The Suffragette Scandal
Page 48
He’d backed her against the wall of the mews. She felt the rough planks against her spine. But she simply leaned back and took the opportunity to explore him—to run her hands down his chest, feeling every curve of muscle go taut beneath the linen of his shirt. He stepped into her, leaning against her until they were hip to hip, until she could feel the hardness of his erection pressing into her. Her whole body sang in response.
He pulled back just long enough to lean his forehead against hers. “Lovely Free,” he whispered. “God, I should not be doing this.”
“Too true. You should be doing more. Much more.”
He shook his head, but leaned in to kiss her again. And this time, it was a whole different world of a kiss—a kiss that said it was coming before, a kiss that promised a night after this one, and a night after that. It was a kiss that said that all those weeks they’d known one another had been only a prelude to this moment. This was only the second act of the play, but the climax was not out of sight. It was a kiss of bodies, of hips and hands, of br**sts and tongues. His hands tangled briefly in her laces, loosening her bodice; she helped him undo it, just enough so that he could lean down and set his mouth there, right on her nipple.
“Stop,” Free said. And he did, pulling away when she least wanted him to, even though his body vibrated with want and his hands clenched on her hips.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “Sorry—I shouldn’t have—”
She laughed. “You stopped again. Edward, if you don’t want me to trust you, you shouldn’t be so trustworthy.”
He let out a breath. “Ah, you’re teasing me.”
“I’m proving something to you,” she said. “Because you seem to think that you don’t deserve to be trusted.”
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he leaned down and took her nipple in his mouth. She could feel his tongue, swirling in a long, lazy circle. He set her aflame, caressing her. It wasn’t an answer, and yet it was.
Please, he said.
Yes, she said.
Trust me. Trust this.
She’d talked to enough ladies of the night that she knew the lack of a bed was no impediment. But he made no effort to take it further than the press of their bodies, the touch of fingers against willing flesh. He did nothing more than stoke their heady, insistent desire. He kissed her, touched her, brought her to small, silent gasps as her body came to life. Another five minutes, and a little less clothing, and he could have brought her all the way to ecstasy. He didn’t though. He held her until the last dim light in the garret across the way winked out, until the streetlamp twenty yards down began to flicker. Until her head spun with lack of sleep and kissing, and her body ached for what was to come.
“Come to me,” she whispered to him. “Come to me tomorrow night.”
His hands tightened on her body and he shuddered. He didn’t let go of her, but he drew his head back.
“Frederica,” he said in a low voice. His hand slid up her nightrail, sliding the sleeve back onto her shoulder, covering her up. “If I take one night from you, I’ll want all the rest of your nights. And even I’m not so selfish as to demand them from you.”
She put her hand over his. “What happened to the man who told me he was maddeningly brilliant? To the scoundrel who asked me to think about how attractive I found his muscles?”
“Bluster will last me a night. Swagger, a week.” His hand brushed her face. “Beyond that? I can’t promise you anything more.”
The night seemed absolutely still around them—soundless and empty, without even the rustle of wind to disturb them.
He took her hand in his and kissed her fingertips. “Pain is a black ink,” he told her. “Once it’s spilled on a man’s soul, it’ll never scrub out. Deep down, Miss Marshall, there’s nothing to me but blackness.” He leaned in. “And Free, darling—I think you know that.”
“You’re an idiot.” Her voice trembled.
“That’s what I just said. I never did have any sense.” But he didn’t leave. Instead, his arm crept around her. His body warmed hers. He wouldn’t leave; she was sure of it. Sure of him, when he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers again.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured.
“My darling scoundrel.”
He let out a little laugh. “Precisely. I’d rather leave you wanting than stay and earn your hatred.”
And then he did pull away. The air was cold in his sudden absence; the night was dark. He gave her one last smile—as cocksure and arrogant as any he’d ever given her—and then he began to walk away. Really walk away, as if this were all over.
“Edward,” Free called before he’d made it six paces.
He paused, straightening, and then half-turned, looking back at her.
“We both know you’ll return,” she told him.
For a long while he stood, not saying anything. Then he shook his head.
“I know,” he said. “I never did have any sense.”
Chapter Fifteen
“ALL I WANT,” EDWARD SAID, “is to know if he dictates a letter with her name in it.”
His brother’s secretary sat across the table from him, a glass of ale in front of him. Peter Alvahurst frowned primly, as if he were pretending to have morals.
“I don’t know,” he demurred.
Alvahurst had been the one to bribe Mr. Marshall’s undersecretary in the first place. Edward knew precisely what sort of man he was, even if Alvahurst would not admit it.
Edward took a second banknote out and set it on the table between them. The surface was sticky with layers of spilled ale.
“I understand your concern,” Edward said smoothly. “I don’t want you to reveal the contents—that would be wrong, of course, and you aren’t the sort of man who would betray his employer for money.”
“Too right.” This was said with a self-righteous nod.
Mr. Alvahurst was precisely the kind of man who’d meet a shady character in a darkened pub and let that man dangle money in front of him. But Edward had always found that preserving a man’s illusion of himself was more important than simply offering money. Let someone think himself upright and honorable, and he’d slit a man’s throat for a halfpenny.
“You know how much difficulty your employer’s last encounter with Frederica Marshall caused him,” Edward said. “And I know how loyal you are to him. We’re much alike, you and I. We’re looking out for his interests.”
He pulled back just long enough to lean his forehead against hers. “Lovely Free,” he whispered. “God, I should not be doing this.”
“Too true. You should be doing more. Much more.”
He shook his head, but leaned in to kiss her again. And this time, it was a whole different world of a kiss—a kiss that said it was coming before, a kiss that promised a night after this one, and a night after that. It was a kiss that said that all those weeks they’d known one another had been only a prelude to this moment. This was only the second act of the play, but the climax was not out of sight. It was a kiss of bodies, of hips and hands, of br**sts and tongues. His hands tangled briefly in her laces, loosening her bodice; she helped him undo it, just enough so that he could lean down and set his mouth there, right on her nipple.
“Stop,” Free said. And he did, pulling away when she least wanted him to, even though his body vibrated with want and his hands clenched on her hips.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “Sorry—I shouldn’t have—”
She laughed. “You stopped again. Edward, if you don’t want me to trust you, you shouldn’t be so trustworthy.”
He let out a breath. “Ah, you’re teasing me.”
“I’m proving something to you,” she said. “Because you seem to think that you don’t deserve to be trusted.”
He didn’t say anything. Instead, he leaned down and took her nipple in his mouth. She could feel his tongue, swirling in a long, lazy circle. He set her aflame, caressing her. It wasn’t an answer, and yet it was.
Please, he said.
Yes, she said.
Trust me. Trust this.
She’d talked to enough ladies of the night that she knew the lack of a bed was no impediment. But he made no effort to take it further than the press of their bodies, the touch of fingers against willing flesh. He did nothing more than stoke their heady, insistent desire. He kissed her, touched her, brought her to small, silent gasps as her body came to life. Another five minutes, and a little less clothing, and he could have brought her all the way to ecstasy. He didn’t though. He held her until the last dim light in the garret across the way winked out, until the streetlamp twenty yards down began to flicker. Until her head spun with lack of sleep and kissing, and her body ached for what was to come.
“Come to me,” she whispered to him. “Come to me tomorrow night.”
His hands tightened on her body and he shuddered. He didn’t let go of her, but he drew his head back.
“Frederica,” he said in a low voice. His hand slid up her nightrail, sliding the sleeve back onto her shoulder, covering her up. “If I take one night from you, I’ll want all the rest of your nights. And even I’m not so selfish as to demand them from you.”
She put her hand over his. “What happened to the man who told me he was maddeningly brilliant? To the scoundrel who asked me to think about how attractive I found his muscles?”
“Bluster will last me a night. Swagger, a week.” His hand brushed her face. “Beyond that? I can’t promise you anything more.”
The night seemed absolutely still around them—soundless and empty, without even the rustle of wind to disturb them.
He took her hand in his and kissed her fingertips. “Pain is a black ink,” he told her. “Once it’s spilled on a man’s soul, it’ll never scrub out. Deep down, Miss Marshall, there’s nothing to me but blackness.” He leaned in. “And Free, darling—I think you know that.”
“You’re an idiot.” Her voice trembled.
“That’s what I just said. I never did have any sense.” But he didn’t leave. Instead, his arm crept around her. His body warmed hers. He wouldn’t leave; she was sure of it. Sure of him, when he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers again.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured.
“My darling scoundrel.”
He let out a little laugh. “Precisely. I’d rather leave you wanting than stay and earn your hatred.”
And then he did pull away. The air was cold in his sudden absence; the night was dark. He gave her one last smile—as cocksure and arrogant as any he’d ever given her—and then he began to walk away. Really walk away, as if this were all over.
“Edward,” Free called before he’d made it six paces.
He paused, straightening, and then half-turned, looking back at her.
“We both know you’ll return,” she told him.
For a long while he stood, not saying anything. Then he shook his head.
“I know,” he said. “I never did have any sense.”
Chapter Fifteen
“ALL I WANT,” EDWARD SAID, “is to know if he dictates a letter with her name in it.”
His brother’s secretary sat across the table from him, a glass of ale in front of him. Peter Alvahurst frowned primly, as if he were pretending to have morals.
“I don’t know,” he demurred.
Alvahurst had been the one to bribe Mr. Marshall’s undersecretary in the first place. Edward knew precisely what sort of man he was, even if Alvahurst would not admit it.
Edward took a second banknote out and set it on the table between them. The surface was sticky with layers of spilled ale.
“I understand your concern,” Edward said smoothly. “I don’t want you to reveal the contents—that would be wrong, of course, and you aren’t the sort of man who would betray his employer for money.”
“Too right.” This was said with a self-righteous nod.
Mr. Alvahurst was precisely the kind of man who’d meet a shady character in a darkened pub and let that man dangle money in front of him. But Edward had always found that preserving a man’s illusion of himself was more important than simply offering money. Let someone think himself upright and honorable, and he’d slit a man’s throat for a halfpenny.
“You know how much difficulty your employer’s last encounter with Frederica Marshall caused him,” Edward said. “And I know how loyal you are to him. We’re much alike, you and I. We’re looking out for his interests.”
