On These Silken Sheets Page 2

  Carolina heard the faint but clear click of the lock.

  Dear Lord, why had she decided to find a moment of privacy? That thought fled as she wondered if he would recognize her. She must look vastly different, all those awkward angles having given way to a fuller, more proportionate body.

  She didn’t, couldn’t, move as Bosworth approached. She merely watched in appreciation, with baited breath, as this taller, more muscular version of him prowled across the room, peeling his gloves off as he came. His black hair glinted in the dim light. His breeches fit him as if molded to his frame, and she could see the distinct outline of his male part.

  Would that part, too, have grown with age? she wondered, unconsciously licking her lips.

  Now he was inches from her. She could smell him. She remembered that scent, of sandalwood and other spices—the sort of spices that permeated one’s skin and lingered in one’s mind long after the source was gone.

  He extended one arm, resting his hand against the wall, close to her head. His other hand touched her cheek, one long finger running along her jaw.

  She knew she should be frightened. She knew she should protest and run away, and indeed, she was terrified. Because his hand felt too good on her skin.

  She stared at his sleeve, at the display of sartorial skill so close to her face.

  “You like to watch,” Bosworth stated, his voice low, gravelly, as if he had spent the last six years smoking cigars. And maybe he had. She knew nothing of him but that he’d been a friend of her father’s back then—a guest stopping at their country house for the night.

  She didn’t answer, couldn’t. But she dragged her eyes to his. She shivered as he trailed his finger down her neck, across the bare skin of her chest and finally dipped down into the ruffles of her dress, skimming the hollow between her breasts.

  Abruptly his hand left her.

  “I’d wager you’re dripping wet,” he murmured.

  As if his words were magic, she felt the hot rush between her legs, the familiar aching heaviness.

  In her single bed at night, it had always been him she had seen and imagined while her hands explored her body and brought her to ecstasy. In fact, the night six years ago that she had watched him between the downstairs maid’s plump white thighs, arcing into her again and again, was the first night Carolina had thought about her own body that way—the first night her fingers had experimented.

  His hand grasped her dress, lifting layers of cloth to bunch up between them. She opened her mouth to speak, to tell him to stop, but his bare hand was already above her stockings, on the naked flesh of her thigh, and moving upward.

  He cupped her in his palm, his thumb brushing over the slight protrusion where all the sensations seemed to clump. Then he slid one long finger through the slick folds and entered her.

  She moaned, her head turning toward his outstretched arm, even as her knees buckled.

  His hand felt so much better than hers ever had.

  “Molten velvet,” Bosworth rasped, his hot, open mouth meeting the tender flesh of her ear, nibbling, his tongue creating pinpoints of acute pleasure.

  He started to withdraw the hand between her legs and suddenly Carolina found her voice.

  “Wait, I’m almost there,” she begged, feeling the tight spiral of pleasure nearing its peak.

  He laughed against her.

  “I like a woman who knows what she wants,” he said, keeping his hand between her legs. His fingers stroked, working their magic until she finally exploded against him, shivering and bucking on his hand.

  Henry shifted, reaching down to hold her up beneath her derriere. He hiked one of her silken legs around his waist and finally freed himself from the constraints of his breeches. The woman in his hands was still shivering with her own climax and his cock pulsed in empathy. He wanted nothing more in the world than to bury himself in her hot, wet depths.

  His cock knew its way, unerringly finding the exquisitely yielding entrance. He thrust upward into her, reveling in the tightness.

  God, she was small—a hot, wet glove stretching to fit him. The friction felt incredible. He groaned against her neck and grasped her buttocks with both hands. He pulled her down, even as he made a powerful thrust upward.

  She cried out, stiffening against him in a way that had little to do with pleasure. For a moment, caught between the delicious feel of being buried to the hilt in her tight sheath and the shock of his discovery, he stilled.

  “Please,” she whispered, her breath ragged. He didn’t know whether she begged him to stop or to continue.

  He would never have guessed, never have imagined, that the stranger in his arms, who so passionately and willingly accepted his caresses in a library that belonged to neither of them, was a virgin.

  Had been a virgin.

  But that didn’t matter anymore. What was done was done, and his body yearned for its own completion.

  “It won’t hurt the next time,” he whispered, even as he retreated and then thrust again, following the instincts of his body. Letting go.

  She smelled like honeysuckle, like lush, verdant summer, and he lost himself in the feel of her clenched around him. Tight as he thrust in. Tight and clinging as he pulled back and then sunk in once more. His mouth open in a guttural cry against her neck, he released himself inside her, his mind completely empty of anything but the overwhelming pleasure of the moment.

  The storm passed. With a final shudder, Henry eased out of her body. He slowly released her leg and then took a half step back. She slumped against the wall, a look of shock on her face, and he laughed.

  She might well be shocked. She’d just given a girl’s most precious commodity to a stranger up against a wall.

  “Who are you?” he wondered aloud. “No, wait,” he said, when she parted her lips, “I don’t want to know.”

  No, he thought, taking another step back. He would keep this as he had intended, a momentary affair. He had no wish for a wife, especially one he had only vetted sexually.

  He looked down to button up the falls of his breeches, and even in the dim light, the reddish tint of her blood caught his eye. He extracted his handkerchief from its pocket and tidied himself up.

  She hadn’t moved. Still stood there, frozen.

  He sighed and lifted her skirts once more. Her hand fluttered down to protest and he laughed again at that futile gesture.

  There wasn’t much blood on her thighs but what was there, he wiped away gently, unable to resist a few soft caresses, enjoying her shivering response.

  “I recommend a trip to the retiring room to further clean yourself up,” Henry suggested, dropping her skirts and coming to his feet.

  The woman nodded but she still didn’t move.

  “I’ll leave first,” Henry said into the silence. “Wait a few and then you can follow.”

  The door closed behind him and Carolina finally shifted, her hand stealing down to the juncture of her thighs, pressing through the layers of cloth to the still pulsing mound. Inside, she was sore.

  Henry Bosworth had just…had just had relations with her. And dear Lord, he didn’t even know who she was!

  Chapter Two

  Henry stepped into the noise of the ballroom in a bit of a drunken stupor. Not that he’d had a drink, but he was fully sated and enjoying the post-coital languor. When he’d entered the library with Lady Islington, the assignation had been a bit of friendly flirtation—a momentary passion. He’d wanted a woman and that woman was willing.

  But the lady he’d had instead—just thinking of the feel of her thighs in his hands stiffened his cock.

  He almost turned around, thinking to stop her before she left the library, to have another go at her. But that was foolish. If he was caught with that erstwhile virgin he’d have to marry her. He’d done enough damage for one night.

  What lovely damage.

  The ballroom was cramped, crowded with people, many of whom he knew well. Since he’d inherited the title, most of them wanted t
o know him better.

  The goddamned title.

  As if reading the direction of his thoughts he heard a voice out of his past.

  “Bosworth!” Nobody called him Bosworth anymore. Society much preferred Stanton, Viscount Stanton. It had taken Henry four years to get used to thinking of himself—not his older brother, James—as Stanton. James had been the viscount for most of Henry’s life.

  And now Henry was.

  He swung around to meet the man who greeted him, recognizing him instantly. He hadn’t seen Lord Hargreaves in four years. Not since Henry had retreated to his country seat to put his brother’s affairs in order. Though Hargreaves was a good decade older, much of Henry’s misspent youth had been in his company. In fact, his misspent youth was in a great part due to Hargreaves’s influence.

  “I haven’t seen you in ages, boy!” Alistair Hargreaves appeared pleased to see him. The old satyr still looked strong and virile, despite his dissipation. His blond hair had started to turn gray, but only just. “But you’re not Bosworth anymore. Congratulations on your inheritance.”

  Henry knew why Alistair congratulated him, because it meant Henry had money. When Henry had followed Alistair around London in the past, he had ridden the man’s coattails. His own brother, James, had refused to finance his town life. Henry, himself, felt ambivalent about his brother’s death.

  “It’s fortuitous to see you. I’m stuck attending these events for the season.”

  Henry arched an eyebrow up in inquiry but his eyes drifted toward the hallway door. He wanted another glimpse of the woman he’d fucked. He wanted to see what she looked like under the brighter lights of the illuminated ballroom.

  “Did you ever meet my daughter, Carolina?”

  Carolina. The name conjured up a vague image of a young girl, small for her age. He’d thought she was much younger than the twelve her father insisted on. And then, a memory he’d forced out of his mind from sheer embarrassment came crashing back.

  Twenty-two and always randy, he’d been stopping with Alistair at the man’s country house on the way to a house party. He’d plowed a receptive maid in the library, on a large leather-topped desk. Just as he released himself into her, arching back, he’d opened his eyes and looked up.

  From the shadows of the carved wooden landing, the large, curious blue eyes of Alistair’s twelve-year-old daughter looked down at him. She’d watched the whole episode.

  Just like what had happened this evening. Eerily similar. A shiver of apprehension ran down Henry’s back.

  He nodded slowly.

  “Well, she’s eighteen now, so I had to bring her to London for her season. This is her first ball.”

  Henry heard the words, but he’d caught sight of a pale face under the archway. In the soft glow of the candlelight, she was even lovelier. He could also see just how young she was. Clearly not the experienced woman he’d first imagined.

  Across the room, her eyes met his and widened. She grew even paler, and Henry felt the blood leave his own face.

  Alistair followed his gaze.

  “I see you recognize her.” The baron’s words chilled Henry’s heart, confirming his worst suspicion. “She’s grown up quite well. But she looks ill.” An angry note entered Alistair’s voice. “I do hope she isn’t one of these frail girls. That won’t do for marrying her off.”

  “She looks lovely, Hargreaves,” Henry murmured, watching Carolina hesitantly approach them.

  Something in Henry’s voice must have alerted Alistair, because the baron glanced at him sharply.

  “Stay away from her, Stanton,” Alistair warned. “She’s my daughter and an innocent.”

  “But of course,” Henry agreed, laughing. And he thought once more of the feel of her wrapped around him, pulsing and wet.

  Carolina reached them, a fluttering butterfly, her eyes darting from him to her father and then back to him. She’d managed to freshen her appearance and he imagined that only he would see the slight creases he’d created in her skirt when he’d bunched the fabric tightly in his hand.

  “My dear, this is Lord Stanton.” Henry watched surprise flicker in her blue eyes. “You’ve met before. Of course, he was merely Bosworth then.”

  “It is a delight to renew our acquaintance, Miss Hargreaves,” Henry said, smiling and bowing over her hand.

  “A pleasure,” Carolina managed. “Father, I’m feeling a bit—”

  “I would love nothing more than the pleasure of this dance,” Henry cut her off, ignoring Alistair’s frown and Carolina’s slight shake of her head.

  He didn’t wait for an answer from either of them, just took her arm in his own and navigated her toward the dance floor.

  “You do like to watch,” he whispered, escorting her through the crowd.

  He felt, more than saw, her flush.

  “I didn’t.” Her protestation faltered as she took her place in the dance.

  He saved his conversation for when the steps brought them close together.

  “For the last twenty minutes, I’ve done nothing but think about you, about how it felt to thrust into you and feel you clench me tight.”

  They broke away again, and he had the benefit of seeing the effect his words had on her.

  “I want you again.”

  Chapter Three

  Carolina was grateful that her governess had forced her to repeat the dance steps incessantly. If the moves had not been ingrained in her body, she was certain she would have stumbled and ruined the dance.

  Bosworth’s words resonated through her body.

  “I want you again.”

  Hadn’t he said it wouldn’t hurt the next time? She wanted to know the pleasure. She shook her head slightly, trying to banish the thoughts. This was absolutely ridiculous. She’d already compromised herself completely and now she was thinking of continuing to act wantonly, disregarding all society’s mores.

  Who would want to marry her now?

  That thought fled as quickly as it had come for she didn’t really care. She knew that no matter what she wanted, she was only in town to be shown off, that her father would make the negotiations, pick a husband without any consultation.

  And here, dancing with her, was the man who had captured her imagination all those years ago, who had actually possessed her just minutes ago.

  She wanted him, too.

  Six years ago, after he’d spotted her watching, he’d slid off the maid and dismissed the woman with a sensual pat on the rump. Carolina had looked curiously at the then much smaller manhood he hid away in his breeches. The mystery of the biology had fascinated her.

  But then he’d hooked his finger and beckoned for her to come down and she had. There in the library, after the most fascinating visual lesson she’d ever had, in a room that smelled of sex, she got to know and fall in love with Henry Bosworth.

  Stanton, she reminded herself firmly. She must call him Stanton now.

  The dance ended.

  He took her arm in his and even that slight contact made her dizzy.

  “Meet me…”

  He didn’t finish his sentence. Her father had come forward to join them, his arm extended to take Carolina away.

  “She looks a bit overwrought for her first night,” Alistair said firmly. “But later I’ll be at that club we used to frequent, if you’re of the mind for it.”

  That club. More of a house of sin, where every hour of the night was an exercise in excess. Not a bad way to spend an evening, or a thousand evenings as Henry had. As Henry and Alistair had together.

  He’d shared more women with the man than he could count. Now he’d had the man’s daughter, too.

  The baron had warned him off a good half hour too late. Alistair should have hung a sign around the girl’s neck proclaiming her identity.

  Or maybe even that wouldn’t have stopped Henry from stalking her across the room and ascertaining if indeed she was as aroused by watching as he’d guessed.

  He studied their figures disappearing int
o the crowd in the direction of the entryway. Carolina’s skirt swayed with each step, clinging ever so subtly now to the left side of her derriere and now to the right. Henry was as hard as a rock.

  He thought briefly about finding Lady Islington and finishing off where they had started. No. The club would do well enough.

  Chapter Four

  An hour later, Henry stepped into the dimly lit warren of rooms that made up Harridan House. The name itself was a joke, enticing a man to leave his harridan of a wife at home to find comfort in other arms.

  It was upscale in its clientele but low in its tastes. Anything could be found here for a price and everything was.

  He stopped at the doorway of one red silk-lined room and watched the naked writhing figures within.

  The man and the woman, both vaguely familiar, curved around each other on the floor. Just like most of the visitors to this house, they forwent the optional masks, not caring who watched, and the more the merrier.

  His own words echoed in his head. You like to watch. He wanted Carolina. But she was home, safe in her bed, in her father’s house.

  Her father. Alistair.

  Henry backed out of the room and prowled through the club now with a purpose. His senses overloaded with naked bodies, musky scents and primal moans, he scanned first one room and then the next, brushing away hands and sexual advances.

  Then Henry saw him, Alistair, sunk into a deep chair, his breeches around his ankles, a plump, naked woman, her white skin golden in the candlelight, straddling him, rocking back and forth.

  Alistair’s hands grasped her hips, guiding her movements. His intermittent smacks resounded off her generous flesh.

  Henry came close, ran a hand down the woman’s shoulder, gaining both her attention and Alistair’s. He reached around to cup one breast, which overflowed even his large hands.

  “I’m glad to see you join us,” Alistair gasped, his movements slower now. “I just got here myself. A long night ahead.” The woman giggled, playfully reaching back to grasp at the front of Henry’s breeches.