My Wicked Earl by Kathleen Ayers

 

8

CAMBOURNE HOUSE 1830

Miranda giggled in the darkness, the sound echoing down the parquet floor hallway. She should be more careful, but the only witnesses to her laughter were the marbles that littered the hallway of her family’s London town home. Surely, the bust of a former Roman general would not complain.

Mother often traveled abroad to Italy to visit her cousin, Mr. Runyon who lived in Tuscany. Whenever she was gone, various works of art, pottery, sculpture and the like, would arrive on the doorstep of Cambourne House. Sometimes Mother was gone for months.

Father didn’t mind when Mother traveled, in fact Miranda thought he was relieved, although he detested Cousin Archie. In fact, her father barely tolerated her mother. Sutton hadn’t cared for Cousin Archie either.

A small ache crossed her heart. She desperately missed Sutton.

Mother’s Marbles, as Miranda liked to call the statues of Roman gods, and the odd bust of a bewigged gentleman, were exquisite though. Guests to Cambourne House raved about their beauty. Unfortunately, the statues held more warmth than Mother herself did.

Miranda halted her thoughts of her mother and smiled up into the face she loved most in the world. Colin Hartley. She adored him. Worshipped him like the Romans did the statues sprinkled around the hallway. Colin rivaled the beauty of the marbles. The candlelight lovingly caressed the sculpted planes of his beautiful face, while his eyes, the color of a burnt piece of toffee cake that Cook once made for Miranda’s birthday, roamed over her in appreciation.

He caught her around the waist, pressing her up against a small statue of a satyr. The marble was cool against her back.

“You are forever pulling me into a dark corner, Mr. Hartley,” she laughed, nervous and exhilarated at the same time. The most delicious sensation rolled over her skin when Colin looked at her as he did now. “Although I don’t suppose he minds,” she nodded at the satyr who regarded them both with a lascivious grin.

“I believe it is you who seek to pull me into darkened corners, Miranda.” Colin whispered against her ear. “Though, I don’t mind in the least.”

Her pulse caught as his breath tickled the sensitive flesh beneath her ear. A whimper escaped her lips.

It was constant torture to sit across the table when Colin came to dine, pretending that they were no more than old family friends. She would sit and allow Mother to discuss how she hoped for a match between Miranda and Lord St. Remy. She would nod her head and agree that St. Remy, or whomever Mother found suitable, was quite wonderful, all the while knowing that the only man she wanted sat across the table, his dark eyes lit with hunger as he watched her.

Since that day, nearly a month ago, when Colin surprised her in the gardens, they had found every moment to be together. It was amazing how many dull, boring lectures the Royal Academy presented—lectures only Colin would escort her to. Then Colin would take her for a lemon ice and debate the merits of the lecture. Or discuss the building of the pyramids. Miranda found herself saving up little tidbits of the trials of being in her First Season if only to make him laugh.

A warm finger teased her skin, slipping down the deep valley between her breasts.

Her nipples pebbled, the sensitive tips pushing up against the constraints of her bodice. Every touch between them became more intimate, more heated. Sometimes at night she couldn’t sleep for thinking of the sensations Colin aroused.

“This curl will be the death of me.” He wrapped a bit of her hair about his seeking finger. “It always tempts me to come closer.”

“Then come closer,” she breathed.

Tugging the curl, Colin pulled Miranda close and nibbled against the line of her neck and jaw. His breath warmed her skin and set her pulse racing. “Such a tempting invitation.”

Honey slid down her stomach to pool at the apex of her thighs as his mouth blazed a trail against her skin. Instinctively, her hips pushed against him. Her hands ran down his chest to wander beneath his coat, catching around his waist.

A low, primitive sound came from deep in Colin’s throat.

“We should go back. You are maddening,” the words trailed along her neck, “and I should leave. If I were smart, I would run from Cambourne House as if the devil himself were at my heels.”

“Are you suggesting I’m the devil, Colin?”

“You are.” His mouth brushed hers, nipping at her bottom lip. “Devilishly beautiful. Wonderful. Amazing. You make my heart stop.”

Miranda pressed a kiss against his lips. “I shall start it once again. Contrary organ.”

“And you are quite good at catching frogs.”

Miranda laughed and brought her hands up, wrapping her arms about his neck.

“You can’t leave yet. You promised me a walk in the gardens.”

He shook his head. “We should not. You mother watches us like a hawk. She suspects, I think.”

Miranda took him by the hand, lacing their fingers together, cursing the fact that she wore gloves, although he did not. He rarely did, which pleased her, for she loved the look of his hands. Large, but graceful, sometimes with a bit of ink staining his forefinger.

“Father did not object, and my mother only suspects that I may be happy, and she does not wish me to be.”

Her father, Lord Cambourne, barely looked up from the London Times as Miranda said she and Colin would take a turn about the garden before he took his leave. The Dowager was already asleep in her chair by the fire. Only Miranda’s mother raised a brow, her eyes narrowed with disdain for Colin.

To be fair, her mother liked few people, and certainly not anyone that was acquainted with Sutton. Mother resented that Father’s first wife had borne the Cambourne heir and her resentment festered until she hated Sutton with her entire being. The dislike of her stepson extended to his friends. Mother detested Nick especially but dared not anger the heir to Dunbar. She referred to Colin as the “Irish pauper” telling Father that Colin would steal the silver if they looked the other way. Which was preposterous. Though he might steal a kiss from Miranda.

“Your father did not object because he assumes I squire you about as a favor to your family.” Colin replied as he pressed another kiss beneath her ear. “It is becoming very difficult to pretend that I only tolerate your company as I did when you were a child.” A sigh escaped him. “A short walk. Then I must take my leave.”

Miranda had no intention of allowing Colin to leave yet. She led him outside to the garden, her favorite spot in all of London, for it was the place that most reminded her of Gray Covington. The sun had just started to dip below the horizon, bathing everything in the entire garden with a pale golden light, including Colin.

The waves of his hair glinted as if they were lit by fire. She found Colin to be beautiful, if such a word could be used for a man.

And he belongs to me.

The knowledge filled her heart with indescribable pleasure. She cared little that he had no title, no great estates or wealth. Her ridiculously large dowry would be enough for them to do as they wished. It only mattered that she and Colin would be together.

Miranda thought how wonderful it would be to kiss under the shadow of the Great Pyramid.

Colin pulled her back to him, a tiny smirk on his lips. “What are you about, Miranda?” He shook his head and spared a glance back at the French doors. “This is unwise.”

“Did I tell you, Colin,” she led him to a bench well-hidden behind a rather large wax myrtle, “that I’ve finished the book on ancient embalming techniques?” She sat and pulled him down next to her, watching his silky movements in appreciation. Once she’d attended a lecture on snow leopards and that was what Colin reminded her of. A big, graceful cat.

“Is that why you’ve led me astray?” His voice took on a husky lilting quality. “To discuss ancient death rituals with me?”

Birds sang above their heads, heralding the coming night and a frog croaked softly from the small fish pond on the other side of the garden. It was so peaceful here, so primitive. One would never know they were in the middle of London.

A gentle breeze blew across the garden, tossing a curl across the tops of her breasts.

Colin leaned forward, his attention focused on the curl. He pressed his lips against the skin above her bodice as his hand reached out and cupped the underside of one breast.

“Tell me to stop, for the love of God, Miranda.”

Instead, Miranda lay back against the bench and taking his wrist, pushed her breast more fully into his hand. “I don’t wish you to stop, Colin.

She heard him curse under his breath even as his thumb found her nipple beneath the silk, circling the engorged tip before rolling the peak between his thumb and forefinger. The warmth of his hand lit her skin as he pulled down the lace of her bodice to deftly free her breast.

Cool evening air blew across her nipple before she felt the flick of his tongue against the sensitive peak.

Oh, this was more wicked and pleasurable than she imagined. She twisted on the bench, her skirts rustling in the quiet. “More,” she begged.

Colin gently suckled the engorged peak, his teeth nibbling against the tender flesh, the pulse of his mouth sending small waves of pleasure rippling through her body.

Miranda gasped, pushing her hips up against him, hoping to ease the ache between her thighs. She was heated, her skin feeling as if a flame had been lit to it. Miranda had the sudden desire to divest herself of her gown. Press herself naked against the large male body that held her.

It occurred to Miranda that this was why young ladies required chaperones, this feeling of wanting to throw off your clothes and rub oneself against a man like a cat in need of affection. Imagine how ruination would spread through the ton. Was this how the term ‘merry widow’ was coined? For widows could engage in such activities without a chaperone.

Her hands threaded through the silken strands of his hair, loving the movement of the molten gold waves against her fingers.

“Colin. Ruin me,” she whispered. “Please.”

The cool evening air again caressed her breast as he lifted his mouth from the delicious torture he inflicted upon her breast. “Dear God, Miranda, I certainly want to.” One elegant finger trailed down the top of her breast to her nipple, brushing the tip until Miranda thought she would faint from the pleasure.

“Please, Colin. I wish it. I-”, she didn’t know how to express herself, “want you. So much so I fear I’ll die from it.”

“I would not take you on a bench in your father’s garden,” he said quietly, his breathing uneven. “You deserve better than that. God, you deserve so much better than me, Miranda. Every man in London wishes to court you. Had I any sense at all I would leave you alone, for both our sakes. You would do better with a man who can give you the things I cannot.”

“You don’t mean that,” she gasped as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“Miranda, you’ve your pick of earls and dukes. I’m a third son. I’ve nothing to offer you.”

“Yourself. That is all I want or shall ever want. I will not change my mind.” She trailed her finger against his bottom lip, satisfied when a soft growl escaped his mouth.

“This is only your first Season. You may regret such an indiscretion later.” His lips twisted into a small smile.

The frog croaked again, this time sounding as if he were beneath the bench on which they sat. “Besides, think how shocked,” he said teasingly, “that poor frog would be.”

Miranda gave a sigh of disappointment. She pushed herself up against him.

“I said I wouldn’t bed you,” Colin’s mouth fell against her neck to murmur in her ear, “but there are other things.”

“Show me.”

One of his arms fell to her lap and moved down to the hem of her dress. Shuffling through the mound of silk and petticoats, his hand trailed heat up the thin silk covering her calf, hesitating for a moment in the hollow of her knee.

“Have a care,” she whispered, “for my dress.”

A dark, wicked laugh escaped him. “I shall have a care for a great many things. You have my word on it.”

The feel of his hands against her silken clad legs fed the ache gently throbbing between her thighs. Shyly she moved so that her exposed breast would be closer to his mouth. She should be horrified to be so exposed, but she wasn’t; she was too immersed in the sensations humming through her body.

“I must be mad.” His hand brushed against the slit of her underclothes to gently cup her mound possessively. “So soft,” he whispered as his fingers tangled in the down that covered her.

Miranda gasped as his finger moved through the slit to touch the slick folds of her flesh. His finger circled her entrance than retreated to trail around the source of her desire. Over and over, until she was panting, ready to beg for something she couldn’t name.

“Anyone could come upon us.” Colin’s finger continued to play against her flesh, sliding between the wet folds, brushing delicately against the tiny nub hidden within. “The gardener. A groom. The Dowager.”

A lovely bit of his Irish lilt bled into his words which aroused her even more. God, how she loved the way he spoke when he wasn’t trying to sound like a snobbish gentleman. She sucked in her breath as he gently thrust the finger inside of her while his thumb continued to brush against the folds of her flesh.

“She’s,” her heart fluttered at his touch, “asleep.”

“Spread your legs, Miranda.” His voice was rough as his mouth fell to her exposed breast again, suckling while his finger, now joined by a second, thrust in and out of her. His thumb rotated over her nub, now hard and erect.

Miranda complied. Torture. What he did with his fingers was sheer torture. She found herself pressing her mound against his hand, anxious for some sort of release. A small part of her was dutifully horrified by the sight of Colin’s blonde head, bent over her breast while his hands moved between her legs. The properly bred part of her.

Over and over his fingers teased and swirled until Miranda was panting with need.

“Let go, my love. Welcome it. I’m here,” he whispered against her breast.

A small cry left her lips as her hips moved against his hand, matching every thrust of his fingers. She whimpered and arched her back in a plea for him to release her from this exquisite torment.

“Shh. Love. Don’t make a sound, Miranda.”

Miranda bit her lip in an effort to hold back the cry of pleasure threatening to erupt. His fingers swirled and dipped, caressing her until she thought her heart would stop.

Then her heart did stop. Or felt as if it did. The unexpected burst of pure bliss was so unexpected, so unbelievable that for a moment she didn’t take a breath. Her body shattered into a dozen pieces or more, every fiber vibrating with pure ecstasy.

“Colin.” She cried out his name, she couldn’t help it.

He pulled her tightly against the hard lines of his body, covering her mouth with his in a deep, lush kiss as her hips bucked against his hand.

Just as it she thought it would end, Colin moved his thumb again and another spasm gripped her. Her head fell back as pleasure rippled through her once again, her body tightening around his fingers. There was nothing but this man, giving her such pleasure. And she surrendered to it. All of it.

Sometime later, Miranda came back to herself, feeling Colin’s breath, warm and gentle against her neck. She was firmly wedged against his chest, his arms circling her protectively.

A bird broke into song in the tree above the bench, and a smile crossed her lips. Music seemed appropriate at such a time although given the sheer magnitude of the experience, she thought the last half-hour merited an entire orchestra. Miranda, who was never without words, could find none to describe what had just happened.

Wondrous. Splendid. Amazing. Erotic. She finally knew the true meaning of the word.

Without her noticing, it seemed her breast found its way back inside her bodice, the lace at the edge neatly tidied. Colin’s hand was no longer beneath her skirts, but instead lay on her thigh.

She looked at the instrument of all the pleasure she’d just experienced and took his hand, bringing it to her mouth for a kiss, before threading his fingers with hers.

He pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose. A small, smile crossed his lips and his eyes were dark with emotion.

Kissing the corner of her mouth, Miranda heard him whisper something under his breath.

It sounded like mine.

JESUS.

Had his cock been any harder he’d be considered one of the Marchioness’s statues.

The wisdom of pleasuring Miranda was to be debated, for it had only made him want her more. Which he didn’t think possible. Just the taste of her, the sight of her, would drive him mad the rest of his days. He thought of nothing but Miranda, and how to have her.

Few things frightened Colin. His mother. Being poor, or at least continuing to be impoverished.

Not having Miranda.

Part of him feared that Miranda’s affection was only an extension of her childish adoration for him. That in time, her infatuation with him would wane and she would realize he wasn’t good enough for her. That he would lose her to some fancy bit of fluff masquerading as a gentleman. The other half of him wished to claim her and stop this act of family friend.

Colin thirsted for her, his lovely, chattering, bit of light. A light that banished every bit of darkness that the Mad Countess bestowed upon him. It wasn’t just the thought of bedding Miranda, which God help him, the events of this evening had made even worse. This was something else entirely.

The thought of leaving London, of leaving Miranda, was unthinkable.

Mine.

Nothing, and certainly no one had ever been his.

Miranda.

The chubby nuisance of his youth was this magnificent creature in his arms. A woman who begged him to ruin her. A woman who chose him.

Mine.

He’d grown up with two older brothers, each one more beloved by his parents than Colin could ever hope to be. His life was one of hand-me-downs, the last portion of roast past round the table. Ian’s mended shirts that he’d outgrown. A pair of boots that Mother ordered for Thomas but, when proved too large were passed to Colin.

Nothinghad ever been his.

Nick, who sent Miranda to Colin the night of the Dunbar ball, would be amused but hardly surprised. The Marchioness would be horrified. The Dowager he might be able to charm.

He would beg Lord Cambourne for Miranda’s hand on his knees if he must.

Mine.

Something pure and wonderful blossomed in Colin’s chest. A feeling he didn’t immediately recognize as he’d felt it so rarely.

Joy.

The smell of a campfire and the words of an old gypsy came to him, followed by his mother’s words of hatred whispered in his ear. The combined effect threatened to spread darkness in the beautiful garden, his heart’s desire before him, but for the first time, he ignored both of them. They held no power here. Not with Miranda who banished the darkness as if she were the sun itself.

“Yes.” The words left his lips before they could be stopped.

Miranda gave him a sideways glance, her green eyes glittering with specs of gold as the sun set. A light wind ruffled her hair. She looked well-pleasured. Sated. Her lips were swollen and her bodice just a bit crooked.

He found her to be the most lovely creature he’d ever seen.

“Yes to what? I don’t believe I’ve asked you anything, Mr. Hartley. Unless you mean more of…” she looked skyward struggling to find the right phrase.

“Go on. You are rarely without words.” He sat back against the bench and watched as she flushed that lovely shade of pink.

“More of…this. If that is the case I wholeheartedly agree. Although you do not need to look so smug.”

“I am not smug.”

“You should hear the way the young ladies whisper and roll their eyes as they talk with distaste about the marriage bed, calling it a duty. As if it were something distasteful. Only good for begetting an heir. Truly, if most young girls knew about…this, well I would find that their opinions would be vastly different. What are you agreeing to, Colin?”

Would she always chatter in such a manner? He thought she likely would.

“You asked me once if I’d marry you.” A finger traced the edge of her bodice, wishing he could once again touch those glorious breasts. “Do you remember?”

Miranda blushed, the question stopping her continuous stream of conversation as nothing else would.

“I -I was eight, if I recall correctly, hardly an age when you can make such a decision.

Colin’s eyes ran up her lush form. “I brought you a half-dozen raising cakes.”

Miranda looked away, the pink deepening in her cheeks. “I fear my affections do not come so cheaply now.”

“Indeed?” He tugged at the curl that lay once again between the mounds of her breasts. He wished to see Miranda naked before him, her hair streaming down her body like ink against a creamy white page.

“Should you steal me a dozen,” a shy smile graced her swollen lips, “I may consider my offer to still be good.”

Colin bent his forehead to hers, sighing softly as he breathed in her scent. “I shall buy you an entire bakery.”