The Perils of Pleasure (25 page)

And as he did, Madeleine’s hands slid beneath his shirt, over his ribs, over his chest, soft, demanding, searching, stroking, sending dark, shivering threads of sensation through his body. He ducked to brush his aching erection against her damp curls, and her back bowed up to meet him, urging him closer.

And he thought he might lose consciousness.

He wanted desperately to feel every inch of his skin over hers; he wanted to lick and stroke and plunge like a beast. But with a distant sort of amusement, he knew this was a haiku of a coupling; they would need to achieve profundity within strict limitations, and Mad
eleine seemed to know precisely what she wanted from him, because she bowed her body up to touch him im
patiently, again.

His breath sawed in and out raggedly as he propped himself on one hand, and the slight shift in weight made the damn loft creak. But he needed the other hand to guide himself home, and damned if he was stopping now.

And oh, God, the slow, slow journey into her made him nearly insane.

As he eased in, he watched her brilliant dark eyes, saw her rib cage leaping and falling, knew Madeleine could feel every inch of him the way he felt every hot, clinging inch of her. Her white teeth bit into her bottom lip, and her eyes fl uttered closed.

He withdrew, again, oh, so slowly. Shifted his hips minutely so his next thrust would rub against where Madeleine was swollen, needing to be touched, and he was rewarded when her head thrashed back. Ah, he had it right, then. Sweat born of rigid control beaded a trail down his back now, to the seam of his buttocks, and, arms trembling, Colin eased into Madeleine again, every second of that thrust a paradise of clinging heat. He withdrew, then sank into her again, harder this time, and Madeleine pulled her knees farther up to take him deeply. Again, and then again, he stroked.

And soon the rhythm was beyond his control. From somewhere in the distance Colin heard the groan and
creak and rustle of the loft as their bodies rose to meet each other, swiftly now, and distantly knew he should care, that they both should care.

But then Madeleine’s head whipped back and her body arched up, and he laid his arm across her mouth lightly just in time, otherwise she might have betrayed both of them with a scream. She bit down hard as her release pulsed around him, and then he plunged and plunged until pleasure exploded with a white light in his own head, turning every ending of every nerve into fuses.

Colin heard his own raw gasp as if from a distance, and tried to pull away before he spilled into her, but he was in the grip of something humbling. He shook almost violently with his release, ducking his head against Madeleine’s breasts.

And then it was done.

He rose up on trembling arms, hovering over her. Still gently sheathed, spent and at peace, soaked with sweat now.

And now Madeleine’s were hands were sliding down his skin, down his hips, away from him.

And finally Colin pulled very reluctantly away from her, just as slowly and quietly as before. And Madeleine was using her hands to smooth down her skirts, to re
arrange her bodice, just as quietly, just as carefully, as before.

He tucked himself away, he buttoned his trousers. It seemed a lonelier thing to do now, since it had taken two of them to
un
button them.

His chest stung where her nails had scored him lightly. He focused on the feeling because, along the utter repletion he felt, it was all that lingered now of that extraordinary coupling.

He lowered himself back down into the straw and mustered the strength to turn his head to look at her. Madeleine made a gesture, a pillow beneath her head with two hands:
you sleep
. He was a man. She knew it would be nearly impos

sible for him not to sleep after that. He didn’t argue. He simply surrendered. And slept like the dead.

nm

nd while Colin slept like the dead in a barn, the Mercury Club formal meeting adjourned and the members milled about the room, lighting cigars and pipes and refilling brandy glasses. Soon faces were all but obscured by fine smoke, and conversation drifted to families, properties, entertainments, mistresses, even, shockingly—books. But these were men of commerce, not men of arts or letters.

Marcus took his cigar over to Baxter. “I would just like to welcome you to the club, Mr. Baxter. I was struck by how similar your insights are to my own on the future of gaslight in London.”

“I was struck, as well, Mr. Eversea.” Baxter glanced over at Mr. Redmond, almost as though seeking per
mission to talk to an Eversea. Redmond was engaged in conversation with another gentleman.

“I think next we should look very closely into the railroads. I’ve heard talk of a locomotive workshop planned in the north of England.”

“Have you, indeed?” Baxter looked intrigued. “I agree with that notion as well, as it so happens. The very next meeting, then, shall we introduce the topic?”

“Of course. I shall look forward to it.”

It had been a strategically issued confi dence, and it eased Marcus into the next question. “You know, I should be happy to take you out in the Mercury Club carriage, Mr. Baxter. I’m quite good, if I do say so myself. I was taught by an excellent driver. He works for Mrs. Redmond now. A Mr. Bell. Have you ever availed yourself of his services?”

“No, Mr. Eversea, I haven’t had the pleasure.”

It was difficult to see the man’s eyes behind his glasses.

“Oh, he’s a very fine driver, too. Not a
gentleman
, like the two of us, but he can certainly wield the rib
bons.
I’d
be happy to spend some time teaching you, if you’d like.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Eversea, too kind.” Baxter’s voice had drifted and his head, like a weathervane, subtly shifted in the direction of Isaiah Redmond. “I shall be certain to avail myself of your offer.”

“Please do. But we shall need to do it after my nup
tials.” Marcus smiled a little bashfully.

“Your nuptials are in a few days’ time, I understand?”

“Oh, yes. A few days’ time, in Sussex. And nothing can stop them now.”

The predawn light eased in through the slats of the barn roof like a nudge, waking Colin before Madeleine needed to. She’d kept watch over him all night. Merci
fully, he didn’t snore, but he did twitch and tense in his sleep. She could imagine the kinds of dreams that troubled him.

He’d reached for her in his sleep, too, and she’d sur
rendered. Her head fit beneath his chin. His arms were
heavy over her, and not entirely comfortable, but she wouldn’t have moved them for the world.

He jerked awake, looking surprised to see her, then full consciousness set in and an extremely satisfi ed smile spread over his face, which made her own go scarlet. And then silently, swiftly, they made their way down the ladder, bolted across the fi eld.

Colin stopped at the well to pump water onto their skin.

And so their walk resumed toward the mythical—or so it seemed—Mutton Cottage. And Madeleine knew that both of them were trying not to think of it as a walk to nowhere, as their money was running short, and time was running short for Colin, and they hadn’t the faintest idea what they would do stranded here in Marble Mile.

Still, that wasn’t what either of them were thinking about.

A few minutes up the road Colin cleared his throat. “Do you want to talk about—”

“No,” she said abruptly.

They walked on, watching the rising sun spill soft color over the sky. Pink spread like a festive punch stain. The air was sweet and spiced with green things and very clean, and it had a bit of an edge to it; it was difficult to know yet how warm the day would be. This was a country scene of oaks and hedgerows and narrow roads, and it was mostly fl at.

Colin seemed inordinately alert, his stride brisk and purposeful. One might even say . . . frisky.

“It was very good,” he persisted. Sounding thoughtful.

Madeleine remained forbiddingly silent. She glanced
over. She thought she saw mischief playing at the cor
ners of his mouth.

“Very,” he reiterated with something akin to rever
ence, a few paces onward, “ . . . very, very,
very
good.”

Madeleine thought pretending to be deaf might help quiet him.

“I, in fact, nearly lost consciousness at one point,” he confi ded.

This she couldn’t let pass. “With you, that’s saying very little.”

“Oh, now, Mrs. Greenway, is that called for?”

He didn’t sound the least offended. He sounded amused. Then again, she knew there was really nothing that could bring down a man who’d had his first sex in ages.

They walked on. Madeleine heard some frantic chirping overhead and looked up. Two birds, wings outspread, were wheeling after one another in the sky. Was it love or war with them? she wondered.

“What was he like, your husband?” Colin asked suddenly.

The man would—he would—

Colin Eversea was going to drive her mad with these his questions.

“My husband . . . ” She allowed her voice to drift in a romantic reverie. “Oh, he was a
saint.
And his pole was . . . oh . . . about twice the size of yours.”

“Why, Mrs.
Greenway!
Making a joke at my ex
pense! How very unlike you.” He turned to walk back
ward to admire her, as if he’d just discovered her. His face brilliant with delight.

It was impossible not to smile. His cheeriness hadn’t been dented in the least. He turned back around again and walked steadily onward a little ahead of her.

But apparently pole comparisons worked to quiet Colin for a little while.

For a very
little
while.

She wanted to think about this, and she didn’t. And she needed him to be quiet in order for her to either think about it, or to
not
think about him.

“What do you think it was?” Colin mused.

“What do I think
what
was?” she nearly snapped.

He ignored that question. “I’ll tell you what I think it was. Perhaps it was because it had been so
very
long for the both of us—longer for you, doubtlessly—but I think it all started with the countess and footman. I’ve always found that particular fantasy quite erotic, per
sonally. The lovely aristocratic lady, her servant . . . I think we were perhaps stirred, and stayed stirred. Were you stirred by the countess and the footman, Mad?”

She turned her head sideways; he was half turned toward her, a wicked, wicked glint in his eyes.

He was deliberate, he was relentless, and she was de
spairing, and now she was struggling desperately not to laugh.

“Don’t you think it’s a very erotic fantasy, Mad?” he pressed on, sounding nearly academic now. “It’s a popular one. Rather like a naughty theater show. Have you ever been to a naughty theat—”

“Colin!”
she protested, laughing. “Enough!”

He whirled about and immediately began walking backward, facing her. “Colin!” he crowed delightedly. “She called me ‘Colin!’”

“Stop it. I
really
. . .

“‘Colin!’” He mimicked her protest.

She attempted severity. “I do
not
wish to talk about it. It happened.”

“Very well,” he agreed with completely unconvinc
ing sobriety. He returned to face the road ahead, and they walked on.

“I think it’s simply that we both needed the . . . re
lease,” she offered tentatively. “The intensity of the past few days . . . the danger . . . ”

“Good enough,” he said evenly.

Blessed silence ensued, and Madeleine began to relax into it, counting off paces as they walked, half absently. She was unaccustomed to walking anywhere without knowing precisely where she was going, and as she was weary, it was an odd dreamlike feeling, following this fl ower-flanked dirt lane to a rumored inn. She worried about her boots. She could feel the sole of one wearing thin; the road was more immediate beneath that foot, somehow.

But with every step she felt the reminder of the previ
ous night between her legs, where she was tender, and the tenderness made her mull over every aspect of the previous events, but she couldn’t seem to
think
about them, arrive at any conclusions about them. She could only remember them in terms of his beautiful eyes on her, and the white lights bursting behind her eyes, and his mouth closing over her nipple, and the feel of his slim, warm body beneath her hands, and the glorious feeling of his powerful arousal all for her, and the burst of heat inside her when he came. It had been pleasure so pointed, so profound, so—

“Colin!”
he imitated again on a girlish squeal.

That did it. He was incorrigible, a beast, a man who obviously excelled at tormenting women.

She laughed.
Helplessly
.

It burbled out of her, and once she started, she couldn’t stop; she choked with it, buckled with it. Thrust her hand against her mouth to stop it, to keep
from alarming the birds from the hedgerows and calling all the farmers from miles around out of their homes.

And Colin turned to watch her as if all this laugh
ter were the result of an experiment. He was walking backward, a grin splitting his face, his eyes bright in the hot sunlight. He watched as though he simply enjoyed watching her.

Laughing hard made her stumble over a rut.

“Mind the rut, Mad,” he called.

Four more days to prove this man’s innocence. And maybe it was this—this ticking clock—that was causing the laughter, the playfulness, the near recklessness. The heightened intensity of every emotion and sensation.

Oh, nonsense. What she felt was joy.

It was early summer, hedgerows were a riot of haw
thorn blossoms; horse chestnuts, beeches, and the oc
casional old oak stood sentry over the roads; songbirds rustled amidst all the greenery. Up ahead, around the bend, Madeleine could see the branches of an enormous oak splaying out in every direction, taking up more than its share of roadside.

“Do you know what I haven’t done?” Colin said sud
denly. He stopped, allowed her to catch up with him.

She brushed away tears of laughter and gave an indel
icate sniff. “Very little, if you believe the broadsheets.”

“I haven’t yet kissed you.”

And then he snatched hold of her hand and pulled her behind that oak, barely giving her time to squeak.

Blessed shade the tree provided, with arms that splayed everywhere like a mad octopus. It hid the two of them from the road, but not from the gaze of a gently curious sheep, who paused in its grass cropping to stare. Colin spun her about and had her up against the tree trunk in a thrice, pinned between his arms, and he tow
ered over her, staring down for a moment. At the stars

in my eyes or my great white forehead? she wondered.

“Don’t—” she began nervously.

“Don’t what, Mad?” Colin laughed softly, in a voice that stroked up her spine like velvet. His arms dropped from the tree, went around her waist; he pulled her hips hard against his hips, very familiarly; she felt the out
line of everything male about him. “Don’t . . . what?” He whispered it this time, and when his hands went up to her face, it was she who closed her arms around his slim waist, flattening her hands to feel the hard muscles of his back, keeping him pulled close to her body, keep
ing the two of them groin to groin. She wanted to feel again the heat of his body over the entire length of her.

His knuckles dragged softly over her cheeks, and she closed her eyes, because his eyes were too merry and too hot and too soft and too knowing, and she, at the moment, didn’t want to be known by a man who had known nearly every woman in London, if rumors were true.