Panic crashed through her. Did he really mean it? How many times had Lady R reminded them that Englishmen might set up mistresses for pleasures they would not dream of indulging in with their wives, but the truth was, they lacked imagination. They tended to be stuffy, even stodgy, requiring the female—though never their wives—to come up with the innovations which turned them into slavering puppies, panting to come back for more.
But Ashford?
She had been too bold. She should have waited, assumed the role of complete innocent. The vulnerable virgin quivering in the face of her lover’s desires.
But this was Ashford, her hero. Whom she adored. Who better to benefit from all she had learned? So she had panicked, offering the one thing she knew Englishman shunned, the one thing that might be new to him.
The more the fool, she!
Too late now. Tonight she would make it good for him. Even if he chucked her out in the morning.
Belle took a deep breath, pulling in the scent of him, filling herself with his essence. Oh yes, this was Ashford. Her savior, as well as the contentious gentleman from Vauxhall Gardens. And now—at least for the moment—all hers. The excitement, the tingling anticipation in her most private places came rushing back. Now was the time to show him she was worth keeping. That they were born to be together.
That his investment was worth every penny of the price.
Belle brushed her fingers over his bollocks. A sudden intake of breath, his cock stirred. Ah! She allowed her fingers to drift through his dark curls—so stiff compared to the silky look of the artfully disarranged hair on his head. Back to his bollocks for a featherlight squeeze. A sharper susurration exploded through his lips, his cock began to grow. For a moment Belle paused, fascinated by the phenomenon. Incredible. It was almost as if it had a life of its own. Two heads, Lady R had said, but only one with a lick of sense.
What would happen if she touched it?
Tentatively, she reached out, placing two fingers against the base of the slowly unfolding wrinkled skin. Soft. Warm. Enticing.
And where had that thought come from? How could such an odd-looking appendage be enticing?
A challenge, that’s what it was. Belle ran her fingers along the length of his damp flesh. Was that a soft groan of pleasure she heard? Good. She walked her fingers back down to his dark nest of curls, closed her hand around him, and stroked back up.
“Hell!”
Startled, Belle sat back on her heels, eyes wide, hands crunched together in her lap.
“No, no, don’t stop.” He grabbed her hand, set it back in place. A frozen tableau for several moments before Ashford added, “I was merely startled by the extent of Lady R’s teachings. I apologize if I startled you.”
Extent? She’d barely begun. At least he seemed to be pleased.
A few more strokes . . . Belle lips curled in satisfaction as his male organ shot to attention, its full length extended, the flesh beneath the satin soft skin rock hard. No matter how many times she had seen an engorged penis, and no matter what orifice of the body it entered, the process never failed to amaze her. From small and floppy to a jutting sword, as if by magic.
And now the moment of truth. Female power or abject failure?
Belle bent her head and licked moisture from the tip. A gurgle, closer to a croak echoed above her head. Not a no, definitely not a no. Slowly, carefully—this was, after all, her very first time of doing anything but watch—Belle took him into her mouth. A lick here, lips pressing against him there. Struggling to keep her teeth away from sensitive flesh.
A hand clasped the back of her head, strong fingers fisting in her hair. Belle’s brain went blank. Was this Stop?
He wasn’t pulling her away. So . . . She tried to picture the woman she’d seen at Thornhill Manor. What had she done after she seemed to swallow her partner’s great shaft? In and out? Yes, that was it, just like sex. Belle moved her head, sliding her lips up the length of him, then back down. Ashford groaned. Satisfied, though still worried, Belle did it again, this time allowing herself to taste him, to wonder at the burgeoning warmth inside herself, the breathlessness that wasn’t wholly anxiety.
His hand tightened, pressing her head down hard as he seized the initiative, pounding into her mouth again and again, and again. His body convulsed. One last thrust, a muffled cry, his hand fell away. Belle was left with a wilted nothing that slid through her lips and a mouthful of—
A white handkerchief dangled before her eyes. As she cleaned herself, suddenly embarrassed to the depth of her being, she heard the most amazing words: “Pray thank Lady R for such thorough instruction of her pupils.”
She blinked, her gaze flying up to Ashford’s face for the first time in several minutes. Fortunately, he had the look of a man well satisfied, not the glower of a man who was about to toss her into the street as a bad bargain. As he slipped his manly parts back inside his drawers and began to rebutton his pantaloons, Belle summoned the most blasé tone she could manage and asked, “Shall I tell Cook she may serve supper?”
Ashford’s lips curled into a wry smile as he fastened the last button. “Please do. After that bit of exercise, I need to recoup my strength so I can show you a few tricks of my own.”
Belle gulped. Some men consider once an evening enough. Others have greater stamina. Lady R’s words rang in her head. Her escape had been short-lived. Ashford—Gabriel—would soon discover just how malleable was the clay beneath his property’s carefully cultivated worldly façade.
Supper would forever remain a mystery. They might have had soup, they might not. A fish course? Belle had a vague recollection of prawns in butter, but had she eaten so much as one? For the life of her, she could not recall. A whiff of the meat course had set her stomach to churning so badly she thought she might disgrace herself by having to run from the room. She had toyed with the slices Ashford put on her plate, moving them from one position to another, all the time avoiding his eyes, which she could feel boring into her as he brought up one topic of conversation after another, only to elicit nothing but the most stilted responses.
Her stilted responses. The responses of a highly trained courtesan who was supposed to excel at conversation on any topic from horses to politics. She was even expected to be knowledgeable about boxing cant and fencing. And the code duello. And here she sat like a great lump, flunking her second great test when she was still unsure of the outcome of the first. She rather feared that, no matter how much Ashford might have enjoyed it, she had shocked him to the core.
Blancmange. Belle nearly picked up the dish filled with the fluffy pure white dessert and hurled it across the room. Surely Cook had not been trying to be symbolic . . . after all, she could not possibly know she was creating a sweet for a virgin about to be . . .
A shiver took her, the fine hairs on her arms noticeably coming to attention.
“Belle?”
“I beg your pardon.” Even to her own ears, the words sounded strangled. Fool! You’re ruining everything! She had thought herself well-armored, a creature of reason. In these past few months she had grown from a dutiful child who obeyed her father to a woman of the world who could handle any situation. A conviction she believed. Until . . . when faced with the reality of Gabriel, Viscount Ashford, she had turned into a pudding as soft and quivering as the blancmange.
“You are not stoking your fires, Belle. Shall I find a typical English stick-figure in my bed instead of the woman who rang my bells so thoroughly just now?”
Belle gasped. The serving maid dropped the entire bowl of blancmange, showering the carpet in gobs of white. Fortunately the cut crystal bowl was sturdy enough to bounce off the carpet, rolling across the floor, still scattering bits of white fluff, until it fetched up against the baseboard, where it did a slow spin before spilling out the last of its contents and coming to rest, face down.
Gabriel stood, pulled Belle’s chair back, and offered a hand to help her up. “It would appear we should consider dessert of a different kind,” he remarked with considerable sangfroid. “Shall we?” He tucked her hand beneath his arm and headed for the cottage’s central staircase, without so much as a glance at the housemaid who had burst into tears, her apron thrown up over her face.
Belle balked. She was the veriest ninnyhammer, not only a disgrace to her chosen profession but a disgrace to women everywhere! She dug in her heels, pulling Ashford to a halt. “There’s no need to cry,” she told the young maid. “Accidents happen.” Belle punctuated her words with a sharply accusing glance at Ashford. “Why don’t you go to the kitchen and find someone to help you clean up before the carpet is stained? And then we’ll think no more about it.”
Half a face peeked out from behind the apron. “Truly, my lady?”
“You may address me as ‘Miss,’ but yes, no more will be said on the matter. You will find I am not a hard mistress.”
“Oh, thankee, my–miss.” The girl dropped the apron from her face and scurried toward the kitchen.
“You think me an unfeeling beast.” Ashford, looking grave, stared down at her.
“Merely male, my lord. An overly privileged male, who was raised not to notice those who serve him.”
“I assure you I am well aware of the value of my valet, my butler, and my coachman,” Gabriel huffed.
“Do you ever consider their sensibilities?”
“Sensibilities? Hutchins, Hobbs, and John Coachman?” he muttered, staring at her as if she had suddenly sprouted two heads.
“I thought not,” Belle declared, as her outer coat of armor began to manifest itself and her inner core of steel straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, and propelled her feet toward the staircase.
Lord, he should have known the çi-devant Lady Arabella Pierrepont was going to be a challenge. Was that not what he wanted?
Perhaps. Certainly, he was determined no other man should have her.
At least she had recovered from whatever ailed her at supper. A sudden crisis of nerves, no doubt. After what happened in the parlor, it was a bit difficult to remember she was allegedly a virgin.
The truth of which he was about to discover for himself.
The bedchamber, Gabe was pleased to see, was as spacious as he remembered. And perfectly appointed in the colors he had specified. Varying shades of blue, with accents of green and white. The huge bed was draped for summer, with nearly transparent gauze in a color the ladies called azure. The counterpane white, embroidered in azure and leaf green. The rest of the room blurred as he focused on the bed. “My turn,” he murmured, as he spun Belle around and went to work divesting her of her gown with the expertise of long experience. Not even her stays gave him pause. And all the while she stood there, like a child’s doll and let him do it.
When all but her chemise, stockings, and slippers were pooled about her feet, he paused. “Sit on the edge of the bed,” he told her. As if he were a puppeteer pulling the strings, she did exactly as told. Gabe knelt and slipped off shoes that were as small and elegant as their owner. Her breath caught as he shoved the skirt of her chemise up above her left knee and began to work her garter down her leg. Was she feeling the same excitement he was? Or was she recalling the sick terror of moments like this at Pierrepont house?
Surely not after what they had shared earlier that night. Belle was his, all his. Gabe’s fingers lingered as he rolled her stocking down, deliberately brushing her leg with his fingertips. He glanced up, catching her biting her lip, eyes closed. Her bosom, rosy tits clearly visible beneath the thin linen chemise, rose and fell in the erratic rhythm of passion. Lust pinnacled, seizing control. Gabe fumbled the second garter, tore off the second stocking. His boots, always a problem, came next, flying off as if they had taken wings. He thought he heard a seam rip as he tore off his tight-fitted coat. Who cared? His cravat fluttered to the floor, his shirt nearly took off his ears as he skimmed it over his head. Pantaloons, drawers . . .
At a slight noise from the bed, he paused with his hands scrabbling at his left sock. Belle was sitting upright, the counterpane pulled up to her chin, simply staring. At him. But surely she’d seen a naked man before. He had, after all, heard tales of the Aphrodite Academy’s graphic instruction methods.
But she had not seen him before. At least not much of him. Only the essential bits.
Gabe flicked off the last sock, tossing it helter-skelter after his boots. He faced the bed, a questioning smile tugging at his lips. Well, my lovely Belle, what do you think? Am I worth what you’ve been through to arrive at this moment?
Hell and the devil! What if the answer was no? Their acquaintance so far had not been full of sweetness and light.
Not a sign of smile. Or approbation of any kind. He should approach the bed, show her all the delights she had yet to experience, yet he stood there like a great gawk, knowing this was all wrong. He should have married the girl.
This should have been his wedding night.
And then a light the strength of the noontime sun broke through the room’s dim light: Belle smiled at him. “You’ll catch your death out there in the cold.” She wiggled once, twice, moving farther away from the edge of the bed. Gabe was about to protest when she folded back the counterpane, revealing the naked length of her exposed against the pristine white sheets. He goggled. He had no idea when she’d rid herself of the chemise—which made it painfully clear she still had him by the bollocks—but at the moment it didn’t matter. Not one whit. He plunged into the warmth of the space she had just vacated and rolled her into his arms. Flesh to flesh from lips to toes. He inhaled the scent of her, groaning as his engorged erection rubbed against her inner thigh. Never, ever, had he felt so eager. Or so inadequate.
Perhaps, contrary to Belle’s accusations, he was developing sensitivity, after all.