to sit on his thigh. With his left arm behind her back, firmly holding her against him, Meriden used his right hand to fondle her breasts through her gown and chemise.

Abigail couldn’t help but look down at his hands as he squeezed and rubbed and gently pinched. She knew her breasts were swelling a bit, could feel her nipples harden under the ministrations of his tanned, long, muscular fingers.

Against her thigh, she could feel the physical evidence of his desire for her. She looked up at his face, wondering at the strange changes in his body. Meriden’s face froze and his eyes could have driven nails into her flesh. She whimpered and arched back against his arm until he trailed his hand down her stomach and found a soft mound of flesh to massage with his palm. Even though there were three heavy garments between her skin and his, Abigail’s world suddenly spun into hazy, unfamiliar pleasure.

With a determined smile, Meriden lowered his mouth to her exposed neck and gently moved his hand from her. Abigail uttered a noise she was certain had never come from her throat before—a woebegone sound that might have been a wail or a groan, but was neither.

“Good girl,” he whispered approvingly, and Abigail couldn’t help but feel justifiably proud. As if to reward her, he hooked a finger into her bodice and tugged on the fabric, pulling it down and the sleeve off her shoulder.

Almost immediately, he circled her breast and nipple with his mouth. The room was dim, the only window hung with heavy draperies, and his head prevented her from seeing what he was doing, but Abigail could feel it. It was spectacular, unlike anything she’d ever imagined would be one of the forbidden behaviours between men and women. He worried the nub with his lips, then his tongue, scraping it with his teeth until she gave an involuntary cry that he responded to with a low grunt of pleasure. Then, as she tangled her hands in his glossy hair and the strands brushed against her bared skin, he sucked the nipple deep into his mouth.

He let one of his hands drift down over her hips to her thighs. He squeezed her muscle there through her gown then slid his hand farther down.

Abigail nearly sat up when she felt his hand below her skirts, caressing her silk-clad calves and knees. He found the garter a few inches higher, but Abigail stilled abruptly as the unfamiliar tingle of fingertips on that sensitive bare skin startled her.

Charles noticed, naturally, and lifted his mouth from her breast, apparently realising what had caused her to stop the small encouraging movements of her hands against his head and the natural arching of her breast up into his mouth.

He looked at her, met her eyes even through the dim light, and very deliberately moved his hand higher, until his palm was pressed against the spot he’d caressed earlier through her clothing. She could feel it there, wanted to twitch her hips upwards and press into him.

Charles laid his lips against hers and kissed her, even as he made that lazy circle of pressure with his palm against the upper curve of skin and secret curls between her legs.

Abigail grasped his head, held tightly, and moaned into his mouth as the hazy pleasure from moments before became a sharp jolt of desire and ecstasy. Charles felt her instant, eager participation and led her further, introducing her to a vista of sensations and pleasures she hadn’t known existed.

“Good girl,” he whispered again when Abigail softly moaned, and this time Abigail felt more than simple pride. A thrill of instinctive joy ran through her, and, of their own accord, her hips lifted and shuddered as she wordlessly asked for more.

* * * *

Abigail’s face was still flushed when, somewhat later, they emerged from Charles’ private sitting room. Her braids hung loosely down her back and, if one had looked closely, she had a pale pink ribbon tied around her left wrist, for no apparent reason. Charles had tied it there while her mind had been fully occupied with his lips along her neckline—she’d been surprised and flushed when she had finally noticed later, but clearly understood the message.

Her skirts were rumpled and crushed beyond any salvation other than a flatiron, and his necktie was loose and dangling. Charles had checked—the gallery appeared empty, and the pair strolled together along the carpet, holding hands and laughing.

Despite her blushes and shy words when questioned, Charles was certain that her responsiveness had been enhanced by the spanking. Even more importantly, his suggestions had linked in her mind the relationship between trust, intimacy, pleasure and pain.

He was already making plans for their next encounter when a shadow stepped from the anteroom bay at the top of the stairs. Milton had been secluded there in the draperies, hidden by the long afternoon shadows. The cretin had probably watched them progress up the hall from Charles’ sitting room.

His cousin’s taunting laughter and snide leer at Abigail confirmed Charles’ suspicions. Beside him, Abigail had paused in horrified surprise. Charles released her hand only to wrap an arm around her and pull her close to his side.

“Well, well, Charles. I see you actually do have the inclinations of a man. I confess, I had begun to wonder after all these years, but perhaps you needed an earl’s daughter to make it worth your while.” The words were cutting and the tone of voice disparaging, and Milton lifted his chin as he spoke, as if attempting to project the superiority to which he believed he had been born.

“Milton, as always your manners are deplorable,” Charles said evenly, torn between an urge to land his fist in Milton’s jaw and an equally strong desire to comfort Abigail and keep her close. Very correctly, he slid his arm through Abigail’s. “Lady Abigail, let me present to you my cousin, Mr Milton Wessex, currently of Regent’s Park. His father and my father were brothers.”

“But for an accident of fate, the title would be mine.” Milton wrinkled his long nose and looked down it at Charles and Abigail with all the snobbishness of a stereotypical earl. “Our fathers were twins. His father beat mine out the barn door.”

“Milton,” Charles went on, ignoring the crude jibe, “this is my bride, Lady Abigail de Rothesay.”

His cousin looked at her, sneering as his eyes touched on Abigail’s dishevelled appearance. “My, my,” Milton went on relentlessly, “I must say, a pleasure to meet you, my dear.” Smirking, he looked up to Charles and said bluntly, “The payment of my gambling debts will be a fine trade for keeping this little secret, at least for now, as you are not actually married. Five thousand pounds ought to ward off the scandal.”

Abigail gasped at the threat and exorbitant sum, but Charles squeezed her shoulder warningly. “I couldn’t care less if you chattered about it to Queen Charlotte herself,” he replied dismissively. “However, the feelings of the lovely Lady Abigail must be considered. Thus, if I should hear any ill remarks about the lady from those in London, you may rest assured that your current quarterly allowance will no longer be deposited in your bank and your creditors informed immediately that your expectations and income are dramatically less than you have given them to understand.”

Milton’s face twisted in sudden fury. It was an expression of petulant disappointment and bitterness, one that Charles knew well. Milton was forced to accept defeat for the moment, but he would continue to hound them if he could. “You are a stingy bastard, Charles,” he hissed. “I want nothing more than my fair share. At least half of this house should be mine, by all that is right. But no, I’m confined to some tiny terrace, anxiously awaiting my turn in the gilded throne you keep—and you, for no apparent reason, decide to come along and ruin me by marrying. You will regret this, you pompous bastard!”

Keeping his face composed and controlled as his temper rose dangerously, Charles reached past Abigail and pulled the cord that rang the bell below stairs. “As you well know, Milton, my legitimacy is assured, as shall be my sons’ parentage. I suggest you get yourself into business, as I’ve offered previously. Rutherford always has several opportunities on his desk that I would be prepared to sponsor you in. Digging yourself out of the hole you’re occupying ought to require only a decade or so of work no more difficult than running the earldom.”

From behind him, Grady materialised silently. Nevertheless, Charles knew the instant the man appeared. “Grady, Mr Wessex finds Meriden Park less to his liking than he has previously.” Charles turned to the butler, still containing his temper. “Indeed, he will be leaving immediately, and will not return without an invitation from me personally. If you could have the grooms harness up his curricle and a footman retrieve his valise, he’ll be off.”