The Wanton Governess Page 5

  Quickly, he lit a branch of candles and returned. He grasped the hem of her shift and in one smooth movement pulled it over her head.

  For a long, long moment, he stood utterly still, staring at her. Drinking her in, judging by the widening of his eyes, the slight flare of his nostrils. Oh, how delicious to be desired so intensely, and to desire equally in return. She should be ashamed, but no, she loved the fervor of his gaze. She was meant to be looked at this way.

  He would have unbuttoned his breeches, but she said, “Wait. Let me.” She knelt, and he stood before her, a hand resting lightly on her hair. Slowly, she peeled the breeches down, and his member sprang free. She let herself enjoy the sight; she’d only seen an erect member once before, and that far too briefly. His musky odor tantalized her, and she longed to taste him, but set that reluctantly aside as too bold. He took her hand and closed it around his erection. Oh, he was soft to the touch, yet so hot and hard. He was meant to fill her.

  He pulled her onto the bed, took her in his arms and kissed her, his tongue fencing with hers, then delved inside to possess her mouth. Heat seared her, from lips and tongue to breasts, belly and thighs. Urgency gripped her. She wanted him, and she wanted him now, while desire banished thoughts of right and wrong, lady and whore. She broke the kiss. “Come to me now,” she said.

  “Why hurry?” He feathered kisses down her neck. “We have all night.”

  One whole night, and then one more, but that would be all.

  “It will be more pleasant for you if we take our time,” he murmured, licking the valley between her breasts.

  No, she wished their first coupling to be a fierce one. She wanted to be swept away by passion, by her strong, handsome knight, before reality closed in on her again. She pulled him close, nibbling his ear, kissing her way across his cheek to his mouth again. Against his lips, she whispered, “We can take our time later. I have wanted you for years. Please, please possess me now.”

  “This is shared pleasure,” he replied gently. “Yours as well as mine. It shouldn’t be rushed.” He cupped one breast and bent to kiss it, to lave the nipple and suck it gently while he caressed the other breast. She whimpered, arching into his hand and mouth. “So beautiful,” he said, and his hand drifted down her hip, slipped between her thighs, and sought her core again. She was wet with desire, ready and aching for him, but he refused to hurry. He played with her until she moaned his name and her hips lifted and yearned toward him. His arousal brushed her thigh, and she imagined it inside her. Heat spiraled within her, setting her on fire to the tips of her fingers, curling her toes.

  “Take me now,” she panted. She caressed his heat and smoothness. “I want to be filled with you.”

  He rolled on top of her, settling between her legs, his eyes closed. “Lady,” he said, “your wish is my command.” He probed at her entrance. She took hold of his buttocks, and slowly, slowly, he pushed inside.

  “Oh, yes!” The Wanton in her reared up, reveling in the fullness and the heat, the rightness of this joining. She met him fiercely, thrust for thrust, yes, yes, and the heat and the passion and the wanting grew, grew and burned, and then exploded in a perfect glory. She felt him shake and shudder inside her, and her heart wept at the perfection and hopelessness of it all. In the aftermath of their pleasure, they lazed in each other’s arms. “What a waste,” James remarked.

  Pompeia inhaled the heady aroma of their joining. “What?”

  “You as a governess,” James said. “You are meant for a far more enjoyable occupation.” His finger trailed lazily between her breasts and on down.

  She knew where this was leading, had even expected it, but still it stung. “I disagree,” she said with the composure with which she had learned to counter insults. “I could be an excellent governess if someone would give me the chance. Invariably, I am dismissed within a short time, accused of attempting to lure the son of the house into marriage, or the husband into adultery.” Indignation seized her. “Or the vicar into mortal sin.”

  James laughed. “Well, none of that matters anymore. Your governessing days are behind you.”

  Because she was now his mistress? Didn’t he understand? This could be nothing more than an interlude, a secret tryst between one employment and another. Sadness pricked at her again, but she set it aside once more and buried her face against his shoulder. She would love James Carling with all her heart for these few precious days, and then she would leave.

  The light of dawn crept between the curtains and woke Pompeia early the next morning. James still slept, his dark hair tousled against the white of the pillow. The coverlet hid his naked beauty, but heat surged within her at the thought, and it took an effort of will to leave him covered and get out of bed. The servants would be up by now; she had to hurry to make things appear as they should. Not that anything she did would prove she had slept alone, but for Sally’s sake, she wished it to appear as if she might have. It was the best she could do.

  She rumpled the sheets on the cot, washed her face, and donned her shift and stockings. She was struggling with her corset when James walked in, naked and blatantly aroused.

  “Dressing already?” he asked. “I had other ideas for this morning.” His wicked grin seized her heart and squeezed it. He rested his hands on her shoulders, pressing a kiss to her hair. He inhaled deeply. “The scent of you intoxicates me. Did you sleep well, sweetheart?”

  “Too well,” she said ruefully. One whole night gone, and most of it wasted. She’d lain close in her lover’s arms, and the next thing she knew, morning had come. Tonight, she would stay awake and try all those different ways of making love even if it killed her. Once she left James, her lustful nature might as well be dead, for all the use she would get out of it.

  “I see you are thinking the same as I—that we didn’t get enough of each other last night.” His hands slid from her shoulders to push the untied corset down her hips and cup her breasts through the shift. He toyed with her nipples and probed at the corner of her mouth with his tongue. “I want you to ride me this morning,” he said.

  Desire shook her. Then reality hit, and she twisted away from his caress with a frustrated groan. She might be an admitted wanton and a temporary whore, but that didn’t mean she had no shame. “We can’t! The household is awake. If I am to make it appear possible that I didn’t share your bed, I must have Sally’s maid again to help with my clothing.”

  He tugged her against him, placing her hand on his erection, holding it there. “Forget clothing. See how ready I am for you?” When she drew it away, he laughed. “Don’t worry about the servants. My bedchamber door has a key.”

  Had he no shame? He couldn’t brazenly bed his mistress in his mother’s house. It was bad enough doing it in secret. Oh, and so terrifyingly good! She quivered as his hands roamed her flesh. “That will only make it more obvious,” she protested. “What about your mother? Your brother?”

  “My mother loves to flout convention and will find it very romantic. My brother can eat himself up with envy, with my good will. He would have done his best to debauch you if I hadn’t arrived.” He sounded awfully smug. Of course—because he had immediately debauched her himself. He nipped at her ear, and heat rippled all the way down her spine. He rubbed his erection against her belly, and her core throbbed wildly. “Simon now knows, in no uncertain terms, that you are mine.”

  She reared back, reminded of her own brother and his horrid friends, and the way they treated their doxies. “You have already told him what we did?” Did all men brag in this disgusting way about their sexual exploits? To them, a whore had no feelings, or if she had, they were a matter for jest.

  “I made my intentions clear to him yesterday.” James pulled her close again, one hand gathering up her shift, the other playing with her breast.

  Her wayward body heated under his caresses like wine. She had to make him see sense before he deprived her of what remained of hers. “What about your sister? She is my friend, and younger than I. By righ
ts, I should set an example for her!” Weakly, she tried to push him away.

  He didn’t let go. “I suppose you are right. She is innocent and heedless. Some rogue with no thought of marriage might make her forget that there are consequences to not behaving like a lady.”

  That hurt. How could James so callously refer to Pompeia’s own degradation?

  “But to tell the truth, I don’t think it will make any difference. Sally is heedless, but she’s not stupid.”

  Pompeia pushed again, harder now. She was not only a fallen woman, but a stupid one? Tears started behind her eyes. She’d actually believed him to be different. Believed he would accord her some respect while they were together, not show how little he thought of her even as he aroused her to the heights of folly. “Stop it, damn you!” She shoved at him, squeezing her eyes shut, willing the tears back inside. She couldn’t let him know how much he had hurt her. “Ring for the maid immediately!”

  “If you insist.” He let her go, a crease between his brows. “I don’t see why it matters, though. In a day or two, we’ll be married.”

  “Married?” She stumbled away from him. What was the matter with her? She had gone as white as the coverlet on the cot.

  Ah. Like all women, she must want bride clothes, a wedding at St. George’s, and all the usual fuss and bother. “I’m sorry, my love. I suppose you dreamed of a large affair in London with all your relatives and friends, but under the circumstances we don’t have much choice. Once my grandmother leaves, we’ll get a special license and marry immediately. The charade will no longer be a charade, and when next we see Grandmama, we’ll tell her the truth.”

  “No!” She backed away, hands upraised, fending him off. “We can’t marry. That’s not what I intended at all!”

  His temper rose in full force, worse than he’d ever known. “What do you mean?” he shouted.

  She gaped at him, eyes wide with distress, and yet she stood her ground. “I’m sorry, James, but—”

  A soft tap sounded on the bedchamber door. Reeling with shock and anger, James stalked out of the dressing room and bellowed, “Who the devil is it?”

  “Miss Sally sent me,” said the maid through the door.

  “Come back in five minutes,” James said, embarrassed now by his nakedness. His penis had shrunk to a state of total despair. He grabbed his breeches and yanked them on.

  Pompeia came through from the dressing room. “You see? Sally still believes me untouched.”

  James glared at the one and only woman he’d ever wanted to wed. What a fool he was. He’d been entirely right to avoid marriage. He had been better off without his family. He hadn’t given a fig for anyone in America, and everything had been just fine.

  “Please, James—” Pompeia put out a hand as if to touch him, but he couldn’t bear it. Already he felt the anger—his rightful anger—draining away under the influence of her spell.

  “We’ll discuss this later,” he said curtly, finished dressing in silence, and left the room.

  During the morning his fury subsided, to be replaced by a ghastly knot of pain. Wiping the dust of England off his feet once again, he realized, would make no difference at all. His home was in England. He loved his family, with all their faults. Whether or not Pompeia agreed to marry him, he had to handle this and all future problems like a civilized man.

  He spent hours turning things over and over in his head, but still had no idea why she had refused him. Even if she weren’t head over heels in love with him—which, he had to regretfully admit, she must not be—surely she could see the advantages of marriage. They were both intelligent and well-bred. They were certainly compatible in bed. How could life as his wife be worse than hiring herself out as a governess?

  Meanwhile, Pompeia played her role to perfection with a quiet dignity that wrenched at his heart, and showed no inclination to speak to him privately. In fact, she brandished her tambour frame like a shield every time he came near.

  He eventually ambushed her in the drawing room, pulled her arm through his, and said, “Put your embroidery down and come with me.”

  “I’m busy,” she said. “Now is not a good time.”

  “It’s the perfect day to show you the estate,” he said in the most civilized voice he could muster. What he really wanted was to thunder at her. To tell her she must marry him or else. Or else exactly what, he had no idea.

  “Do go with him, Pompeia,” urged his mother. “The countryside is so romantic at this time of year.”

  “Obedience to your husband is your first duty,” Grandmama said.

  Pompeia laid down her tambour and accompanied him, tight-lipped, down the passage, but instead of taking her out the side door, he pulled her up a secondary staircase.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Where no one will follow us,” he said, leading her into the muniment room, which he’d loved as a child, particularly the suits of armour all in a row and the collection of medieval weapons displayed on the walls. “As a child, I dreamt of chivalrous times and pretended I was a knight. My family goes back almost to the Conquest, as you can see.”

  She wrenched her hand away. Her voice low and shaky, she said, “You are wasting your time if you think to impress me with your lineage. I cannot marry you, and that is that.”

  He’d already opened the door to the keep and pulled her willy-nilly through into its chilly gloom. He locked the door behind them. A single shaft of sunlight lit the bare wooden floor. “Come and see the ramparts. It’s beautiful up there, and you can see the entire estate.” He hustled her across the floor and up the winding staircase to the top.

  “There’s no point in seeing it. The instant your grandmother leaves, I shall be on my way.” They emerged into the sunshine, and she gasped. Through the battlements, the South Downs spread before them, glorious in autumn dress. “Oh, how lovely!”

  “Isn’t it just,” he said, shutting the door. He leaned against it and folded his arms. “I see no reason why you shouldn’t want to stay here. I may not be perfect, but I find it hard to believe that a life of drudgery is preferable to marrying me. Therefore, you’re not leaving until you explain yourself.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Stop ordering me about. I’m not your wife.”

  To hell with being civilized. He was beginning to feel very much like the twelfth-century ancestor who had built the tower. “As good as,” he snarled. “You can’t bed me like a wild woman and then refuse to marry me.”

  “I can do whatever I please,” she said, a defiant light in her eyes that, when she caught his, abruptly disappeared. She drooped. “James, there’s no need to be chivalrous. I bedded you because I desired you, not to oblige you to marry me!”

  “I wouldn’t have risked getting you with child,” he shouted, “if I didn’t intend to marry you! What sort of dastard do you take me for?”

  “Not a dastard at all,” she said. The breeze riffled his dark hair as he gazed upon the land of his ancestors, her perfect, gentle knight. She would feed on the memory of their coupling forever. “I wanted you,” she said softly. “You wanted me.” She wrenched her eyes from him and stalked away down the battlements, flinging her words behind her. “That’s all there is to it. You are under no obligation to me.”

  He followed. “It’s nothing to do with obligation. I want to marry you.”

  Why must he insist on this? “No, you don’t. Your family put you into an intolerable situation, and you are making the best of it. It’s very noble of you, but entirely unnecessary. I’m not a suitable wife.” A hawk sailed over them on a current of air; she turned the corner and marched on. “I’m not even a true lady.”

  “There’s nothing noble about it,” he insisted. “Of course you’re a lady, and a most unusual one.”

  “No,” she said bluntly, “I’m not.”

  “Dash it all, woman!” he said, and the shaking of his voice told her how difficult this was for him, and with what grim determination he was controlling his tem
per. “Explain yourself, please, and for God’s sake stop running away.”

  She wasn’t running away. She was just… She halted, leaning on the parapet. In the near distance stretched the road along which she had trudged in the pouring rain.

  He was entirely right. She owed him an explanation, and if she could face who she was with herself, she could face it with anyone else, even the one man whose opinion really mattered to her. “I should think it’s obvious. You already knew I wasn’t a virgin when you took me last night.”

  He came up beside her. “Yes, my former friend Belfort boasted of it to me, and I almost killed him for it. That’s what got me sent to America by my father.”

  She stared. “You almost killed your friend over me? Why?”

  “Because he deserved it,” James said simply.

  Pompeia hesitated, but she had to say it. “No, he didn’t. I went willingly.”

  “But he shouldn’t have taken you willingly,” James said. “Anyway, what does it matter? That was years ago, and if you were alluring then, you are fatally attractive now. It would be a miracle indeed if not one man had succeeded in seducing you.”

  Wasn’t he listening? “I’m a fallen woman and therefore deserve no protection at all.” She paused. “Definitely not marriage to a respectable man. My great-grandmother was lucky not to die destitute and alone.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” he said. “Who told you this?”

  “My parents,” she said. “I’m a born wanton, you see, just like Grandmama Pompeia. I didn’t understand my nature then, and when Mr. Belfort boasted and the gossip spread, I didn’t have the sense to deny that sexual passion excited me. They refused to let me marry anyone, because I was not only despoiled but dangerously immoral, and would bring more dishonour on the family.”