Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (19 page)

He slipped his hands beneath her bottom and lifted. “Bend your knees, sweetheart, put your heels on my back.”

It would open her up to him more . . . She didn’t know if she could, if she dared—

“Mercy, do you want me to stop?”

Her body was strung as tight as a bow. It wanted a release she didn’t understand. It begged, yearned for more. If she said yes, he would leave her with this unquenched desire.

“No.”

“Then do as I ask.”

His voice was rough, as though he suffered for what he could not have. Was it painful for him to give and not receive?

“Do you hurt?”

“Don’t worry about me, love. Tonight is for you.”

Love
. Did he mean it?
Sweetheart
. Was it a word he used with all his ladies? She wanted to ask him, but wasn’t certain she wanted the answer. What did it matter? He used them with her now.

She did as he bade, then held her breath in anticipation. The first stroke of his tongue caused her breath to heave out in a rush. Squeezing her thighs against his shoulders, she released a low moan. Never had she felt anything quite so exquisite.

But he was not nearly done. He continued to stroke, to suckle, to kiss, to delve deeply, to use his tongue in ways she’d not even considered a tongue could be used. The sensations mounted with each touch, each velvety caress.

One of his hands left her bottom and reached up to toy with her breast. The sensations intensified. She squirmed and his low laughter added to the sensations, carrying her even higher.

She’d never felt anything like this, had not known it was possible. Surely, she would expire before he was done. Perhaps that was his intent. To kill her with his attentions. She’d certainly sleep well then—for all eternity.

Her back arched high and her hands were pressed to his head, holding him near. It was as though she no longer had control of her own body. He was the master of it, enticing it to do his bidding.

She wanted to scream. Perhaps she should. Then everything building within her might find its release.

She wanted to hold on to the sensations. To never let them go. Because he’d given them to her. She wanted to treasure them forever.

She wanted to tell him to remove his trousers, to give her the freedom to touch him as he touched her.

Desire surged through her. Passion rose to exalted heights. Pleasure erupted—

She cried out, thrashed about as though she were captured by another nightmare.

“Oh, God, oh, God!” Her body tightened, unfurled, and catapulted her into a realm of exquisite bliss.

When she returned, it was to find herself gasping and Stephen hovering over her. Even though he was outlined in shadows, his satisfaction was evident.

“Did I not give you that before?”

Why had he asked? She would not lie to him. He hadn’t but only because they’d done nothing of this magnitude. But if he realized that he’d never made love to her, he’d realize that she’d not given birth to John. He’d have no reason to marry her, and she’d have no guarantee of remaining in John’s life.

So she said nothing at all.

“Shame on me,” he finally muttered, before lying down beside her and taking her in the circle of his arms, guiding her face into the nook of his shoulder. “Sleep now, Mercy. Sleep to your heart’s content. I’ll guard you against all nightmares.”

And she believed him.

Chapter 10

M
ercy awoke feeling both lethargic and rejuvenated. It was a confusing combination. How could she be both at the same time? But she was. She felt as though she’d slept for a century.

Slowly, she realized that she wasn’t alone. Her head rested half on a strong, sturdy arm and half on a pillow. Her hair was being gently tucked behind one ear, over and over, the touch as light as fairies dancing over petals. One of her legs was nestled between both of his, her sole rubbing his trouser-covered calf without any thought from her prompting it. She halfway wished she’d given him leave to remove all his clothes, wished she hadn’t slipped on her nightdress.

Warily, she lifted her eyes to find him watching her with a mixture of amusement and—dare she believe it?—yearning. Memories of the late hours of the night and all he’d done to her came rushing back with a vengeance. Heat scorched her like molten metal. Her nerve endings tingled with want.

She’d been more decadent—he’d been more decadent—than she’d ever thought two people could possibly be. She felt a surge of guilt that all the pleasure experienced had been hers, but he’d seemed content with it. And she’d learned that she could, in fact, tolerate such intimacy. When it came from him at least.

“Hello, there.” His voice was rough from sleep, and to her shame and relief, it sent desire sweeping through her. Shame because she wanted again what he’d delivered, relief because she wanted it again. What a conglomeration of emotions. She would not risk pregnancy without a husband.

“What time is it?” she asked.

Lifting up slightly, he looked back at the clock on the mantel. “Looks to be half past two.”

She could see sunlight peering through at the edges of the draperies. Stunned, she asked, “In the afternoon?”

Grinning, he leaned down and kissed the tip of her nose. “I told you I had the power to hold the nightmares at bay.”

“I’ve never slept this long. It must have been more than twelve hours.”

“Well, you needed it.” He started to skim his hand down her side and she latched on to his wrist to still his actions. His eyes challenged her.

“We can’t continue—” She eased up slightly for a better view. “What happened to your eye?”

A bruise, dark blue at the corner of his eye, that lightened as it spread down to his cheek, appeared painful.

“You struck me.” He apparently awoke in good humor, finding everything funny, as his mouth curled up.

“What? No?” She remembered thrashing about during the throes of passion, but—

“During your nightmare,” he continued, and once again combed her hair back as though he was fascinated with it.

“God, I’m so sorry. It seems I’m forever apologizing to you.”

“And Jeanette, too.”

Groaning, she hoped Jeanette was as understanding as he. “To think you risked further injury by staying with me.”

“It was no hardship.”

Not for him or for her. But still it had been a deplorable bit of behavior, when she was a guest. “If your family learns of our . . . indiscretions . . . it will no doubt lower their opinion of me.”

“With their history, I doubt it.”

“My opinion of me is lowered. I should have had the strength to resist.”

“You did. I wanted much more. You must have known that.”

“And next time you may very well have it. Is that the sort of woman you want as a mother for your son?”

“Would you want a husband who can’t remember the past two years of his life?”

“If he is you? Yes.”

S
tephen headed to his brother’s library after dressing himself for the day. He’d been reluctant to leave Mercy. He’d been wrong, yet once again. It wasn’t her eyes, her smile, her spirit, or her body that had so enticed him. It had been her passion. He had little doubt that comforting her in Scutari had ignited it and he’d been helpless to extinguish the blaze. It had needed to run its own course. And while it appeared that running its course had been a disservice to her—he’d never placed his
own
pleasure before a woman’s—it had resulted in her giving birth to his child. He couldn’t deny that any longer. Or what he owed her.

This afternoon, he’d wanted to stay in bed with her and have an opportunity to explore her passions further and discover—or rediscover—all the pleasures she had to offer. But he had other more urgent matters that required his immediate attention. Again, another first for him because always before, nothing had been more important than pleasure.

He’d sought it out, he’d nurtured it, he’d ensured that it encompassed a great deal of his life. What was the point in breathing if pleasure was not available? The quest for pleasure had always dominated his life. Yet, here he was casting it aside for something that seemed more worthwhile. Who was this man striding through the hallways? He wondered if he even knew himself any longer.

Entering the library, he was surprised to see Dr. Roberts sitting in a chair near Ainsley’s desk. The man came to his feet swiftly, his face flushed. “Major Lyons. Good to see you moving about so freely.”

“Without my cane, no less. I didn’t remember having an appointment with you today.”

“He’s here to see me,” Ainsley said, standing now, discreetly opening a drawer and sliding a piece of paper into it before quietly closing it. It was not like Ainsley to be secretive. Although maybe it was, and Stephen had been too consumed with himself to notice.

“What was that?” Stephen asked, stepping nearer.

“Nothing of importance.” Ainsley squinted. “What in God’s name happened to your eye?”

Stephen glanced between the two men. He recognized guilt when he saw it, but he knew Ainsley well enough to know hammering at the truth wasn’t the way to gain it. “I had a bit of a mishap last night. Ran into a door.”

Ainsley scoffed. “No doubt one of the serving girls rebuffed your amorous advances. I’ve told you to leave them alone. I don’t tolerate that sort of behavior toward my staff.”

Stephen held his tongue.
Let him think what he will.

“You needed something?” Ainsley prodded.

“Yes, but it’s a private matter. I didn’t realize you had company. I’ll return later.”

“No need,” Dr. Roberts said. “I’m quite done here. Your Grace, a pleasure as always. Major, if you have any other ill effects, do call on me, otherwise, good day to you, sir.”

Stephen watched as the man made a hasty exit, then turned his attention and his glare on his brother. “Want to tell me what the hell that was about?”

“Private matter.”

He gave his brother a once over. “Concerning your health?”

“Let it go, Puppy.”

“You’ve not called me that since I returned.”

“Apologies. I shouldn’t have done so now. Old habit. You earned my admiration with your actions in the Crimea.”

“Actions I don’t even recall.”

“But worthy nonetheless. Some were reported in the
Times
and in the
Illustrated London News
. Other accounts I received from the War Office. They’re here if you ever want to read them.”

“At some point, perhaps.” He ambled over to the sidebar and splashed some whiskey in a glass. “Join me?”

“Bit early in the day, isn’t it? Even for you.”

“It’s never too early to indulge in pleasures. If Westcliffe and I taught you nothing else, we should have taught you that. Otherwise, what good were we as brothers?”

“Something’s up,” Ainsley said. “You’ve not been this amiable toward me since you were twelve.”

Damn Ainsley’s clever mind. Stephen poured whiskey into another glass. Holding both aloft, he strode back to the desk wearing his most innocent smile. “I nearly died. Surely that warrants my taking a kinder regard toward you.”

Ainsley took the glass from him and sat in his chair, leaning back. “Perhaps, but I don’t trust—”

Stephen opened the drawer, snatched the sheaf of paper he’d seen Ainsley slip into it earlier, and darted away before Ainsley could stop him. “The distrust is reciprocated.”

“Damn it!” Ainsley shouted, coming to his feet. “Hand that over.”

Stephen moved to the window where the light was better. It was a list of names. All women. “What is this? Your latest list of conquests?” His gaze fell on a familiar name. “Good God. Mercy’s name is on here.” He spun around and glared at his brother. “What is this?”

Ainsley sat on the edge of his desk and tossed back his whiskey. “You’re not going to like it.”

“I don’t like it now.”

“It’s a list of the women who were selected to serve with Miss Nightingale.”

“Why would you have it?”

“I was attempting to verify her story. That she was indeed a nurse, that your paths might have crossed.”

“You doubt her?”

“I just wanted to be sure.”

“It’s not your place.”

“You don’t remember a bloody thing about the past two years. You don’t even know if you ever bedded her.”

“I did.”

Ainsley jerked his head back with surprise. “You remember?”

“No.” He balled up the paper. “But I know.” If he were a romantic, he might have pressed a fist to his heart for emphasis. “The boy is mine. And Mercy will be as well. I came here to ask you to help me secure a special license.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

“Then it will be my mistake to live with.” He took a step toward his brother. “Ainsley, you’re three years my junior, yet you’ve always treated me as though I were the younger. I’m not your responsibility.”

“If I’d not purchased you a commission—”

“You and Westcliffe. I don’t remember the time I was in the Crimea, but I remember all the years before. I needed to be prodded into putting away childish things. I needed something to give my life purpose.” Just as Mercy had. He had no idea if he’d found the purpose satisfying, but he did know that he’d acquired a purpose now which he had no intention of casting aside.

“Do you care for the girl, then?” Ainsley asked.

“As much as I’m able, yes, I believe I do. Which I know seems ludicrous considering that to my present mind she’s only been in my life a few days. But there you are.”

Ainsley jumped on that argument like a flea on a dog to sway Stephen from the course he’d set. But Stephen would not be dissuaded from doing what he’d determined he must do.

Next he went to see his mother. He found her in the north drawing room, curled up in a chair near the window, looking up with a serene expression on her face as though she were gazing into heaven. It startled him to see her so. She’d always been strong, formidable, a woman with a reputation for doing as she pleased. In that particular pose, she gave the appearance of being a much younger woman, and he realized for all that she’d seen two husbands put in the ground and raised three rambunctious lads to adulthood, and was now the grandmother of two, she had not yet seen half a century.

Leo was standing off to the side, palette in hand, easel before him. It seemed the duchess was his favorite subject. Stephen had seen countless works he’d completed and she was in the center of most of them.

Leo paused, the brush hovering near the canvas. “Major.”

“Leo. May I have a private word with my mother?”

She swung her head around, her lips pursed. “You’ve asked the girl to marry you.”

“You disapprove?”

“Hardly. It is the proper thing to do for the mother of your child. She could have tossed John in the Seine and we’d all been none the wiser. But I expected to have to coerce you. Leo wagered you’d do it on your own. Now I will have to pay up.”

Leo put his brush away, sauntered over to the duchess, bent down, and kissed her cheek. “I shall leave you to visit with your son, while I scurry off to fantasize about receiving the payment you owe me.”

“Stay away from that young parlor maid. You know the one of which I speak. I don’t like the way she looks at you.”

“I’d noticed nothing amiss, but then I have eyes for only you.”