Free Wanton Widows: Three Short Regency Romps by Isabella Hargreaves Page B

the world-weary guise that he presented to the world. “Have you changed
your mind and wish to return to the humdrum of respectability?” He sketched a
deep bow of mock homage. “Let me escort you to your step-son. I’m sure he’s
anxious for the return of his mama.”
    She could have stamped her foot with
frustration but instead Caroline slapped his face. It was a ringing crack in
the night air, loud to her ears even though the ballroom’s hum of noise still
billowed onto the balcony.
    He looked at her with his hooded eyes. She
knew not what he thought. She didn’t care. She had his attention now. She
stretched her arms out, grabbed his lapels and pulled him towards her. She
kissed him ravenously. Nothing was going to stop her having him. His stiff lips
gradually became pliant and responsive.
    “We can’t stay here.” He muttered against her
lips. “We risk discovery.” He kissed her again. “We must leave.”
    She moaned in response. She wanted him right
here and now.
    He broke their kiss, a look of frustration on
his face. “Someone must be sensible … if it isn’t you, it must be me.”
    He tested the door nearby. Unlocked. He
steered her through into the darkened room. In a fog of desire she followed
him. He led them to the rear of the house through the door that opened to the
servants’ area, but instead of heading downwards, he pulled her onwards. At the
foot of the bare, rear stairs leading to the top floor, he dropped her hand and
turned to her. “Now is the time to go back to your family and resume your
blameless life. Do you want to do that?”
    She didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
    He turned to retrace their steps.
    Caroline seized his hand. The staircase to the
top floor loomed above her, narrow and steep, but she knew that at its giddy
height was an empty nursery and beds aplenty. She hitched her dress in her left
hand and ploughed forward, attacking the stairway with an energy driven by her
lust.
    Sir Nicholas didn’t follow behind her like a
schoolboy being led to his first taste of pleasure by an older woman. He surged
past her on the stairs, drawing her along in his wake. When she faltered with
heaving chest and gasping breath, he stopped to put his arm around her waist
and assist her up the last flight of stairs.
    At the top he halted. So did she – to drag
huge desperate breaths into her lungs. But not for long. Still puffing she
urged him towards the first door. It gave way as she turned the handle, into a
dark room lit only by the moonlight through its open curtains.
    That light revealed a narrow bed. She would
have hurried towards it but he halted her momentum. “I think you’re forgetting
something, Lady Caroline.”
    He pulled the door closed and turned her
against it, crowding her with his body. His lips sought hers in an open mouthed
kiss. Surprised, her lips pliant, his tongue took the advantage to meet hers,
to parry and lick. Desire ignited in her womb.
    She pulled him closer by his coat collar. The
warm, fresh scent of him, the feel of his newly-shaved face rasping her soft
skin, had her shivering. The sound of their panting breaths, the suck of their
lips, were loud in the still, silent air of the room. Her hands plunged beneath
his coat, only to encounter his waistcoat blocking her from reaching his skin.
His muscles rippled under her hands while he smoothed and kneaded her buttocks,
bringing her ever closer to his hard arousal until it rested firm against her
belly.
    He broke their kiss. “Now my lady.” His
fingers on her thighs slid the silk of her dress upwards. The cool night air of
the room whispered around her ankles, calves, thighs. Higher and higher the
gossamer material rose. His hands held it bunched around her buttocks, then
abandoned it for her skin, sliding over her bottom, trekking towards her fanny
instead. He found it unerringly. He was a master of his art. She moaned in
appreciation. He returned to kissing her while his hands achieved their magic.
    Her