The Veiled Heart (The Velvet Basement Book 1) (7 page)

“Oh, I see.”

That prim response almost undid him.

Her hands fumbled between them. Blood thudded in hot beats through the lower half of his body. She found him. Her fingers, cool from the night air, curled around him and squeezed.

His eyes started to close at each tentative touch.

Behind him, the eave made a sheet of water that cascaded down inches from his back. The spray cooled him. Right now, he didn’t want to be anywhere else. Every part of him was tuned in to the two of them, to the anticipation of her soft flesh around him.

“I’m not sure I can do this without looking.”

She rolled it onto him, the first and second tries a delicious failure of more fingers, squeezing, and strokes.

“Take all the time you need.”

Each touch drove his pleasure, his anticipation, higher. His hold on her tightened. The ache in his legs, the need, curled tighter.

“All right” —her voice wobbled— “I think it’s on.” Her hand felt him again just to be sure and his neck arched back.

“Rub the tip of me against you. Spread your dampness over the sheath. Make me weak.”

“Oh….” Her breathing was deep, uneven.

They were so close, the soft heat of her breath washed over his face as he leaned in. Leaned his forehead against hers. Noses so close.

In all the years thinking about her, wanting her, and trying to forget, he never thought it would be like this. So powerfully real. So open.

Her hand moved him back and forth. Rubbed him against her. She was going to kill him.
“That’s it, now position me.”

Worthington pushed forward slowly. The warmth of her burned in its pleasure as he sank in deep.

He hooked his arm under her leg. Held her and lifted her higher onto her toes. He pushed into her. Pulled out and pushed in again. She was losing balance. She held on to him tighter and her fingers dug into him harder. His chest wanted to explode as the satin warmth of her clutched at him as he moved out of her, then welcomed him in, on the thrust.

His head was light. All his focus was on the weight of her in his arms, the warm clasp of her all around him.

Sex was good; any sex that you had could be good, but this was more. All of the complexities—who they were, the past, how to move forward—added to the intensity. And more. The taste of her, the scent of her made him dizzy. She was like an opiate that shifted his workings from a controlled seduction to instinct.

Basic need that wasn’t interested in the games that could be played with the body but simply wanted to possess.

Wanted the bond.

Wanted no separation.

An irrational wave took him. If he moved hard enough, if she clutched tightly enough, their separateness would dissolve and they would meld as one.

She cried out, held on to him tighter. Her fingers squeezed harder. She grabbed him as if he was the only pillar on earth that she could rely on.

Yes!

That’s what he wanted.

That’s what he needed her to feel.

He bent his knees, picked up her other leg, and hoisted her up as both legs wrapped around him. He pushed her back against the wall, flexed his hips up, and thrust into her. They were closer. This was more primal, but it wasn’t enough. He covered her mouth. Tasted her in deep swirls of his tongue.

She bounced. Bounced with each thrust. Her arms around his neck were so tight. Her head was back, mouth open as he moved faster.

He pulled back. “Lily, I’m close, so close.”

He moved in her shallow and quick, then thrust in deep and slow. Varying the rhythm.

“Yes, yes, just like that.” Her voice broke.

He moved as she needed.

Moved because he needed what she did.

Then the pleasure hit.

It flew out through the center of him. Ripped through all his nerves, leaving a white-hot streak through his body.

She bit down on his neck and made a sound deep in her throat that made him push up against her. He needed the soft fullness of her all around him as if she were the whole world.

Buried deep, he held there, pumped harder. She clenched around him.

Lily called out.

She clutched around him in hot pulses. His knees weakened.

It was all he could do to hold her.

Worthington pushed his body toward the wall. He held her there with his weight as she whimpered, clutching at him, kissing his face, and pulling at his hair as the tremors ran through her.

A deep possessiveness washed through him. A need to have this, to have this all to himself. This was his and his alone to see. To feel. To hold.

Lily’s body gradually went limp.

He held her, as she regained herself.

How was he ever going to navigate them through this?

Slowly, he let down her legs as she leaned into him.

They stood there like that, her breath and his heaving. Cheeks flushed pink, dampness at the hairline. She was the most wonderful woman. Had always been. Would always be. You rarely meet one such as her. One who sunk so deep, you had no idea until you had to live without her.

Except he hadn’t actually met her, had he, not really?

She had no idea who he was and he knew all about her.

“Your veil is torn.”

He reached up and felt for the pins tucked into her hair.

Her fingers wrapped around his wrist as he worked.

Her hand was still gloved, the leather so soft and thin it had felt like it was her fingers on him before. Now with the want of passion fading, the veil, the gloves, they were barriers he wanted removed.

“I know what you look like, Lily. Besides, there’s nothing left of it to keep it on.”

He stretched out his thumb and let it run over her lips through the space to demonstrate his point.

She huffed but didn’t stop him.

“I liked that veil.” Her eyes flickered up to him, wide and open, a little reserved as the veil came off. “It was a present.”

He ran his fingers over her cheek. She was as soft as satin.

“I’ll get you another.” The corner of his mouth tugged up.

Something was in her, something so strong and yet so wildly vulnerable, it made his insides weak.

Worthington slipped the broken fabric into his pocket and stepped away.

He would rectify the situation. Make himself known. It was not too late to move this liaison into the arena where it should play out. After the initial anger, she would have no reason not be happy about who he really was.

The rain was slowing.

By his calculation, they were a few streets away from their target.

“Thank you, that was most enlightening.” He used her words from the night before.

She slapped his arm.

“That is ungentlemanly.”

He captured her hand and slipped it through his arm.

Once he was known to her, once they were courting at their station, he would make more formal arrangements for her protection if she continued with these late-night adventures.

“Shall we?”

She pulled her hands free.

“This is not a walk in Hyde Park.” Her hands instead patting down her dress and refashioning her hair as they walked.

It was mesmerizing looking at her, her skin even in this half light was luminescent. He’d coveted her at her coming out. But every man had been ushered out of the way, for her late husband, Lord Freddy Rothbury. Freddy had more connections and more money than any of them.

But he knew that intimately. Knew all too well what a life with Freddy could have held for her. You didn’t go through school with a man, share his rooms, and not know his proclivities. That she had been happy was all that mattered. That Freddy had behaved, had kept that part of himself away from her, hidden, was what was important.

“Don’t buy me another; they’re too expensive.”

He stopped and after a few steps, she did as well. Then she walked back and lay her butter-soft glove against his cheek.

“I don’t expect you make much as a mechanic; don’t waste it on expensive lace for me.”

She looked deep into his eyes. So earnest. He would have to do something straight away. He didn’t want her pride biting her any more than was necessary.

“No, I don’t make much as a mechanic.”

She smiled. “Good. Let me pay for the cab.”

He almost laughed aloud.

“I am sure I can manage, Lily. I’m a good mechanic.”

She brushed up against him.

“I’m sure you are. I have seen how good you are with your hands.”

He did laugh aloud then.

He leaned in closer. “How about my tongue, Lily, you seemed to like that?”

She turned suddenly and pushed herself against his chest as he stepped forward. Her hand was in his hair behind his head in seconds. Tugged him down and then her mouth was on his.

Oh God, help him, no veil, just her soft flesh. His hands came around her. He hauled her up tighter against him. She pulled back. Just the smallest fraction, her lips a breath away.

“Oh, I like your lips, Blue-eyes.” She kissed him again.

Blue-eyes. Heat rippled through his chest at that and his fingers curled tighter around her hips before slipping off.

She stepped away, all business.

“Now, let me pay for the cab.”

“That really isn’t necessary.”

Her hand came up between them as she started to march ahead of him letting him know she would hear no more of the conversation.

He stood there for a few moments. She didn’t understand yet; she was his. There would be no if, no failure; he would sort out what sat between them.

He would have her.

By tomorrow night if he could manage it.

“No. I said I will not go.” It was becoming a daily battle between them.

Miriam stalked back and forth across the large parlor. Why was everyone so focused on her heading back out into society? She had the perfect position as a widow and luckily Freddy had left her enough to live comfortably, without the horrors of being someone’s property.

Miriam opened a message from her brother, Maurice, as she stood at the window, the light showing all too clearly more cuts Maurice wanted to make to her household expenditure. In addition, it contained yet another push for her to meet Baron Digby.

His strategy was very transparent. There should be more than adequate funds for her to live, given the Rothburys’ wealth, but not having control meant she was at the whim of Maurice’s ministrations and he wanted her to marry again. Another alliance for the family, was how he liked to put it.

She lowered the letter and folded it back into its envelope. Everyone wanted her to move on, it seemed.

“But, Miriam, a Worthington dinner. It’s unheard of. You must accept.”

The morning sun arched its way through the lace curtains, sending the promise of a glorious day across the furniture and the far wall.

“I must not and will not. Say I am still in mourning.” Aunt Dorothy, her mother’s sister, widowed for over a decade, had come down from her Oxford residence to keep her company as her mourning period lifted. No amount of dissuasion had worked. And although Aunt D had turned out to be quite good company, being interested in all manner of world events, they disagreed strongly on what direction her social calendar should take.

“You aren’t in mourning anymore and everyone knows that.” Aunt D put the stack of invitations down on the side table with a good show of frustration.

“I’ll start to wear a black armband. They can think what they like.” Stuff the lot of them. She had other more important things to do than prance around to get some arrogant man’s attention. Why couldn’t men of her class be like Blue-eyes? Someone who was honest with her, who relied on her strengths as well as his own. Walked beside her not ahead. She had trusted him twice and was not disappointed.

“But your mourning is over and everyone expects you to start to…well, come back out, make a new life. Put yourself back on the market.”

Miriam froze. That was never going to happen.

She looked at her aunt. Aunt D wasn’t at fault; she had no idea what she was saying. No one did. Miriam sat down on the old, russet wingback near the door.

“I did my time for family, for protocol, and society.” They were nowhere to be seen when that bastard beat her. “I will never remarry. I don’t need to and I have no interest in being put in that position with a man again. I need no marauding bachelors looking for a simpering wife to breed for them.”

Her chest was heaving, her cheeks were so hot they must look flushed, and this was going to go on and on if she knew her aunt.

“I don’t know why you get so upset, Miriam, Besides, you can’t abandon society.”

And she didn’t want to, just the men of her station. The ones who society protected with every blind eye that was turned to wives being beaten, bullied, ignored, or worse still, incarcerated in asylums. She had no doubt that would have been her fate eventually. When Freddy finally became bored with her reactions, or she simply gave up and he wanted something new to play with.

The horror was that the path was so well trodden. Men of her station were not put away. However women were. And months later, a new young thing was somewhere in the wings to fill the empty space made with the wife’s exit. No matter how she felt about the men and the inequities in her class, she did need company.

“I will accept tea parties with women.”

“Women, where is that going to get you? You are young and still exceedingly attractive. Don’t tell me you have no thirst for life. You always have had and that will not dissipate with the loss of a good husband.”

It still astounded her that everyone thought he was a ‘good husband.’ Freddy had been charming, witty, handsome, and generous with his funds; but only as far as it built the illusion with enough strength that he could stalk the reality of his persona and not be called out on it. Who would have believed her claims? With the picture they painted of the perfect couple, of him the doting and loving husband at each and every event.

At the opera, when everyone held their breath and the singer was whispering the final notes, no one saw his hand as it slipped over and pinched her so hard the tears would fill the corner of her eyes.
So moving isn’t it
,
dear
,
he would whisper as the lights went up. Those around nodding fondly as he dabbed at the corners of her eyes with his very own handkerchief.

“I think I can manage the loss of that role, Aunt D.”

“Really, Miriam, you’d think you had it hard. You toured the continent, wanted for nothing.”

“And now I want for nothing and don’t have to simper about.”

That finally got a laugh from her aunt. If nothing else, Aunt D was a realist; it made her insistence on heading back into society all the more complex to understand. Surely, she could see how good things were. Money was taken care of and being widowed meant that she had more freedoms than virtually any other position she could have.

“But the Worthington’s are not people to turn down, Miriam.”

Miriam flopped back against the chair and looked at the ceiling. It was inevitable that a battle over this was going to unfold with at least one member of her family. Even a string of battles. At least Aunt D was genuine in her desire to ensure Miriam found a new path.
Don’t end up alone if you don’t have to be
,
Miriam. The world is a place designed for love. Go back out there and find it.

The trouble was she was broken for love.

Blue eyes flashed in her mind. Strong shoulders, the power of his hips as they pressed down on her. Her body warmed at the memory.

Perhaps this chapter of her life could be about pleasure. It was there; she knew that now. Pleasure was something she could trust. Even if she had to allow the man giving it to her in closer than she wanted.

“And balls? Miriam, you love balls.”

She huffed at that. That she loved to dance was true. And, well, after her recent nights with Blue-eyes, the idea of dancing, enjoying a man’s hands guiding her across the floor held a certain kind of appeal.

“Perhaps.”

“Well, I think it would be a terrible indiscretion to reject this dinner. As a friend of your late husband, no doubt he will wish to see you out of respect for that relationship. His family used to give a grand ball; maybe now that he has returned, they will again. Not many of them left.”

“I have never been introduced to him. It’s odd to have dinner with a man I’ve never met.” There was no way this side of hell she would go and visit one of her husband’s friends. Especially not Worthington. He and her husband had roomed together. Two peas in a pod. If he were anything like Freddy, he could make anyone believe he was the best of men, someone you could trust with anything. Freddy had made her feel that right up until they married.

“Nonsense, he came to the wedding. You would have met him then. Besides, the invitation is from his mother. They offer to send the daughter over to accompany you if I am unavailable. Lady Worthington does know of my longstanding games on Tuesday nights.”

“Why didn’t we ever meet?” Who cared, she had met enough of her husband’s close friends to know exactly what they were like. Misogynists, the lot of them.

“From memory, he left to America that week, so you never socialized with him as a couple, but he was your husband’s roommate throughout university. I understand they grew up together, inseparable.”

Well, that certainly established it. No man who had bunked with her husband for all those years would be a decent man. He would be just like her husband, an utterly untrustworthy man camouflaged by the propriety of his station and wealth. She would have to apply a little more cunning, charm, and wealth. He had called on her seven times and she had turned him away. A feat with Aunt D about, but her butler was loyal.

Worthington stopped coming and she hadn’t expected to hear from him again. But she wasn’t going to tell Aunt D that.

What this abomination of a man wanted from her was beyond her. Late at night, she imagined Freddy wrote to him, shared all the awful things he did to his new wife. A cruel man likes to share. Freddy said he had a special friend who suggested things. Who else would it be?

“Of course, you are right, Aunt D.” But now she had to get smarter. Leaving him at the door hadn’t been enough to offend him or put him off, it seemed.

“All right, I concede. We’ll go. If I have to go you can miss your weekly event. We can talk about what I will wear.”

That sent her aunt into a flurry of excitement, penning the response while calling for three of her new dresses to be prepared.

At six thirty, her pen was gliding over the envelope that held her last minute apology that a debilitating migraine meant she had to cancel at short notice. Aunt D looked very skeptical, but pretending had become an art form for her in her marriage. She could feign a migraine with her eyes closed.

Miriam had to admit, she found pleasure not only in the cancellation, but also at the inconvenience she was creating. If he were anything like her late husband, the unbalance at the dining table would irk him. If she was lucky, he wouldn’t give her another thought or another invitation.

Besides, she had things to do tonight. Her meeting yesterday at The Split Tart with the prostitutes had gone well. The first box of sheaths was all given out. The girls had all been pleased. Some reticence of course was to be expected. Women wanted no barrier to getting work.

She folded the envelope and walked it down to a footman. Then there was the chance she’d see Blue-eyes. He might be outside waiting for her already.

She needed to get better underclothes.