Her Husband's Harlot Read online

  The man obliged immediately. Encased in fine dark leather, his hands came to cup her breasts, squeezing, kneading in such a way that had her sighing. Then he touched inside the bodice, and his actions there made the woman gasp and bite her lip. She dropped the flower, her hands going around her partner's neck. Their mouths collided in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss that went on and on. When the man finally broke away, he nuzzled the woman's ear. Whatever he whispered sent a flush up the slender column of her neck. With a throaty giggle, she gave a nod. His eyes gleamed behind the mask as she rose ... then sank to her knees between his legs.

  Shameful arousal flooded Helena. She knew she shouldn't be watching, and yet she couldn't detach her gaze from the unfolding action. The woman parted her lover's trousers, a hum leaving her as she removed his engorged flesh. With an elegant movement, she encircled the girth with her fingers. Helena's breath caught at the sensual play of snowy satin against the darkly-veined phallus. The contrast was strangely, wholly erotic. And the way the lovers were looking at one another ...

  How she longed to see that same desire smoldering in Nicholas' dark eyes. To make him want her, to burn for her ... Desperate, determined, she pressed closer against the screen.

  The woman had bent her head. She was carefully tonguing her lover's cock. Heat trickled through Helena's veins as she followed the languid path of that small, pink organ over and around the flared head, below the crest, up and down the shaft. The woman was clearly savoring the task—much to her partner's appreciation. Groaning, the man slid his gloved hands into her chestnut curls, scattering plumes and pins. His hoarse commands escalated in volume.

  Deeper. Suck me, love. Ah, yes, let me fuck your lovely mouth.

  His hips were arching in a steady, smooth rhythm that drove him deeper and deeper into his lady's kiss. She made eager little sounds around his cock, seeming to have no difficulty taking him in this manner. Her forehead glazed with perspiration, Helena took note of the woman's hands, how one circled and pumped the base of the shaft, while the other played with his heavy stones. 'Twas a concerto of hands and lips moving in sensual unison. The man growled a sudden warning, pulling his lover's head away from his groin.

  God's teeth, I'm close ...

  The woman looked up at him with adoration and lust in her gaze as she continued to handle him with firm strokes. Spend for me, my darling. Shower me. Your seed feels so exquisite upon my breasts.

  The man groaned. He worked his hips harder and faster, shoving his rampant manhood into the woman's grasp. The scene was so debauched, so wildly titillating that Helena felt her intimate muscles clench in response. Her pussy gripped onto the memory of Nicholas' cock, the stretched, almost too full feeling of his flesh driving into her. Her entire body throbbed with heat. The hardened tips of her breasts strained against her bodice, and moisture flushed from her center.

  I'm coming, love. Take it, feel me—

  With a shout, the man erupted, his seed spraying upon his lover's bosom. When he finished, he sagged against the cushions, his chest still surging. The woman touched her finger to her jaw and caught a stray drop. She brought her satin-covered finger to her lips, licked the tip, and smiled.

  Exquisite, my lord, she told him.

  He gave a husky laugh. Have a care, wife, or you'll stain your gloves. Taking her hand, he peeled off the pristine material. A wedding band gleamed on the delicate fingers he brought to his lips. On second thought, devil take the damn gloves—I'll buy you a drawer full if it comes to that.

  His lady giggled as he bent and kissed her on the nose.

  Shaking all over, Helena turned away from the viewing hole. She slumped onto a bench. She ought to be shocked by what she had just witnessed. By the fact that she had shamelessly spied upon what appeared to be torrid, marital lovemaking. Instead, a flare of recognition heated her insides as she understood, finally, what was possible in a marriage. What she had always longed for with Nicholas. She wanted his love, yes, but she also yearned for the decadent pleasure he'd shown her at the Nunnery.

  For the hot, male taste of him filling her senses.

  For his devastating touch on her breasts and the aching place between her thighs.

  For the intensity of his possession, his cock thrusting against the very limits of her restraint, making her beg for more and more.

  Sweetness above, she was a harlot.

  Sitting there upon the bench, a strange calm settled over her. As she studied the string of paper lanterns overhead, it occurred to her that the frail shells, pretty as they were, obscured a rather vital glow. A tear trickled from beneath her mask.

  After a few moments, she wiped away the dampness.

  And began to plan.

  TEN

  Later that week, Nicholas handed his coat and hat to the butler, relieved to find the foyer empty.

  "Is Lady Harteford out, Crikstaff?" he asked, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

  "Yes, my lord," Crikstaff intoned.

  Nicholas felt relieved even as he mentally cursed his own cowardice. Lord, he was becoming a spineless fool. He had avoided Helena all week. He had no desire for a repeat performance of their interaction at the musicale, and he didn't know what he would say if he did see her. Not the truth, that was for certain.

  I'm sorry, but you've married a murderer wasn't something one confessed to a gently bred lady. Or to anyone, for that matter.

  His lips tightened.

  The butler was not finished jabbering. "Lady Harteford did leave word that she would be dining in this evening. She specifically requested your presence should your lordship be at home. She has asked Chef to prepare a most special repast."

  At the thought of Helena asking for him, Nicholas' pulse leaped. Seeing her would be courting danger—how much longer could he hide his desire for her and keep her at arm's length? Yet how could he refuse without obviously disregarding his wife's wishes in front of the staff?

  He gave a curt nod.

  The normally somber Crikstaff looked ready to skip down the halls. "I am sure you will find the menu this evening most delightful—"

  "I will be down at seven o'clock. Be sure that the meal is ready, as I will be leaving for an engagement at eight." Nicholas stalked away, turning to add, "And I wish to be undisturbed until we dine."

  He tried to ignore the fallen look on the butler's face. Was he so much of a disappointment that even his servants found him lacking? A year ago, he'd inherited the house staff along with the property; frankly, he'd had no idea what to do with the lot of them. Before his marriage, he'd kept the arrangement simple, the way he liked: he paid their wages, and they stayed out of his way.

  His method had worked fine until Helena came along. She seemed to inspire in the servants (and old stick-in-the-mud Crikstaff especially) some sort of domestic fervor. They became full of questions: Is the soup to your liking, my lord? Would you prefer your cravat à la Brutus or in a Waterfall, this evening?

  How the hell was he to know what the French soup was supposed to taste like, or how his bloody neck cloth should be tied?

  He had problems—real ones—that were a sight more pressing.

  Striding into his study, he shut the door behind him. He regarded the polished mahogany and dark green tones of his private sanctuary with relief. At least here no one dared to seek him out. He poured himself a whiskey and slouched into the chair behind his desk. As he sipped, savoring the burn, he grimly contemplated his situation.

  Someone had somehow discovered his secret. Whoever had sent those notes knew that seventeen years ago he'd killed that bastard Ben Grimes. That he'd stuck that black-hearted bugger in the chest and run. For weeks after the murder, he'd huddled with the mud-larks beneath the docks, numb with shock and the certainty of retribution. Yet justice had not come for him. Instead, a rumor had finally pierced his petrified brain: Grimes' flash house had gone down in flames. Grimes' body had been recovered, charred and unrecognizable, and the fire had been blamed for his death. Nicholas alo
ne had known the truth. He'd kept running, never feeling safe, always fearing his secret would be revealed.

  The price for keeping your crime secret is upon you. Nicholas's throat clenched. Who was this faceless enemy? How had this would-be blackmailer come by the information about his past? And why hadn't any demands been made as of yet? Questions crowded against his temples, making them pulse. As much as Nicholas disliked Isaac Bragg, the man didn't seem to have the brains to concoct such a scheme. Looting, yes, but blackmail ... Bragg couldn't keep such a juicy secret to himself.

  He'd have Bragg followed, Nicholas decided, but by whom? He didn't trust the Bow Street Runners or any investigators for hire, for that matter. As far as he was concerned, that lot had far too much in common with the criminals they hunted—and the last thing he needed was for some unscrupulous detective to ferret out his past. The option left, then, was Ambrose Kent. His instincts told him Kent was honest. He'd have to think of some way to ask for Kent's assistance, without alerting the police man to his wrongdoing. Perhaps he could ask the detective to follow Bragg as a potential suspect in the warehouse losses.

  A knock on the door startled Nicholas from his brooding. Before he could respond, the door swung slowly open. Recovering himself, he snapped, "What the devil is it? I said I was not to be ..."

  He stopped mid-sentence when he saw Helena's head peer around the doorway. The sight of her heart-shaped countenance made him instantly ache all over. Then his brow creased. She never entered his study. In fact, she never entered any part of the house considered his domain. Not his bedchamber and certainly not this room. What the hell was she doing here now?

  "How can I help you?" Incredulity made his words sharper than he had intended.

  Helena responded with a shy smile. "I know you are busy, my lord, but I was wondering if I might have a few minutes of your time."

  Nicholas blinked. She had never asked for his time before either. Then his jaw tautened. Of course. Presumably, she wanted to take him to task over his behavior at the musicale. He couldn't blame her—he had acted boorishly. He couldn't very well tell her the reason for it, that he needed to drive her away for her own good. But he wasn't about to apologize for whatever lies her father had poured into her ear, either. He'd be damned if he let her rake him over the coals over Northgate's alleged mistreatment.

  Nicholas rose stiffly from the desk as Helena came toward him. He noted that she must have returned from a recent excursion as she still wore her pelisse. Trimmed in ermine and spun in cornflower blue, the cloak set off the purity of her features. The rounded curve of her cheeks reminded him of a blushing peach. She wore her hair simply today, the silky rich mass of it secured by a blue ribbon at her nape. The smell of spring trailed in her wake.

  In spite of his frustration, he could not help but drink in the sight of her, and this increased his irritability further. Did she have to possess such pleasing curves, such softness about her? Did she have to smell like fruit and flowers, the very essence of femininity? Out of nowhere, brazen red hair and a body made for sinning assailed his mind's eye. Skin smooth as silk beneath his fingers, and a hot, voracious mouth ...

  He caught himself, nearly shook his head in disgust. Why would he think of the doxy at such a time? He must be depraved indeed to allow such libidinous thoughts to sully the presence of his lady wife. Bloody hell. Now he had to contend with the nasty prickles of his conscience on top of everything else. He might as well get the business over with.

  "What is it that you want to discuss?" he asked curtly, knowing full well the answer.

  Helena walked up to his desk. She held a leather box in each hand. "I am having the most difficult time trying to decide which necklace to wear with my gown this evening. Since you have the most exquisite taste, I am depending on your kind assistance, my lord."

  Her request distracted him from the counter-arguments he had been formulating about her ass of a father. Nicholas' eyes narrowed. Had he missed something? So this was not about her father, then? Nor about their quarrel at the musicale? This was about ... jewelry?

  "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

  "I should like the loan of your exquisite sense of style," his wife said.

  He, exquisite style? He hardly knew what his valet dressed him in each morning. Prior to inheriting his title, he'd had his man dress him in simple garb befitting his office at the warehouse. Prior to that, there had been a time when he'd committed the ultimate offense to gentility by dressing himself. No care needed getting ready for a day working the docks.

  Though he had managed to obscure that charming part of his history with fancy lessons in elocution and etiquette, the truth was he had earned his success the hard way, without power or privilege. Bad enough that the ton scorned him for being a merchant—what would they, or his lady wife, daughter of an earl, say if they'd known he'd once been nothing but a common laborer, hefting ten stone sacks with the rest of the riffraff struggling about the wharves?

  "My lord, would you help me, please?"

  Though he tried to resist, he found himself once more a powerless captive to her sweet, inquisitive eyes. Hazel, they were, with flecks of green and gold swirled into rich brandy pools. Her eyes did not lie, and they were not angry. They were ... smiling. At him. Despite everything, a knot began to loosen in his chest. Her mouth imitated her eyes, so now her whole face was smiling at him. Beaming goodwill and wifeliness as she held the jewelry box toward him.

  Reluctantly, Nicholas removed the necklace from its white satin lining. The rubies caught fire in the sinking light of the sun, sending fiery prisms onto the walls and carpet. He had never seen the necklace out of its box. After their disastrous wedding night, he had left it for Helena at the breakfast table. A shameful apology, a silent penance. Since then his wrongdoings had only multiplied: no amount of baubles could atone for the harm he'd done her by tying her to a murderer. A brute and a coward.

  The jewels weighed heavily in his palm.

  "Oh wait. I have forgotten to remove my pelisse." Helena untied the silken cords and tossed the cloak onto his chair.

  Nicholas felt the air escape his lungs. The sudden gust left him light-headed, unable to hold onto a thought save one. Who was the creature in front of him? The Helena he knew wore primly proper dresses, with pieces of starchy-looking fabric tucked neatly in the neckline. An abundance of ribbons and flounces and other embellishments for which he had no name typically covered her from head to toe. Thankfully for him, those decorations tended to hide the lushness of her figure and provided some minor respite from temptation.

  This Helena, however, wore a gown that draped her figure like a swath of moonlight. The airy white fabric glimmered with silver and was nearly as transparent as a moonbeam. The square bodice bared her plump, white breasts almost to the nipple. In fact, he surely could see her nipples, the faint outline of puckered buds visible under the gossamer breath of silk. The thin silver ribbon tied beneath her breasts emphasized the ripeness of the fruit above, larger than apples, more delicious than summer-sweet melons. He felt his mouth water. A man could gorge himself all day on those luscious tits. Plump pink nipples, he decided. Full buds shaped to tempt a man's tongue.

  "Harteford?"

  His wife was looking at him, her eyebrows raised and a small smile playing on her lush lips. He realized he had the necklace still clutched in his fist. Shaking himself from his erotic reverie, he felt a surge of anger. What was his wife playing at, dressing in such an immodest fashion? Why was she flaunting herself in such a manner that any hot-blooded male would be sniffing at her skirts like a hound scenting its prey? A simultaneous throbbing began at his temples and at his groin.

  "Perhaps there is a fabric shortage I am unaware of?" he asked.

  "Whatever do you mean, my lord?" His wife's expression appeared as pure as freshly fallen snow.

  "Surely that would be the only acceptable explanation for constructing the garment you are wearing," Nicholas answered through clenched teeth. "For example, an
entire bolt of cloth seems to be missing from your chest."

  "You have the most exquisite sense of humor, my lord," Helena replied with a little laugh.

  There she was with that word exquisite again. His Helena did not use flowery words. Nor did her laugh resemble the floating, flirtatious sound that tickled his ear like a caress, sending a bolt of lust straight to his loins. His balls tightened. His cock twitched with interest.

  "I cannot approve of your attire," Nicholas persevered in a tight voice. "That gown is scandalous."

  "Nonsense, this gown is the height of fashion. Madame Rousseau designed it, and she has dressed everyone from Lady Jersey to Harriette Wilson," Helena answered serenely.

  At the mention of the notorious courtesan, Nicholas felt heat rise along his neck. What the bloody hell was Helena doing, modeling herself after a member of the Fashionable Impure?

  "What's good for the likes of Harriette Wilson is not fit for you," he growled.

  Helena said nothing, merely smiled and turned her back to him. She lifted her hair, the silken mass of it dripping through her fingers. "Don't be silly, Harteford. Help me with the necklace, will you please?"

  Nicholas stared at the sight proffered to him. All thoughts of further argument flew from his mind. The skin of her nape gleamed, so translucent and flawless that it reminded him of porcelain shipped from the Orient. His gaze roamed lower, narrowed as it took in how the dress clung to his wife's plush backside, emphasizing generous hips and a full, voluptuous ass, the kind a man could hold onto as he fucked a woman senseless ...