Improper Pleasure

By Charlotte Featherstone

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Prologue

London, 1876

It was a day like any other. Yet there was something enchanted in the air that made Amelia think that this particular Tuesday would be very different from all the others.

Despite the real unease gripping her, Amelia looked about her surroundings, recognizing the fact that everything was just as it ought to be. There was nothing, not even a warning softly whispered through the tree branches that predicted what was to come.

Wiping away the dew on the bench, Amelia sat on the stone slab and looked around the little copse which was awakening to life after the long winter. With a sigh, she lifted her face to the cool breeze and closed her eyes, relishing the sounds of chirping birds, the rustle of the wind through the leafless tree branches and the promise of a beautiful spring day that scented the air. Even the funerary statues surrounding her seemed to glow with beauty, wonder and life.

Most would say that a cemetery in the heart of London was a macabre and disturbing place to spend a few hours of solitude. But Amelia found comfort in the quiet, in the privacy of her little spot, as if it were her very own garden.

How long it was before she heard the sound of carriage wheels clacking against cobbles, she had no idea. Despite the dew smudging her spectacles and the black lace veil she used to cover her face, Amelia could make out a well-appointed carriage with shining black lacquered doors and an elaborate gold crest. Tassels, fixed in the center of the window shades, swayed gently back and forth, drawing her eye to the lavish length of gold bullion fringe that edged the scalloped contours of the crème velvet shades. She recognized the carriage and the regal crest it bore. Knew the features of the occupant as well as she knew her own.

Yes, she knew the man inside the carriage, but did he know her? Could he see her? Did he know who it was standing amid the statutes with her face veiled?

There was a flicker of darkness—a shadow—that moved across the pale interior, compelling her to look deep within the carriage. She had never seen him like this, at this time of day. It had never been just the two of them, looking at each other. And even though a lane and fence lay between them, Amelia had never felt more intimate with him than she did now.

The shadow shifted once more in the depths of the carriage interior. Then she saw him, another movement of sifting light that revealed him and his black, wild-looking hair and penetrating eyes that seemed to burn straight into her as if he could see through her lace disguise.

What she wouldn’t trade in order to have him see her—to notice that she existed.

He settled back against the cushions and the carriage moved on, rolling down the cobbles. Amelia could no longer see his beautiful face, and she was glad for it. For this obsession was only one-sided. It could never be more than that—a secret, forbidden fantasy—no matter how much she wished for it to be otherwise.

Turning, Amelia walked away from the copse, toward the path that would lead her back to the gate—and the reality of her life.

Chapter One

He could not recall the precise date when he had first glimpsed her through his carriage window, yet that day was still so fresh, so evocative in his mind. Time seemed to stop as she stood aglow in the center of a glittering sunbeam that had found its way through the gently waving tree limbs.

As his carriage had bounced and swayed its way down Swain’s Lane, he watched the lone figure of the woman, her head bent as if she were reading, or praying, or perhaps even silently weeping. He had fancied her a mystical faerie or angel as she sat down on a bench beneath a stone seraph, the stippled sunlight dancing off her black bonnet and netted veil. He had been unable to move his gaze from her, a lone figure amidst the statues.

“Stop the coach!” he ordered his driver.

How long he had his coachman hold his team of blacks in the middle of the lane while he watched her that day, he had no idea. How long had he been waiting now, at the gates of Highgate Cemetery, desiring a glimpse of her, he knew not.

Since that fateful day when he had first discovered her, he had made the weekly trek to Highgate, hoping for another stolen glimpse of her. That was nearly a month ago.

She came only once a week. On Tuesday mornings she arrived, dressed in a drab woolen gray gown, the skirts of which were bustled high in the back. Her long cloak was plain and unadorned, giving nothing away of her shape. Her bonnet, a simple black confection, was tied primly beneath her chin. Black satin ties whipped in the breeze beneath the long lace veil she used to cover her face.

Once a week he saw her from beyond the bars of the iron fence. Once a week he silently watched her—studied her, never allowing himself to give in to his impulse and go to her.

Once a week he allowed himself to see her. The other six days he was consumed by thoughts of her.

The sound of his mount’s reins jangling in the quiet of the peaceful morning brought him abruptly back to the present. The gelding, stepping sideways, snorted and pranced, anxious to be cantering off to Hyde Park and his morning run on Rotten Row. “Just another moment,” Adrian muttered, tightening his gloved hand around the leather reins. “She has only just arrived.”

Pressing forward in the saddle, he inched to the right and saw her walking amongst the seraphs that stood sentry around the grove. Find me beyond these black bars and see me, he whispered to her.

Somehow she heard him from across the sunlit space that separated them. Slowly, she looked at him over her shoulder. With a small nod and tip of his hat, he acknowledged her, then pressed his knees into the gelding’s sides. She was aware. He would let that awareness grow into something stronger—need. And when he was certain her need was at least half as strong as his, he would go to her. Only then would he learn everything there was to know about this woman who made him dream such beautiful, erotic dreams throughout the night.

She was playing a very dangerous game by returning to Highgate week after week. Yet she could not stop herself from coming, from experiencing those few minutes of his undivided attention. He would never know how she clutched those memories of him to her breast. Those minutes alone with him, despite the distance, were so very dear to her—as if she were the only woman in the world to him.

Yes, but what if he was to discover what you are, the nasty voice inside her asked. What if, contrary to her beliefs, he had recognized her? Her life would be ruined. Yet here she sat, wishing to see him, feeling her blood heat at just the thought of him.

What a fool she was to delude herself that he would feel anything for her, least of all desire. She was not a beautiful woman. She was plain. She wore spectacles. She was nobody. That was her reality.

This morning, she had neglected to wear her spectacles in hope she might actually come face to face with him. But he had not come today, and as a consequence she had stumbled about the grove half blind.

Grumbling over her stupidity and unusual pride, Amelia stood up from the bench and reached for the strings of the reticule that dangled from her wrist. As she looked down, a blurred image of a gloved hand resting atop her fingers swam before her. With a gasp she looked up and faltered back a step.

“At last we have come face to face.”

“I didn’t think you were coming today,” she whispered. As soon as she said the words, she wanted to kick herself for being so foolish—so transparently needy.

He took a step closer to her, she felt his gloved hand encase hers before he raised it to his mouth. “I have been here all morning, waiting.”

Reluctantly she turned her gaze from his face in order to watch his lips press against her gloved knuckles. “I didn’t see you.”

“I did not wish for you to see me. I wanted to watch you unseen. I wanted to discover everything I could about you before this moment.”

What had he discovered? Did he know her secret? Panic gripped her and her fingers began to tremble in his hand. She tried to pull away, to run, but his long fingers encased her palm, holding her tight.

“Tell me your name,” he asked in a silky voice that felt like a caress—a sensual, tempting touch she felt snaking along her body.

She shouldn’t be doing this. He was a lord, a peer of the realm. Again, she reminded herself that she was no one, and if he were to discover her identity and expose her secret, she would be thrust back to the same horrific world she had once crawled out from.

“Your name?”

“Emmy,” she told him, using the name her father had called her when she was a small child. He cocked his head to the side and studied her with his blue-green eyes.

“I am Adrian, Emmy.”

She shuddered at the intimacy of hearing her voice murmur his name; wished she possessed the strength to say it aloud, but she couldn’t bring herself to.

“Who are you, Emmy?”

“No one,” she replied, savoring the gentle touch of his fingers running along the back of her hand.

How many nights had she dreamt of this, his touch, his large warm hands caressing her? So many nights. So many long, cold—empty—nights.

“Do you come here to write?” he asked. “I’ve seen you with pen and book.”

“No.”

“An artist, then? You study the statuary as if you were a connoisseur.”

“I am just a woman.”

“Not just. If you were just any sort of female I would not be here. I would not have come every week for over a month just to see you and watch you from afar. No, not just any woman, Emmy.”

“I…I must leave,” she stuttered, pulling away from him, fearing her weakness. It frightened her, this unbridled response to him. It terrified her to know it was not only her body responding to this man, but her mind, her heart—her soul.

“Don’t run, Emmy. We have both waited for this moment.”

“I…I can’t.”

“Next week you will be here. You won’t run and never come back to me?”

When she did not immediately answer, he brought her chest up to his and held her close. Her body absorbed the heat radiating from his broad chest, chasing away the dampness of the morning. “You will promise me now, that next week you will be here. You have to return, Emmy because I have to see you. I have to.”

Her heart soared upon hearing his low, fervent words. Dazed, Amelia nodded, unable to do anything else but clasp his words to her breast and hold them tight. One more week, she told herself, just once more, and then she would never again return to Highgate.

Chapter Two

Fog hovered above the wet grass, swirling until it wrapped itself around her body like a shroud. The light from the sun, struggling to break free of the black clouds that hung low overhead, cast her in an incandescent glow that made her appear more ghostly spectre than woman.

As if in a trance, Adrian pushed open the black and gilt iron gate. It protested on its hinges, but with a scrape along the fieldstone path, the gate swung open. He stepped into the cemetery, his feet carrying him over to Emmy.

The mist grew thicker, engulfing her so he nearly lost sight of her in the gloomy cocoon of fog. But then a cloud parted, revealing her as she sat on the bench, her head lowered, the long black veil billowing softly in the crisp spring breeze.

She was holding a book and he saw that her hands were bare. His gut reacted to the sight of those small white hands. It was strange that such a simple thing should arouse him so.

As he neared her, his gaze remained focused on her delicate, pale hands; his mind filled with images of her palms sliding along his chest and traversing over his belly. Three little brown freckles lay enticingly between her thumb and index finger, spaced far enough apart so that he could kiss each one. He wanted to fall to his knees and clutch her hand to his mouth, kissing the freckles then stroking his tongue along each one, wetting her hand for the easy glide along his skin. He imagined that hand—her left hand—with its freckles, sliding up his shaft. He wanted to feel her fingers stroking him, soothing his flesh that burned. It had been too long since he enjoyed the simple pleasure of touching—of being touched.

He stood beside her, looking down at her bent head which was covered with her plain bonnet. “I despise the dawn. I loathe it with a passion. It is only the thought of meeting you that draws me out of my bed to brave the morning light.”

She raised her head and studied him from behind her veil. “I adore the morn. It is a time of peace and tranquility. A part of the day for quiet reflection and memories. It is truly the only time that is entirely mine.”

What drove her here? Was she grieving for a fiancé? A lover? Had she been meeting someone else here all this time? The thought tore him apart and he was amazed at how damned jealous he felt. She was his….

“Walk with me?” he asked, offering her his arm while fighting to contain the riotous emotions inside him. He would not think of other men, would not imagine her waiting here in this secluded spot for any man other than him.

She stopped them before a weathered statue of a woman kneeling, her stone hands cupped before her in supplication. The statue was garbed in a long flowing robe while a veil shielded her features.

“This one is my favourite.”

He felt those words, said in Emmy’s quiet voice. He felt that touch as he watched her hand, slight and freckled, skate down the length of the wind-worn sculpture. He was entranced by that hand gliding over the shoulder and waist of the statue. It was as if he could feel that same hand caressing his naked flesh. And he burned. Christ, every inch of his flesh grew hot as he imagined Emmy’s white little fingers trailing along his body.

Touch me that way, he wanted to say. Look at me that way. But he kept silent, and instead allowed himself to become mesmerized by the sight of Emmy’s gentle hands and imagining her soothing touch roaming along his aching, lonely body.

“How forlorn she looks residing over this tangled patch of overgrown shrubbery and brambles. It is as though she has been utterly abandoned—sentenced to years of loneliness until she crumbles to dust. No one will remember her and her presence here. No one but me.”

Reaching for Emmy’s hand, he covered it with his, watching with a sense of power how his large hand engulfed her little one. Never had his body been so hard with anticipation, with passion and simple seduction. Never had he felt a more visceral connection to a woman. It was more than lust that drew him to her.

“From the moment I first glimpsed her through the brush she captured my heart. She has been left all alone, abandoned to this beautiful but lonely spot.”

Had Emmy been abandoned? Left alone in the world by a husband taken too soon, or a man who no longer cared for her? He experienced a mad, almost desperate urge to ask her, but then she spoke, her voice so quiet and without artifice.

“It is her face, I think, that draws me. It is veiled and concealed from us, yet one can imagine what she looks like beneath the veil and her crown of blossoms.”

He stepped closer to her so that his coat caressed her cloak and the toe of his boots touched the tips of her half boots. “What is the purpose of the veil, do you think?”

“I know little of art.” She smiled tremulously and lowered her head, as if she were ashamed of that admission. He tipped her face up and brushed the pad of his thumb along her cheek as he looked through the lace to the blue of her eyes.

“You needn’t know anything of art to appreciate it, Emmy. You only need to feel it and experience the emotion the work gives you.”

“Perhaps the sculptor thought her too beautiful to be standing in such a sorrowful place. Perhaps the veil is there so we do not see her lack of beauty, so that we look beyond the physical and into the heart of her, so that we may take the time to know her as something more than a physical beauty. What do you see in her?”

“Sadness. Loneliness. Need.” He was not looking at the statue, but at Emmy, her shrouded face showing those very same things. “She needs to be understood and loved by a man who would protect her. A man who could pleasure her. A man who would guard her secrets and not allow her to crumble to dust.”

A faint smile broke from her lips and she lowered her head to study her hands which were clasped before her. He tipped her chin up once again, wishing he could lift the veil from her face to see just how beautiful Emmy truly was. For he knew she was.

She had eyes a man could drown in. Lips made to be kissed for hours and designed to provide immense pleasure to a man. Her skin was the sort men wanted to touch over and over, and each time he would marvel at the softness, the suppleness, the astonishing purity of it.

She looked at the statue once again. “Because thou has the power and own’st the grace to look through and behind this mask of me, and behold my soul’s true face. The words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

He pressed closer, felt her sway ever so slightly into him. He wanted to touch her. To feel her beneath his hands before she melted into the gray fog, leaving him alone, frustrated, yearning to see her once again.

“Emmy, you cannot know what you do to me with your honesty. It empowers me,” he said, unable to control his thoughts. “I can’t explain it. You give me such strength. Somehow you have been able to reach deep within me and touch the man. It is more than a physical attraction between us. It is something I have never before experienced. Something powerful and beautiful—”

“Sssh, don’t say it,” she begged, pressing her cold fingertips atop his lips. “Words are so very difficult to take back and forget. Memories fade with time, but words never do. They linger in our minds, our hearts, haunting us. Right now, silence and memories would serve us much better.”

“What I feel right now defies words, Emmy. I have never felt so vehemently about anything, as I do about you.” She swayed again and he gripped her arms, holding her tight.

“You must release me,” she said in a breathless sob. “You must. You don’t understand. I am not who you think I am.”

“Are you a widow, lonely for your husband? A scorned woman, searching for a man to make it right? Tell me who you are, Emmy. I want to know. I must know.”

“I am nobody.”

“No, you are not. When I close my eyes all I can see is you. Even now I can smell you, almost taste you…Christ, how I want you, Emmy.”

Amelia allowed herself to sag against the hard breadth of Adrian’s chest. The inner struggling, the war waging so deep inside her was almost over. Today she would go against everything she had ever believed—would toss aside every fear she had ever clung to. Today, she would allow Adrian to take her on a journey he had begun and only he could complete.

Only Adrian made her feel this way; like a woman in every sense of the word. In this little copse she was nearly his equal in mind and beauty. In station and wealth. Here in this little spot she was simply Emmy, and he Adrian. Nothing of their lives outside of this spot intruded.

Droplets of cold rain began to fall from the sky and Adrian reached for her hand, pulling her so that she was running behind him as he steered them toward the secluded alcove, where there was a roof of carved stones and pillars that resembled obelisks. They would be dry. It would be dark. And they would be utterly alone as the rain fell down around them.

Chapter Three

Catching her around the waist, Adrian pressed her against the stone wall as another echo of thunder rumbled across the sky. The scent of cool, spring rain and fresh churned soil saturated the air. She could also smell him—Adrian—the scent a mixture of spice and wool and a hint of tobacco. She could feel him, the heat radiating off his broad, tall body as he stood before her.

His head was bent to hers and his breath ruffled the tendrils of hair that had escaped from beneath her bonnet. “Let me see you,” he asked in a whisper as the pad of his thumb caressed her lips that lay hidden beneath her veil.

Fear and pride ate away at her confidence and Amelia struggled to hold on to the only shield that prevented him from seeing how very ordinary she truly was. And even if she were a beautiful woman, she couldn’t remove the veil. Her face, her name, must forever remain a mystery to him.

“I mustn’t allow it.”

“I must see you,” he said in a hard rush of breath. “I must.”

He pressed a kiss to her brow as his hands slipped beneath the edge of the lace. His bare fingers grazed along the column of her neck as one finger hooked beneath her chin, drawing her face up to his.

Thunder rolled once again and the sky grew dark, casting a murky, forbidding shadow. The alcove was now dark, her identity safe from discovery. Adrian’s face was shielded as well, and without her spectacles, his features were blurred and cloudy.

The rain continued to pour down from the heavens and for long, unbearable seconds only the unrelenting sound of the rain could be heard above their breathing.

Then at last, he spoke. “Tell me what you love, Emmy. What you desire. Tell me who you are. I will tell you anything you want to know about me. I will not demand your secrets and give nothing of myself in return.”

“I know all I need to know about you. I can feel what I need to know while I am standing in your arms, craving the touch of your hands—needing—your touch.”

“Is it anonymity you need? If it is, I will give it to you; if that is the only way you will allow this. I will be only Adrian, and you will be Emmy, and we will come together here, at Highgate, where no other soul shall ever discover us.”

Amelia closed her eyes, unable to believe she was actually here with him. It was her most secret fantasy come to life. Yet she hated knowing she was deliberately misleading him. She was not this person, this woman of mystery. She was not what he believed her to be.

“Have you ever wanted to be someone else, Adrian? To be anyone other than who—what— you are?”

She felt him shudder against her. “Yes. Nearly every day of my life I have longed to be anyone other than who I am. And when I am with you, Emmy, I am someone else. Someone infinitely better than who I really am.”

“I…I have never done this, met a stranger and given so much of myself. In fact, I have never let another see so much of my soul.”

“Neither have I, Emmy.”

“I want this,” she gasped, biting her lip. “I know I should not. I know, what you do not—how wrong this is of me.”

Reaching for her hand, Adrian brought it to his chest, flattening her palm against his waistcoat. His heart was beating hard, she would feel it. He was breathing hard, she would feel that too. He moved her palm lower over his breast, down over the flat hardness of his belly, where it rested at the waistband of his trousers. He pushed her hand lower and made her feel his cock that was hard as iron beneath his woolen trousers. She went utterly still, but did not attempt to pull her hand from beneath his. She could if she wanted to. He barely held her hand against him now.

“Take what you want,” he said, brushing her hand against the placket of his trousers. Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth, savoring the feel of her hand on his prick, despite the fact it was still innocently covered. He was so damn hard. So hungry for the feel of her flesh against his flesh.

“I can give you what you need, Emmy. I can give you everything you could ever imagine.” She whimpered, a husky throaty sound that told him she was struggling with what she wanted to do, and what she knew she should not. “Take this, Emmy. Take what you need.”

She was watching him and he saw the acceptance shining in her eyes, despite the shadows that cloaked them. “Take this for yourself, Emmy. For me. For us.”

Angling his head, he captured her face in his hands as he cursed the clouds and the rain that engulfed her face in shadow. Only her vibrant eyes, the color of precious lapis lazuli, could be seen in the gloomy shadows. He could drown in those eyes.

As their gazes locked, he inched his head lower. Felt her breath caress his lips, felt every nerve in his body tense and tighten as he lowered his mouth to hers. Clutching her face in his hands, Emmy opened her mouth to him, allowing him to search between her lips with his tongue. He kissed her long and slow, his tongue moving and tangling lazily with hers as his hands slid down the column of her neck, to the little lace choker she had tied around her throat.

It was a kiss with no ending and soon she was so needy, so reckless that she was grasping him to her and rubbing her mons against his body and the large, erection straining against his trousers.

Adrian tore his mouth from hers and set his lips against her pounding pulse. His fingers sought the edge of the lace she had bound around her throat. “You smell of innocence,” he murmured before untying the ribbon and pulling it from her neck. “But you taste of sin. Such tempting, forbidden sin…”

Tipping her head back, Amelia allowed him to suck at her neck with his hot mouth, knowing he was going to leave marks that she would be forced to conceal, but she didn’t care about any of that now. She only wanted more.

“How long, Emmy?” he asked, kissing his way down her throat to the opening of her cloak. “How long has it been?” His fingers worked on the buttons of her black cape, parting it and pushing it back over her shoulders. She felt him reach around her waist for the buttons that secured her gown. He undid them slowly, teasing her with the movements of his fingers and his breath against her neck. Her legs shook as he slid the wool from her shoulders and kissed his way down her arm, until the bodice of her gown fell to her waist.

She gasped in pleasure as Adrian’s large hand reached into her corset, past her thin chemise, to cup her breast, pulling it from the harsh confines of muslin and whale boning. Once free, his hot palm rubbed the flat of his hand along her nipple, sending it straining against his smooth skin.

His gaze passed over her face, then down to where he held her breast in his hand. “It has been far too long since a man has loved you, hasn’t it Emmy? I can hear your body crying out for it.” He traced the contour of her breast that rested in his palm. “Beautiful. Breasts made for a man’s pleasure. Made to be drawn into a man’s mouth.”

Unable to stand the torture, she looked down and saw how he used his fingertip to trace the circle of her nipple; her areole puckered in response to the featherlight caress. Sharp stabs shot through her, straight to her belly, as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, lengthening it as he gently tugged and plucked at it.

She was wet between her thighs, restless with the need to curl her fingers in his hair and guide his mouth to her breast. As if aware of her desires, Adrian lowered his head and ran the tip of his tongue along her nipple. Sharp sparks of desire ignited deep in her belly and she gasped, clinging to him, her fingers biting into his upper arms—arms that felt so solid and strong beneath his jacket.

He freed her other breast so that he could nuzzle the scented valley and bury his face between them while his palms skated down her waist to grasp her buttocks. He cupped her bottom, pulling her forward so that he took her breast into his mouth and suckled her hard and greedily.

Amelia purred, called his name as she ran her hands through his hair, holding and tugging with the rhythm of his mouth. He moaned and grasped with impatient hands the fabric of her gown. Cool air suddenly kissed her buttocks as he raised her skirt and petticoats from behind. His palm glided over her bottom, squeezing and rubbing, gently slapping at her full cheek.

“You’ve a beautiful bottom to play with, Emmy,” he said against her throat as he traced the cleft of her derriere through her drawers. “Soft and plump. The sort of bottom I like to hold and caress—and grip—in the throes of passion.” His fingers skated along her crease, probing at her opening before his palm came around the front of her drawers to cup her sex. “Warm. Wet. A hungry quim. God, you’re perfectly made for pleasure, Emmy. Designed for hours and hours of fucking. Could you do it for hours? Could you fuck me for as long as I wanted with this lush body?”

Burying her face in his hair, Amelia closed her eyes, unable to bring herself to answer him. “Have I shocked you?” She shook her head and allowed her lips to trail along his neck, feeling the stubble of his morning beard brush her tender flesh. “You shouldn’t be, you know. In my dreams I’ve had you every way possible. I’ve seen myself between your thighs, Emmy, my mouth tasting and licking your cunt. I’ve heard your cries of pleasure.”

What agony it was to discover that there had been times when she had been so close to him, so close she had heard his breathing and felt his warm breath against her, and he had never known, never known it was her—his lover he came to meet on Tuesday mornings. And yet he had thought of her—had fantasized about her. It was more than she had ever dared to hope for.

“Do you want that, Emmy? Hours of pleasure? Do you want me—my body?”

“Yes,” she cried as he pressed his palm against the muslin of her drawers. She was aware of her hands on his arms as she pushed him down the length of her body. She moaned in anticipation as he slid down and rasped an uneven breath against her. Then he put his mouth to her sex, blowing hot breath through her dampened drawers as he held her skirts in his hands. He blew again, this time closer, harder, and she felt her womb begin to ache and her thighs begin to dampen and quiver, and she thought she might have discovered heaven then.

“Oh, God,” she breathed deep as she felt his mouth press against her. She felt the firm flick over her clitoris, wanted to beg him to rip the gown from her body so that she could feel that hot, hard tongue all over her.

So in tune was he to her needs, he pulled at the opening, ripping the slit of her drawers so that his mouth entirely covered her. Wantonly she moaned, fisting her hands in his hair, rubbing her pelvis against his seeking tongue. He pulled her toward him and lifted her leg over his shoulder. Parting her with his hand, he spread her wide while his tongue lapped at her.

Writhing in pleasure, Amelia closed off all thoughts. The tension continued to build inside her. Despite her trembling legs, her limbs seemed to stiffen. Her nipples tightened and her breasts bobbed freely in the air as she rocked against his mouth. Mercilessly he drove her on, ruthlessly tasting her until she was shaking. She could not stop. Could only hold him to her, forcing him to finish her off until she could no longer stand without his help.

He tugged her gently to her knees, seeking her mouth with his as his fingers slipped deep inside her. He did not stretch her slowly, but gave her two of his fingers and plunged deep—so deep that she moaned into his mouth.

“I want to be inside you,” he groaned. “Let me inside, Emmy.”

She heard the rustling of her skirts at the same time she felt his hand moving between them. The unmistakable sound of his trousers being opened made her blood hum in her ears. He sought her fingers between the layers of wool and cotton and brought it to his trousers. Instinctively her fingers curled around his length. She was stunned by the size of him, the satiny texture of him, the fierceness of the blood she felt throbbing inside his shaft.

Sliding her hand down the length of him, she stroked him, taking pleasure in his erratic breathing and the way he hungrily sought out her breasts. He sucked at the nipple and she gripped him firmer, quickening her strokes. His breath rushed out and he pressed forward, his lips nearly touching hers, his breath bathing her mouth as his breathing escalated in his excitement.

“Yes,” he rasped as his hand came up to cup her cheek. His fingers, long and warm and gentle, slowly curled around her throat as he breathed faster and faster, his lips a hairbreadth away from hers. “Christ, yes, Emmy. I want your hand tossing me off,” he groaned, flexing his hips and encouraging her to work him faster and harder. “I’m so close—your touch—Christ, your touch is like magic. And your breasts, God, I can see them beckoning me.”

“Beckoning you how?” she purred, teasing him.

“Let me,” he said, breaking off. Reaching for her hand, he pulled it away and brought his shaft her breasts. Stroking her nipples with his cock, he watched in the thin shaft of light how his cock slid up and along her milky skin. He slapped at her nipples, heard her moan, and he slapped a bit harder. Christ, he grew thicker and longer, and the sight and sounds of what he was doing was driving him mad, close to spilling. But there was one more thing he wanted and she had the perfect breasts for it. Shoving against her, he slid his cock between her breasts while she pressed them together, cradling his cock.

“Have you ever been fucked this way?” he growled as his gaze locked with hers, and then his eyes became hooded as he felt his seed snake up the length of his shaft. “Have you ever seen hot seed coming out of a cock that you’ve made want you? Have you had it splash on your beautiful skin?”

Christ, what was he saying? He’d scare her with his aggression. Yet he couldn’t stop, couldn’t be tender. He’d waited too long, and like a caged animal, he was going on pure male instinct.

“Would you let me, Emmy? Would you let me mark these beautiful tits?”

He didn’t give her time to answer. Instead, he shuddered and Amelia felt the rushing pulse of his hot seed spilling into her hands and her breasts.

“Beautiful, Emmy,” he whispered shakily. Taking her hand, he pressed a length of linen in her palm and gently wiped away the stickiness. “I did not mean for it to come so quickly. Give me a moment and I will be hard and ready to pleasure you. When I’m buried deep inside you you’ll have so much pleasure. I swear it. I’ll fill you deep with my cock, and I’ll penetrate your beautiful bottom with my finger and give you an orgasm you will never forget.”

“I can’t…I must not do this. I cannot be the woman you need,” she said, struggling to lower her skirts and push her breasts back into her corset. Reality had settled in, chasing away the passion that had run with abandon inside her.

“You are the woman I want, Emmy.”

“You don’t understand. I’m not—please believe me, it can never be.” She reached for her veil which lay atop her bonnet. Pulling it forward, she covered her face.

“I never believed in fate until I met you, Emmy. Not until that first moment when our gazes met and locked—then, I believed. I knew you were my fate. I will find you, you know, should you ever decide to run from me. I will grant you your anonymity. I will not ask you for answers or anything you cannot give me. I only ask that you do not end this—not yet—not when it’s only just begun.”

How could she say no when he was looking at her like that? How could she deny what her heart was crying out for?

“Next Tuesday I shall bring my carriage. I will draw the shades. I will make it black as night, if only you will agree to meet me here.”

Raising her veil over her mouth, she rose up on tiptoes and kissed him tenderly. He reached out to touch her, but she evaded him and ran to the entrance of the alcove. Before she stepped out into the soft drizzle she stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder.

“Promise me, Emmy, that you will come.”

“I promise,” she said, then ran out into the rain, and home.

Chapter Four

Amelia’s heart continued its unsteady rapid beating, making her warm and breathless long after she had arrived back home. Whenever she thought of Adrian and what they had shared that morning, an unbecoming flush marred her cheeks. It was a flush she was certain would not go unnoticed. But how could she conceal it, that blazing heat the memories of him produced?

“Your color is very high.”

Beneath her lashes Amelia saw that Lady Sophie was closely observing her from her spot by the window. She was always watching Amelia, as if waiting for the opportunity to pounce upon her for doing something wrong. Lady Sophie had the eyes of a hawk and Amelia feared that she was the lady’s current prey.

“Are you ill? Your cheeks are the same color as your hair.”

Automatically, Amelia slid her hand along the strands that were pulled tight into a severe bun and secured with numerous pins. Not a strand out of place. She was relieved at that. No need to have her outward appearance disassembling for all to see. It was bad enough she had quite come unglued inside.

Why had she ever thought it possible to carry out this charade? Why had she allowed herself to travel down a path that would only cause her heartache? Nothing could come of this with Adrian.

She, more than anyone, knew it to be impossible.

“Well, are you ill? Speak up!”

“No, madam,” Amelia croaked nervously. “I am feeling rather fit.”

“You’re wearing an awfully high chemisette beneath your gown. And it is positively stifling in this room, what with the fire so high,” Lady Sophie observed, her shrewd eyes narrowing sharply.

Amelia’s hand flew to her throat. She had worn the lace collar to cover Adrian’s mark. She hoped the lace kerchief would go unnoticed, but Lady Sophie was highly observant. Nothing, not even the smallest detail, escaped her eye.

“And your boots have dirt on the toe. Where have you been, hmm, to soil your boots with mud?”

“I ran an errand this morning. I must have missed a spot when I cleaned them off on the boot scraper.”

“Obviously,” she sniffed. “Ah, here is the tea, at last,” Lady Sophie announced as the housekeeper carried in a sliver tray laden with a fine china teapot and matching cups and saucers.

“Is that my brother I hear in the next room?” Lady Sophie asked as she craned her neck to the right where the connecting door was ajar. “What is he doing?”

Amelia’s gaze shifted to the left, to the partially opened door. One lone figure stood by the window. The figure was as achingly familiar to her as the sunlight lit the contours of his shoulders and glinted off his dark hair. For long seconds she stood transfixed by him, by his masculine beauty and the memories of having those beautiful hands caressing her.

“Well, is it him?” Lady Sophie asked impatiently.

“Indeed it is.”

An image of her hands clinging to him drifted in her mind, and she shook her head to clear it, but it refused to leave. ‘Take what you need’. She heard the quiet of his words in her thoughts and trembled at the memory of them. Closing her eyes, she struggled to escape the hold of those memories, but they held on, fearing to be let go.

“Inform him that I wish him to take tea with me.”

Don’t make me speak to him. Don’t make me draw any attention tomyself, she wanted to cry, even as she took a step towards the door. But God saved her the task, when his lordship stepped forward and walked towards her. Gasping, Amelia jumped back and busied herself with the tea things, trying to become invisible behind the tall silver teapot.

“Is that you, dear sister, that I hear commanding everyone about?”

The sound of his voice made Amelia melt like sugar in hot tea. She remembered how that voice had sounded in her ear when it was full of passion. She could not look at him. Could not stand to meet those hypnotizing eyes.

“Ah, Wallace, there you are. Come and join me,” Lady Sophie commanded. “The tea has just arrived.”

He did not look in Amelia’s direction, but instead breezed past her, as he crossed the Turkish carpet to where his sister was seated on the settee wearing a breathtakingly beautiful pink gown, a gown which Amelia knew Lady Sophie didn’t think was half as lovely as Amelia did.

“Good afternoon, Soph,” he murmured, bending down to kiss his sister’s rose colored cheek. “You look lovely, as always.”

“Good day, Wallace. I didn’t see you at breakfast.”

Amelia could no longer think of him as Lord Wallace. In her mind, he was not an earl. He was simply Adrian.

“I had an engagement, I am afraid.” He turned then, his gaze landing full upon Amelia’s face. What did he see? Did he know? Suspect? She saw nothing in his eyes that resembled recognition, and her breast felt as though it was being squeezed by a vice.

Amelia could not say she was relieved by the fact he did not recognize her, and yet she should be. The truth was, what she was feeling was a good deal more complicated than any emotion she had ever felt before. It was a strange blend of disappointment and resignation. Of pain, peppered with a philosophical understanding that it was perfectly normal for him to look upon her without really seeing her.

“You may begin pouring,” he announced.

Nodding, Amelia lifted the delicate pot from its silver stand and carefully poured the tea into the cups. Steam vapors fogged the lenses of her spectacles, and glancing up, away from the steaming tendrils, she caught her reflection shining in the mirror above the sideboard.

What was it she saw shining back at her? An image of his lover? A woman of mystery and beauty? A woman capable of carrying out a clandestine affair?

In those seconds as her lenses cleared of the fog, her appearance sharpened into focus. Amelia allowed her gaze to rove over her reflection, taking in the plain black dress and white lace pinafore and the starched white cap that was set atop her flaming red hair. And it was then that she knew what he truly saw.

A servant.

For it was the truth. She, Amelia Cartwright, was nothing but a maid. A servant who had the misfortune of finding herself well on the way to being in love with her employer.

He watched her through lowered lashes as she poured the tea. She had served him tea hundreds of times in the past two years. But today was different. Today he could smell her, the scent of her sex clinging to his fingers. He could taste her; the sweet remnants of her passion lingered in his mouth, the feel of her—silky and warm—gliding on his tongue as she came for him.

Miss Amelia Cartwright, he mused, watching her holding out the saucer and cup to him. He raised his gaze from her hand, the one that had tossed him off so completely that morning, only to look straight up into her lovely eyes, the sparkling in the blue iris partially concealed behind her spectacles. Reaching for the tea, he allowed his finger to brush against hers, sliding suggestively along the length of the delicate bone and over her nail, letting the touch linger. He heard her breath catch, felt her gaze fix on his face, but he feigned ignorance while his gaze slipped to the three little freckles on her hand. What would she, his maid, think if she discovered what wicked thoughts were running through her employer’s head at this very moment?

“Thank you,” he said, purposely lowering his voice as he searched her face. Her expression gave nothing away, not even when he broke protocol and thanked her in front of his sister. No, her iron composure stayed true, and with perfect obedience, she bowed before him, angering him.

To look at her, one would never guess she’d been half naked in his arms, her sex pressed to his mouth that very morning. Not even the faintest flush of pink marred her cheeks when it should have. After all, he had not been the one to conceal his identity from her. She knew perfectly well that it had been his fingers buried deep within her, his mouth that had made her shudder and cry out.

Sprawling in the chair, he watched her surreptitiously as she finished serving the tea. Miss Amelia Cartwright. His exemplary employee. His secret obsession.

For two years he’d desired her, watching her when she was not aware. For two years, he’d been bound by his desires and the strictures that dictated that a man of wealth and means—a titled earl—did not fall for the hired help.

But he’d been smitten with the woman who had come to apply for the post of maid. There was something intriguing about her severe appearance coupled with her lush figure and sauntering walk. The artist in him had seen the passion and intelligence in her straightaway. The earl, on the other hand, had ruthlessly squelched those thoughts. And when the artist stared at her and began wondering what all that auburn hair of hers would look like unbound and spilling over his chest, the earl had smothered those thoughts by reminding himself that she was beneath him. She was a servant. Servants were not seen. Not heard. They certainly were not talked to, and while there had been many men of his rank who had diddled the domestic help, noone had ever dared to lose their heart.

And while the earl had tried very hard to distance himself from her, the artist in him continually sought her out. The woman he wanted was his servant, and God help him, he needed her—emotionally, spiritually, carnally. She was the woman who could satisfy him both in and out of bed. She was intelligent and well spoken, despite what he assumed, must be a very humble upbringing. She appreciated art and literature and the beauty of nature. She also appreciated the beauty of passion. She could feed his artist soul while loving the lonely earl. He had found no other woman like her in his circle, and as a consequence he’d become reclusive, spending all his time at home, wanting to be close to her.

So many nights he stood outside her door, praying none of the other servants would venture out of their rooms and see him standing in the hall of the servants’ wing. So many nights he wanted to grab her out of her bed and carry her down the stairs to his room where they would roll around in his bed indulging in whatever wicked pleasure they fancied. After, they would talk and laugh and he would feed her every delight that was denied her by her station in life. And he would paint her, lounging in his bed while she picked through a box of French chocolates, wearing nothing more than an expensive piece of jewelery he had handpicked for her.

He wanted to spoil her. Wanted to lavish attention and gifts upon her. Wanted her to see him for the man he was—not the Earl of Wallace, or the artist. Not, he growled, her fucking employer.

The longer he watched her at the tea table, the blacker his mood grew. She carried on, blithely ignoring him. He had the mad urge to ask her if she had enjoyed her morning off, just to see if she would blush or betray any hint of emotion. Had she enjoyed his mouth on her? Did she regret her hasty departure? Did she wish she had stayed for the fucking? Because God above, he wanted that—still. His mind was awash with images of her yielding her body to him, begging him for pleasure.

With an oath, he placed the saucer down hard on the table. Tea sloshed onto the polished surface. He ignored it and instead pressed his eyes shut, willing his anger and the image of him taking Emmy up against a wall to subside.

He needed to talk to her, to feel her against him. But employers did not talk to their staff. Employers were not even supposed to notice that their servants were living and breathing, with thoughts and desires—dreams—of their own.

But Christ, every nerve in his body was painfully aware of Amelia Cartwright. Emmy…

“You may leave us now,” his sister announced. With a negligent wave of her bejeweled hand, she waved Amelia out of the salon as if she were an irritating bug that kept flying into her tea. Adrian felt his lips harden. His expression, he knew, was mulish. He did not want Amelia talked to in such a fashion. Yet, to say anything, to reprimand his sister in front of a servant would draw undue attention to Amelia and to the true extent of his feelings. So he kept quiet and watched Amelia bow and leave the room.

“You cannot be serious, brother,” Sophie hissed when the door closed behind Amelia.

“What are you going on about now, Sophie?”

“That servant!”

“She has a name,” he growled.

“The fact you know that is evidence enough of the danger you’re in. Adrian,” Sophie murmured, her voice growing low and secretive. “I’ve been watching you, you know—all winter long as a matter of fact. It is quite apparent you want her.”

“I will not hear a word about this from you,” he thundered, jumping up from his chair and knocking it over. “Not when you of all people know that money and position does not bring happiness. You lived through that hell we called childhood. You saw firsthand how empty a marriage based solely on profit is.”

“Adrian—”

“Don’t!” he demanded. “Don’t tell me how wrong this is. Don’t say a damned word when you don’t know the first thing about love.”

She gasped as if he’d struck her. When he looked back over his shoulder, his sister’s beautiful face was white and stricken. Her lip trembled and she raised her hand to her mouth to hide the fact from him. “You must put an end to this…this liaison, Adrian. You must learn to live with the fact that she can never be yours.”

“Do you think I haven’t thought about it? I can’t sleep at nights for thinking. I know what I ought to do, Sophie, but I…I can’t stop,” he said, his voice choking. “I can’t look away. I can’t stop thinking, wishing…hoping. There is nothing else—” he stopped and turned to face her. “I have nothing else, Sophie, if I cannot hope.”

His sister’s eyes grew sad and perhaps a bit wet as she looked at him. “Your reputation can weather this storm, Adrian. If it were to come out that you were intimate with your maid, it would be considered nothing but an amusing little peccadillo in your past. But think of hers…think of—”

“Amelia. Her name is Amelia—Emmy.”

“Amelia is not of our kind. She is bound by what she is. You cannot change that, however much you wish to. If you cannot stop for yourself, then do it for Amelia. Do it because you love her enough to let her go, to save her from the cruel tongues that will talk about her—not only behind her back—but to her face? Save her from embarrassment and the inferiority she will feel when she goes out in society with you. She will never be accepted, nor welcomed. When you are together, she will always been seen as inferior—beneath you and everyone else. Think of the pain that will cause her. Think of how that will shame her, then think of what that will do to your relationship. She may even grow to despise you and your love, Adrian.”

He knew Sophie was right, and he hated her for it, but he hated himself more for wishing that next Tuesday did not feel so impossibly far away.

Chapter Five

The rain was pouring down in a blinding sheet. Heedless of the bone-raking chill of the wind and driving rain, Adrian gripped the iron bars of the fence and stared at the empty spot where he’d once held Emmy.

Stark reality slapped him in the face. She was not here. She was not coming to Highgate today, or any other day. He had driven her away from him.

Pushing away from the fence, he took a step back, blinking away the rainwater that landed on his lashes. Ignoring the forked flash of lightening and the roll of thunder, he took another step back, then another, unable to bring himself to look away from the stone angel Emmy admired so much.

Damn her for not returning. And damn him for being such a pathetic fool. Christ, it was utterly pitiable, this slavish need he had for her. How could this woman have become so vital to his happiness? Women had never factored in to his happiness before, so why now, with this one?

God damn her, she had made him hope. Made him feel alive. And now he felt like he had a fucking hole in his chest where his heart had once been.

Reaching his waiting carriage, he flung open the door only to have his coachman lean down from his perch. “Home, your lordship?”

“Yes,” he growled. Slamming the door shut, Adrian stretched out his legs and watched the rivulets of rainwater trickle down the glossed leather of his boots. Christ, he was in a black mood. A rage he had not felt in years was gripping him.

With one last glare at the statues of Highgate, he snorted at his foolishness and looked away, trying to run from his memories. His gaze suddenly landed on the two brown packages that sat across from him. Gifts for Emmy.

By the time the carriage rolled to a stop in front of his townhouse, he reached for the packages and threw open the door, his mood nearly murderous. He was not yet in control of his emotions. When his butler opened the door for him, he all but snapped at the old retainer as the man tried to speak with him.

“What are you mumbling about?”

“My lord,” Jermyn said. “I must speak with you.”

“Can it not wait?” Adrian snapped as he lifted the packages from the hall table and headed for his study.

“I am afraid that this is a matter that requires immediate attention, my lord. The Season, as you well know, begins in a fortnight.”

“I don’t give a fucking toss about the Season.”

“But it is so very difficult to find suitable staff once everyone comes back to town. Even now the agencies are busy filling requests for maids and footmen.”

Adrian stopped dead in his tracks. A god-awful feeling of dread bore heavily down on him. “What is it you’re trying to tell me, Jermyn, that we now find ourselves in a position to hire more staff?”

His butler’s flaccid face grew pale. “I beg your pardon, my lord. I thought you were already aware.”

“Aware of what?”

“That the maid, Amelia, has resigned her post. I…forgive me, my lord, she said she would speak to you directly.”

“Send her to me,” he snarled, “and do not dally, Jermyn.”

“At once, my lord.”

Adrian slammed the door of his study shut. God damn her. She was not leaving his house. He was not going to allow her to leave him. He didn’t care what it took to keep her, she was going to stay. And he was going to bring their little affair out into the light. It was well past time that she discovered he’d known it was her along her. There was going to be no more hiding behind her veil.

“You sent for me, my lord.”

Adrian swallowed the last of his brandy and turned to see Amelia step into the study. She was not dressed in her uniform, but the gray gown she always wore to Highgate. Her hair was pulled tightly into a bun and the spectacles she wore were sliding down the bridge of her nose.

“My lord?” she asked, her voice sounding nervous.

“Where have you been this morning?” he snapped, refilling his snifter with more brandy, despite the fact it was too early to be drinking.

“I have Tuesday mornings off, my lord. I don’t begin my duties for another hour.”

“And where do you go on your mornings off,” he snarled, prowling about the room.

“I…I…” she swallowed, unable to speak. “I usually walk.”

“Where?”

“Different places, I suppose.”

“And do you meet a lover in secret, then?”

“No, my lord.”

Liar, he wanted to hiss, but he refrained, trying to curb the temper that was threatening to erupt.

“What of the odd dalliance, then? Do you engage in them?” She bristled but stood steadfast in her denial, fueling his already irrational anger. “Did I offend you with my accusation? Are you above raising your skirts for strangers, then?”

“My lord, really—”

“As your employer I have a measure of responsibility toward you. I’m only curious, you see. What exactly do you do with your Tuesday mornings?”

“I walk, my lord, and…look at things.”

“Things?” he sneered. “What things, Miss Cartwright? Do you mean men? Do you look at men and wonder what it would be like to lure them with your body. Do you offer them a sample of your abundant charms? Tell me, have you fucked any of these men on your mornings off?”

She blushed and looked away. “My lord, my duties here have always been performed with—”

“Speaking of duties,” he snapped, cutting her off, “I understand that you have resigned your post here, Miss Cartwright.”

Her gaze dropped to her hands which were folded very primly and properly before her. “Yes, my lord.”

“Are you not happy here? Is the position not to your liking? Have you been mistreated?”

“No, my lord,” she said quickly. “I have never been hap—that is to say, this has been a very satisfactory experience.”

“Satisfactory?” he croaked. “If it has been so bloody satisfactory then why do you wish to leave?”

She was breathing heavily, but seemed to be in control. And that angered him all the more. She knew who she had shared that morning with at Highgate. She knew it was him. Damn her, how could she so easily dismiss that? How could it be so easy to walk away from something that had meant so much to him?

“Is it me? Have I done something to make you wish to leave?” She shook her head, and he growled. “You know nothing of me if you think I will let you just walk away.”

“It is not as though maids are not a dime a dozen, my lord.”

“I don’t want another maid.” He came to stand before her and she stiffened, trying to step away from him, but he reached for her and wrapped his fingers around her wrist. Brushing the cuff of her sleeve back toward her wrist with his thumb, he saw the cluster of freckles that lay hidden beneath the starched muslin.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze to her face, his stomach churning uncomfortably. Damn her, she knew who he was. He had not concealed his features with a veil. He had not hidden anything from her. And yet she had stood before him acting as though they had never met, never talked, never touched.

Rage made his breathing hard and he fought it, barely able to see anything other than that day at Highgate, when he had desired her so bloody much. When he had talked of himself and allowed her the briefest glimpse into his soul. ighbury, his mouth Was she amused by him whenever she thought of that day at the cemetery? Was she mocking him now, secretly laughing at him, remembering how much of a damned fool he had been?

With lightening speed, he shackled her wrist and captured it ruthlessly in his hand. Before she could think of getting away, he reached for her, bringing her back against the door, pinning her against the wood with his chest and thighs. His hand skimmed over her hip while he turned the key in the lock with a soft but determined click.

She whimpered. In fear. In longing. He didn’t know, and didn’t particularly care. Tightening his fingers on her waist, he brought her ever so slightly closer to him. He saw her eyes go round, felt the rush of hot air as she released a pent-up breath. He was aware that her fingers held a death grip on her skirts.

“I know everything about you, Amelia,” he whispered darkly. “Everything.”

Her gaze flashed to his. “Don’t do this,” she pleaded. “It is better left unsaid.”

Ignoring her plea, he slowly ran his fingertip down the column of her neck, noticing how flushed and warm her skin was. “I know that Tuesday mornings you have some free time to spend however you wish, and that you enjoy long walks in secluded spots.”

The color left her face but she amazingly held her gaze steady on him. “I think you must be mistaken, my lord.”

“Highgate Cemetery? A foggy morning, standing in the drizzling rain?” he murmured, watching as his finger caressed the pounding pulse in her throat. “You pleasured me and I came in your hand, remember?”

She started to deny it, but he pressed his fingers into her wrist. “I know, Amelia. Now I just want to know why you won’t admit it.”

Why she didn’t want him? She was abandoning him after the most beautiful, intimate encounter he had ever experienced, and Christ, how he despised the feelings of abandonment. How he loathed to admit that weakness in his makeup.

His palm slid from her waist to her breast until he cupped her in his hand. He pressed forward so that his chest flattened against her and the side of his face nestled against her neck. His gaze flickered up from her throat to her face. Her head was tilted to the side, her eyes closed behind the lenses of her spectacles, her lips, pouting and pink were parted slightly. He parted them more as he rubbed his finger along her lower lip. “I know what you need,” whispered. “I can give it you, Amelia. Just let me.”

“No, please don’t.” She shook her head, whispering the word no again, as she pressed herself against the unyielding wood behind her. Any space that was between them, he closed when he pressed his chest tightly to hers.

“I knew what you needed that day in the cemetery. I know the depth of passion you keep hidden beneath this prim veneer. I know that beneath your protests, you secretly yearn.”

“Please, stop—just stop!”

“I waited for you this morning. I stood in the rain and waited for you to come to me. Why?” he growled. “Why didn’t come, Emmy?”

She gasped at the sound of her secret name. When she looked away from him, refusing to answer his questions, he reached into his jacket and removed the slip of black lace he carried with him. The same lace he removed in order to press his lips against her bounding pulse that day at Highgate. “Tell me why you still insist on hiding behind the veil when I already know it was you. I’ve always known, Amelia, from the minute my carriage stopped in the lane and I saw you standing in that sunbeam, I’ve known it was you.”

“I am a servant,” she said, her voice almost inaudible. “I couldn’t let you find out.”

“How much will it take for you to stay?”

She tilted her head and studied him with her shrewd, intelligent eyes. Eyes that burned a hole right through him from behind the lenses of her spectacles. “Is this some sort of game to you, my lord?”

“Was it only just a game to you, Emmy?”

“I don’t play games, my lord. I have never laughed at you, despite what you may think. I never intentionally set out to mislead you.”

“How much?”

“I am not for sale, my lord,” she shrilled, her eyes blazing with indignation. “Now, then, goodbye.”

It was not merely a goodbye, excusing herself for an hour, or the evening. It felt like a goodbye that was forever. He could not stand to hear it.

“What is your price?” he rasped. “Tell me. I will pay it. With gold, with my body. Whatever it is you want.”

“I may be just a servant, my lord, but I am not a whore. I won’t sell my body.”

“But what of Emmy? Would she sell her body? Would she fuck me now, up against this door? Because I would have her that way. Right now.”

“Is Emmy who you want?” He detected a sadness in her voice, before she steeled her shoulders and lifted her chin in defiance. “Of course, she is. Emmy is a woman of mystery, someone you can pretend is suitable to someone of your station. Or perhaps you pretended that I was beautiful, or maybe you just liked the power of getting off with someone who is beneath you.”

“For Christ sake’s, Amelia—”

“Is that what you meant when you said, I empowered you? It made you feel strong to tumble the plain housemaid, to discover her most carefully hidden secrets? Did you laugh at me then, while I was serving you your tea? Did you find it amusing to think upon how easily I fell into your arms while you were watching me make your fucking bed?” His breath hissed through his lips and he dropped her wrist as if he had been burned. “Did it ever occur to you, my lord, that while you were getting off playing your grand game of Master and Servant, that you were toying with the only happiness I have ever known in my pathetic existence?”

“Amelia, please, this is not how I wanted this discussion to be.”

“I resign my post, effective immediately. I’ll not give you two weeks notice. You don’t deserve it. I’m leaving now and I’ll take nothing from you. Not the wages owed to me nor a reference. I want nothing from you.”

“You cannot just leave. Where will you go? Amelia—”

She wheeled on him, her eyes flashing fury. “Do you want to know the worst part of all this? It’s the pain that comes when I think of how I allowed myself to believe in you. That I permitted myself to think that you might actually desire me. I didn’t go to Highgate today, because I feared that perhaps you might…have begun to care for Emmy. I could not do that to you, to engage your feelings knowing I was just a servant. I didn’t want to keep betraying you. Ironic isn’t it, how I cared for you when you obviously didn’t give a bloody toss about me.”

Chapter Six

Water trickled down her arms and over her shoulder, running in streaming rivulets down her back. Her nipples tightened, crinkling beneath the thin chemise. Dipping the sponge into the basin, Amelia wrung out the excess and brought the sponge to her throat, squeezing the water down her neck, soaking the front of her shift so that the fabric clung to her breasts.

The water had grown cold as she sat before her dressing table. In a daze, she repeated the motions of the sponge bath, lost in thought, drowning in pain.

What was he doing now? Laughing at her? Her, a plain little peahen, desiring someone like him, a handsome and wealthy earl. What a simpleton she had been to let him in, to speak of things she could barely even admit to herself. He had used her, had made her feel small and insignificant—invisible.

“Amelia?”

Jumping at the sound of his voice, the sponge dropped from her hand and splashed into the basin. The door of her room clicked quietly shut, it was followed by the sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor.

He stood behind her and Amelia felt his heat warming her back. His hands rested on her shoulders, and she stiffened, feeling her eyes immediately flood with tears. She would not cry before him. Never again would she allow herself to be vulnerable.

“Will you not look at me?”

Reluctantly she turned her head so that she faced the small mirror that sat atop her dressing table and there he was, his reflection shining back at her. He bent down so that his face was even with hers and she watched him close his eyes as he pressed his cheek against her temple.

“I brought these for you. I had them with me at Highgate. I…wanted you to have them.”

“Another bribe?” she asked bitterly, turning away from the image of them together in the mirror.

“Amelia—”

“There is nothing more to be said, my lord. I may be a servant but I have my pride. That pride cannot be purchased. And yes, I may be poor as a church mouse, but I’m not so poorly off that I need to consider bartering my sex for your amusement.”

He nodded, then slowly stood. He turned to leave, then stopped, took her face in his hands and brushed his mouth against her lips. “It was never a game to me, Amelia. Never. You’ve never been just an amusement to me.”

“What was it then?”

“Perfection.” Such a simple word and said with such stunning honesty. Amelia could not help but turn her face up to him in wonder. “It was everything to me, Amelia. Every day spent with you meant so much. And not just at Highgate. I have wanted you since the moment you came into my study to interview for the position. Do you think me so shallow that I would not see you behind your uniform and spectacles? I did look, Amelia. And I thought—think—you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. You have a gift of giving me something I could never buy myself and that makes you a woman of incredible wealth and beauty to me.”

“What gift is this that you speak of?”

“The gift of being myself. There are no courtly airs with you, no pretences. I am just myself. Something I have never felt comfortable being with any woman other than you. If you don’t believe me, at least open the package on the bottom. Perhaps then you might have some understanding of how I feel about you and what we’ve shared.”

It was agony waiting for her to decide, and when Adrian feared she would not agree to his request, he turned and walked away, his heart bleeding in his chest. When he reached the door, the sound of her weeping forced him to stop. Looking back at her, he saw that she held his gift in her hands and that she was looking down at the burgundy leather, crying.

“This can never be. How can you want someone like me? I cannot even read,” she choked, then looked up at him. “I only pretended to, that day you saw me in the cemetery.”

“Emmy,” he said, not knowing whether to go to her, or stay away. What did she need from him? What did she want?

“I am not ashamed of what I am,” she sniffed. “I am a domestic. I am not humiliated that I must work for my survival. I am honest and hardworking and take pride in doing my job well. There is no shame in that. But I knew the kind of thoughts I had about you were not proper. And I knew that what I was doing at Highgate was not right. But I had to discover, you see, what it would be like to be with you. To experience what it was like to be touched by your beautiful hands. I am ashamed to admit that I willingly misled you. I let you think I was a stranger to you, when I knew I was only just your servant. You asked why I did not come to Highgate today, and the reason was that I have allowed myself to think of the future. To ask myself, ‘what if’? I understand there can no be future, and so I did not go this morning, and I resigned because I felt I could not see you every day and not yearn for what we had at Highgate.”

He walked to her and crouched down before her. She looked away as she swiped at her tears, but he took her chin and turned her so that she was looking at him.

“If you cannot read, Amelia, how were you able to recite that poem at Highgate?”

Closing her eyes, she drew in a deep breath. “I was listening to you and your sister one evening. I was taking away the tea things. I took my time so I could listen, and as I stood at the table, I closed my eyes and listened to the poems as you read them. I memorized a few of them, and when I finally opened my eyes, I saw your reflection in the mirror. You were looking at me, and I thought…that is…I fancied that perhaps you might have been saying those words to me.”

“I was. It’s only ever been you that has seen beneath the mask I wear.”

She looked at him through her spectacles, and he smiled, his heart finally feeling as though it were done bleeding. “This book, Amelia, is a collection of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poems.”

“I am sorry I cannot read it.”

He took the book from her and set it atop her dressing table. Then he reached for the bun at the back of her head and pulled a pin free. Amelia allowed him the intimacy of letting down her hair. Slowly, one by one he pulled the pins from the tight bun at the back of her head. He placed each one on the table beside him before returning to pull the next free. She felt the heavy bun begin to loosen, felt the first curling tendrils slip forward so that it tickled her ears, then her chin.

Closing her eyes, she breathed heavily as his fingers raked through her hair, loosening the bun. “Curls,” he said with surprise. “I never would have guessed it, you pull it so severely back that you give the illusion that it is straight. And so long,” he murmured as he brushed some of her hair over her shoulder. “It goes to your waist.”

His hands smoothed over her hair, and she watched as he studied the strands in the glow of the firelight as they slid between his fingers. When his gaze slid up to hers, she felt her breath hitch and her breasts push against the wet muslin of her shift. She was exposed, almost as if she were naked. Her hair was unbound and hanging over her back. No man had ever seen her hair down. In fact, she rarely saw it down herself.

As if she were watching it all in a dream, she saw Adrian’s hands leave her hair, then come up to capture the sides of her face. His thumbs stroked her jaw, then her bottom lip, only to slide up her cheeks and rest against the arms of her spectacles.

“Please, no,” she said breathlessly, not wanting the last of her armor to fall away. She did not want to feel this naked with him, this exposed. The cool metal slid down her nose, then away from her face. Unable to bear it, she looked at him, wondering what he was thinking.

“You said you were nobody,” he whispered, tracing his thumbs over her lids, then caressing her lashes with the tips of his fingers. “But I see someone of worth sitting before me. I see someone worthy of being seen.”

She looked away, but he caught her chin in his fingers and turned her to look at him. “Speak to me, Amelia.”

“What are you thinking?” She asked, fearing his answer. “This very moment, what is running through your mind?”

“I am thinking how much of a challenge you are going to be to paint. How any artist would love to be able to recreate the brilliance in your eyes? I am wondering how I will be able to capture the intelligence, the sensuality I see in them.” Pressing forward he tilted his face up to hers and looked down into her eyes. “I am thinking how easy it would be for a man to become obsessed with you—how very easy it would be for me to be consumed by you.”

Pulling her close, he raised their hands to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the soft flesh above her thumb. Closing his eyes Adrian inhaled the scent of them together—hers the clean, pure scent of lemon, and his, the warmth of eastern spice. Together, it was an erotic, heady scent that went straight to his head.

He pressed another kiss to her hand, and watched the line of her throat move up and down as she swallowed. He trailed his fingers along that smooth skin and felt how fast her heart was beating for him.

“Come to me, Emmy.” he pulled her closer. “Come to my bed. It’s been waiting a long time for you.”

Her breath caught, and the sound wrecked havoc within him. Nodding, she took a tentative step closer to him. He swore he could hear Emmy’s heart beating from deep within her chest. He could smell her—lemon and feminine arousal and his cock stirred.

“Come,” he whispered. “Come to my bed where I can spoil you.”

This was not a dream or an illicit fantasy while she was making beds and dusting furniture. This was real. His hands truly were on her flesh. It was really his breathing she heard, his lips she felt kissing her cheek. His soft sheets and feathery mattress she felt beneath her.

He followed her down, his body pressing hers into the bed. She saw his hot gaze travel over her face, then lower, to fix on the bounding pulse in her neck. Leaning toward her, he inhaled once, softly, almost imperceptibly, then again, deeper. Then his lips were pressing against the quivering pulse that leapt with his touch.

“You smell so good to me, Amelia. So right.”

Closing her eyes, Amelia tilted her head further back, her lips parting just enough to allow the barest movement of air between them. He groaned and she felt the smooth tip of his finger trace her mouth. “Innocent, perfect lips.” he whispered darkly, stroking his thumb along her mouth. “I want to feel them sliding along my body. I want them hard and soft, savoring and hungry.”

She couldn’t think, her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, as if she were drugged, disembodied. She was conscious of the moan that escaped her when he slanted his mouth against hers, encouraging her to open for him. He parted her lips and slid his tongue deep into her mouth. He groaned and his hand left her face to cup her breast. Hungrily he kissed her, his mouth slanting over hers, faster and faster. His tongue drove into her, and she could do nothing but reach for him and wrap her arms around his neck and hold on as he swept her away.

He kissed her for what seemed like forever, before he moved his mouth from hers and whispered, “I need to touch you.”

His big hand, with its long, elegant fingers slid along her waist, curving over her hip and skating over to her belly where he kneaded her until her womb ached. When he sat up, she whimpered and forced her hands to lay limp at her sides. She wanted to reach out to him, to beg him to come back to her. He smiled, as if he could read her thoughts and reached for her, tugging her up from the mattress. When she was kneeling before him, he took the hem of her worn chemise and pulled it up over her head, letting it fall from his fingers to the floor. He sat back and surveyed her with his hands and his eyes.

Strong fingers gripped her thighs, pulling them apart with the barest of pressure. His fingers trailed up the inner facings. “Beautiful, Emmy,” he said as he came around behind her. His palms swept up her thighs to her bottom. He gripped her in his palms, stroking and kneading as he kissed his way up her spine. With his tongue, he licked a path down her spine at the same time his finger smoothed between the crease of her bottom and stroked her, his fingertip circling her slowly, teasingly, until he rested the pad of his thumb against her and pressed.

“Adrian,” she pleaded.

“Say my name again, in that same breathless way.”

“Adrian,” she whimpered.

His hands came around to cup her breasts and toy with her nipples. The sensation of his hands at her front, and his lips on her lower back made her feel boneless. He was cherishing her as if she were a fragile figurine he was terrified of breaking.

“With other women, it was only ever sex for me, Amelia. But now it is so much more. It has become about us. You have made me see beauty where none existed before. You have made me yearn, when I only ever had a need. I yearn for you, Amelia. I yearn—need to be inside you—everywhere.”

“I want this, Adrian. I want you.”

“Do you?” he asked. She heard the bedspring creak. Felt the mattress dip as he shifted behind her. Then she felt the warmth of his palms on her outer thighs, it was followed the slow, steady glide of his wet tongue along her inner thigh. He stopped just short of her sex and she groaned in expectation.

“You accused me of playing Master and Servant with you. I swear, Amelia, I never did. But I would give anything to play that with you now.”

Her unbound hair spilled down her back. She looked over her shoulder, watched him trail his tongue up her thigh once more, then he licked her slick sex, tasting her. His eyes closed as he made love to her with his mouth, and unable to resist, Amelia reached out and ran her fingers through his hair.

“Which you do want to be, Amelia? Master or servant?”

She waited until he looked up at her. From this distance, his was a bit foggy without her spectacles, but she could still make out the desire in his eyes. “Servant,” she said, watching as his pupils seemed to widen.

“Dutiful, little servant,” he said, reaching for her hands. But she brushed his hands aside, turned and reached for his trousers. Opening them, she slid them along his hips and reached for his erection. Bending to him, she took him in her mouth, closing her eyes as she listened to his sounds of pleasure.

Gathering her long hair in his hands, Adrian lifted it up from her neck so he could watch her working his cock. He adored the way she played with him, sucking and pulling him into her mouth until he could barely stay balanced on his knees.

He pulled out, grasping his shaft, milking it, tracing the wet tip around her swollen lips. “I like to watch, you know,” he said darkly. “It’s a compulsion of mine. Will you indulge me, Emmy? Will you let me watch you sucking my cock?”

Her eyes flared and he grunted in satisfaction as she made a great show of sliding her tongue along him. The pointed tip of her tongue slashed across the opening of his cock, and she put inside, tasting a drop of him. He brushed the tip along her mouth, dominating her with her his hand along her neck. He was beyond aroused, and heightening his pleasure, he gripped himself, masturbating before her, as she sucked and pulled him deep in her mouth.

“That’s it,” he hissed, “take all of me in.” She worked him hard, gripping him, and the sounds her mouth was making on him drove him wild. “Will you swallow it?” he asked, feeling it rushing upon him. “Will you take me inside you?”

She did, and he literally saw stars.

“Emmy,” he said, falling back on the bed, “come to me.”

He didn’t wait for her to answer, but pulled her on top of him. She placed her hand, palm up against his and they stayed like that, palm to palm for long seconds before he entwined his fingers through hers. “I thought I could wait. I thought I could make this the most beautiful hour of your life. But I can’t, Emmy.”

Flipping her over onto her back, he held their entwined fingers above her head. Catching her gaze, he thrust once, deeply inside her, feeling her body stretch to accommodate him.

“Fuck,” he growled, watching himself enter her. Slowly he retreated, then thrust forward, repeating each stroke with slow determination, deepening every thrust. Her body met his, undulating beneath him. He thought it was the most amazing, most erotic thing he’d ever seen, watching himself making love to her.

Amelia had never felt this—this oneness of mind, body and spirit. As they looked into each other’s eyes, Adrian’s hand gripped hers tightly while his body slid into hers. Amelia knew, as her body took him in, that that she would never, ever, feel this connection with anyone else.

He looked so beautiful, so peaceful as he made slow love to her. Tears began to fill her eyes, and she closed her eyes, not understanding why she had started to cry.

He kissed her, nipping at her lips until she raised her lashes and looked into his eyes which were now unguarded. A tear crept out, dangling on the edge of her lash. She blinked, letting it slide down her lashes till it splashed onto her cheek. He took it between his lips, kissing the tear away before he whispered, “This won’t be the only time for us, Amelia.”

How did he know? How could he have seen through to her heart to know the fear she clutched inside?

“It is just us here in this bed, Amelia. No master or servant. Emmy,” he growled, nipping her neck, “come here.”

Lifting himself off her, he brought her up to her knees until she straddled his thighs. His arms came tightly around her, pulling her close to him until there was no space between their bodies. As he brushed the hair from Amelia’s dampened cheek, Adrian paused and looked down at her. He’d never before been struck by the beauty of lovemaking—the graceful movement of a female body in motion beneath him. He’d never taken the time to savor every sound, to watch as lips parted on a silent moan, or a plea for more. He’d never studied how lashes glittered in the candlelight or fluttered open and closed.

He’d never felt his heart fill with emotion, or his soul come alive when eyes, glazed with passion, met and held his. He had never made love until he reached for Amelia’s hips and set her back from him, encouraging her to watch him enter her body. She watched, wide eyed, as his cock filled her, and her body took him in and loved him.

When he could no longer fight off the desire to spill himself, he pulled her to sit atop him, wrapping her thighs around his hips while he buried his lips in her hair. His hands squeezed her lush bottom, forcing her up and down, driving her to take all of him.

He’d never experienced love until she clasped his head to her breasts and clung to his hair, her hips moving instinctively as she made love to him.

“What?” he asked, laughing as she looked up from where she was kissing his belly. Licking her lips, she smiled sheepishly.

“I think I ate the entire box.”

Together they looked at the empty pink box, the ruffled crème wrappers were strewn about the bed clothes. The black ribbon that had been tied around the box was still wrapped around her wrist.

“Did you enjoy them?”

Her blush grew, but she did not look away from him. “I did. I have never had chocolate before. The butter cream ones were my favourite.”

“I enjoyed watching you eat them, every last one. Now, what of my other gift?”

“The book,” she said flatly.

“The book.”

“Would you read it to me?”

“No. I will teach you to read it, and then you can read it to me while we are in bed, and I am eating expensive French chocolates off your naked body.”

She laughed and rolled off him, her long red hair trailing across his chest and belly. He watched her, laughing and rolling about the wrinkled white sheets, and thought about how he had wanted this all along. This easy contentment. The peace that came with being nothing more than a man.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he announced. “Hand me the book.”

He watched her rise from his bed and fetch the book he had brought from her room. When she handed it to him, he reached for her wrist and brought her down to him.

“What’s this?” she asked, pulling out the white strip of canvas he had tucked between the pages. When she saw what it was, she looked up at him with glassy eyes.

“This is…is this…” she swallowed, unable to finish.

“It is you, standing before the angel that morning I first saw you at Highgate.”

“You painted this for me?”

When he nodded, she began to cry in earnest. She looked away, flustered that he was witnessing her in such a vulnerable state. She busied herself by opening the book, to the page where he’d tucked the scrap of canvas.

He stayed her hand. “I know this passage off by heart, Amelia.”

When she looked up at him with her watery eyes, free of her spectacles, he needed to touch her. Trailing the backs of his fingers along her cheek he recited the poem. “I love you not only for what you are, but for what I am when I am with you. I love you not only for what you have made of yourself, but for what you are making of me. I love you for the part of me that you bring out.” His voice was broken by the time he finished. “Elizabeth Barrett Browning might have written it, Amelia, but I mean every damn word of it.”

ISBN: 978-1-4268-1982-7

Improper Pleasure

Copyright © 2008 by Charlotte Featherstone

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