His Darling

Author's Note: Although this story can be read on its own, it directly follows "An Unconventional Arrangement."

Somerset, 1882

She should have known better than to expect a cottage. Sutcliffe Park, which Henry called his "little house in the country," was vast. Her steps echoed down the long hallways lined with portraits of aristocrats in elaborate wigs and marble-top tables festooned with fresh flowers. The floors shone with a fresh coat of beeswax.

"Who are these ladies, Henry?" She pointed to a huge oil painting of two young ladies gazing earnestly into middle distance. She guessed it to be at least a century old.

"Damned if I know," he answered. "They came with the property."

"This house, Henry—" Her voice trailed off as she caught a glimpse of the dining room. The chandelier glittered in the afternoon light.

"Do you like it?"

She laughed again. "It is magnificent, and I've scarcely seen a quarter of it."

"You'll see the whole damned place soon enough." He squeezed her arm. "I'll fuck you in every room."

Ada felt the blush wash over her cheeks. Then she gasped as Henry pressed her gently against his growing erection.

"Shall we start with the dining room?" he whispered before pressing a kiss against her neck. His hands wandered up and cupped her breasts; not even the thick wool of her traveling dress could keep her nipples from tightening under his touch.

"Henry, I have to get dressed!" she scolded, batting his hands away. But her breath had quickened, and she knew by his smirk that he had noticed. "You said the guests are due in a few hours."

"Yes, in a few hours," he said, reaching for her again.

Ada eluded him and turned on her heel. "I don't even know where my room is, but I'm going to find it and lock the door!" She laughed over her shoulder at him. Her heels clacked across the dining room floor as she scurried. The china rattled faintly in the cabinets as she passed.

Henry's arms locked around her waist; she squealed as she tried hopelessly to pry his hands loose. "Your room," he said in her ear, "is my room." His hands slid up the front of her dress and gripped her breasts again. Her head fell back against his chest. She moaned despite herself as his thumbs raked firmly across her nipples. "It's also the first room I'll fuck you in."

****

The servants had prepared the ballroom well in advance of Henry's arrival. The floor gleamed; the polished mirrors multiplied the light of the freshly dusted chandeliers. The supper room was redolent with ham, coffee, biscuits, and whatever else had struck Henry's fancy. Ada smoothed her hair with a white-gloved hand and looked for Henry. She was in dire need of champagne. There were too many guests to greet, too many ladies to find dance partners for, too many men to avoid.

The men were the worst. They looked at her as if she were one of the candied chestnuts on Henry's dessert table. Was this the way they looked at all gentlemen's mistresses, or were Henry Aldridge's mistresses an object of peculiar fascination? She ignored their lascivious gazes and greeted their wives perhaps more enthusiastically than was necessary.

And the room was stifling. The evening was unseasonably warm, and the press of people had made the ballroom positively balmy. Ada fanned herself with unladylike vigor.

A touch at her elbow made her jump. Lord, she really did need some champagne.

"Henry," she sighed as she turned to him.

Only it wasn't Henry.

Sir Anthony Weston lifted her gloved hand to his lips; she nearly pulled it away as she looked around, desperately hoping no guests had noticed. She hadn't seen Sir Anthony since the night he and Julian Hansard had brought her to climax for Henry's amusement. The memory seemed at once distant and shockingly vivid. And now he was standing before her and looking undeniably handsome—not so handsome as Henry, of course, but youthful and charming. Before that fateful night, she would have been happy to see a familiar face at the party; now, however, she only felt faintly embarrassed.

"Ada, you look beautiful."

"Sir Anthony, I—" she gingerly tugged her hand away. "Sir Anthony, how kind of you to come this evening." She cleared her throat. "Is Miss Wharburton with you?"

His lips quirked at the mention of his fiancée. "Yes, yes, she is indeed here somewhere."

Relief washed over her; with his American heiress in tow, Sir Anthony would have to keep himself in check. She hoped.

"Oh, I must meet her," she said, fanning herself almost violently. "How did I miss her earlier?"

"Are you quite all right, Ada?" He stepped closer.

"Perfectly," she said, looking once more for Henry. "It's just hot as blazes in here!"

Sir Anthony laughed aloud. "Is it? May I walk you out to the garden?"

She hoped no one had heard him. He was being—what was the word?—too familiar. Anyone would guess that he had been intimate with her or perhaps hoped to be before the evening was done.

Her smile was tight. "Sir Anthony, one cannot leave when one is playing hostess."

"Perhaps when the hosts are Henry Aldridge and his mistress, one need not follow the usual rules."

She blinked at him.

"I only mean," he said, his gaze trained on her mouth, "that any ball thrown by Aldridge is a horse of another color, is it not?"

She cocked her head at him. "You are positively speaking in riddles, Sir Anthony. Would you be so kind as to dance with—oh, I don't know her name, actually—this tall woman standing under the Corregio?" She nodded subtly toward a willowy, nervous-looking brunette. "She hasn't danced since the quadrille."

"Speaking in riddles, am I?" he said, moving closer still. "Shall I speak plainly then?"

"I don't know. What does Miss Wharburton prefer?" She snapped her fan shut.

His nostrils flared. "Miss Wharburton very nearly did not come this evening. She has never attended a ball hosted by"—he took a deep breath—"such colorful figures."

Ada felt her blood pressure rise and smiled deliriously at the first guest who made eye contact with her. She needed to flee Weston; she'd find the ancient Marquis of Barchester and spend the rest of the night shouting into his ear trumpet if she had to. "You find us disreputable, Sir Anthony. It would be most ungracious of me to keep you here any longer. Good evening."

"Ada, please, I—"

"Weston!"

Ada nearly jumped out of her skin as Henry's voice rumbled behind her.

She watched wide-eyed as he clapped Sir Anthony on the back and laughed. "I didn't think you were coming, you muck-snipe!"

"Beautiful property, Aldridge."

Ada smiled woodenly. Weston spoke breezily—as if he had not just insulted her not a moment before.

"Yes," said Henry, smiling, "Ada thinks so, too, and she has better taste than I." He scanned the room and then turned again to Sir Anthony. "Dance the next one with Fairleigh's daughter, will you? Can't let her stand by all evening."

Anthony took a deep breath and looked at Ada. "Of course."

"There's a chap."

She watched Sir Anthony make his way across the ballroom to Lydia Fairleigh. She dearly hoped Henry had plenty of other wallflowers for Anthony to rescue. She didn't want even another word of conversation with him or his fiancée.

Henry's lips were nearly at her ear. "Are you well, darling?"

"Yes," she replied, closing her eyes, "I'm just so warm."

"It's bloody hot tonight," he said. "I'll tell Wilkins."

With that, Henry was gone again. Ada sat back down with a sigh and fanned herself. A few latecomers approached her with courtesies and compliments; the effort of receiving them was strangely exhausting. Anthony's rudeness had left her sullen and enervated. She and Henry were apparently disgraceful characters, and their ball, for all its elegance, was not a wholly respectable event.

Respectable or not, it was well-attended. The ballroom was almost uncomfortably full, and that didn't account for the guests milling about in the supper rooms. When Henry Aldridge hosted a party, it was a riotous success. The question was whether people came because he was an excellent host or because they liked the sordidness of attending a ball thrown by the likes of Henry Aldridge.

The musicians stopped abruptly. Ada rose without thinking and watched as footmen directed guests to stand clear of the ballroom windows. Then the smash of glass breaking echoed off the walls. Wilkins and two footmen had used chairs to break the windowpanes within their reach.

Her eyes darted around the room. No one seemed particularly alarmed. The musicians launched into a waltz.

Henry rejoined her, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. "It ought to feel better in here shortly, darling."

She gaped at him. "Henry, all those windows!"

"You said you were warm."

Ada stared. She supposed their guests had seen such things before, but she still wondered how much it would cost to replace the glass.

Henry was looking intently at her; she colored as his gaze raked down to her décolletage. "My God, you're the most beautiful woman here." He studied her face again. "In all of fucking England."

She laughed aloud. "You're so easily distracted."

"Why don't you distract me in the library?"

"Henry!"

"I haven't fucked you in there yet." He fingered the heavy sapphires around her neck.

"Henry, it's too hot." She smacked him on the shoulder with her fan. "And if you haven't noticed, we're rather busy with this hosting business."

"What I think you're saying is that you want me to carry you into the library."

She laughed into her glove, her shoulders shaking.

"Oh, you find that funny, do you?" But he was smiling, too. "Will you find it funny when I sling you over my shoulder and take you out of here?" He pressed a hand to the small of her back as he whispered hotly into her ear. "I want to fuck you against the door of the library so that people passing in the hallway can hear you cry out."

Ada stilled as his words hung in the air like a curl of smoke.

"You like that?" His hand glided indecently down her back. "You want to take me in your mouth until your lips are raw?"

"Henry, you mustn't," she whispered, her blush deepening.

"Mustn't what?" His hand slid around to rest on her thigh.

"Don't talk like that." She slapped his hand away with her fan.

"No?" He kissed her neck just below her ear. "Because it makes you wet?"

Ada looked around. A few matrons—she had quite forgotten their names—were intently watching Henry's hand move wickedly up and down her thigh.

"You're going to come for me tonight, Ada." His breath ruffled a stray tendril of hair at her neck.

She closed her eyes, her cheeks burning with shocked arousal.

"Sir!"

Ada snapped to attention. Henry's butler was standing over them with his characteristically somber expression.

"What now, Darby?" Henry groaned.

Ada looked around as Darby consulted discreetly with Henry. A few young ladies were looking at her over their fans, clearly appraising her dress. She would have been glad to chat with them about dresses—about anything, really—but the truth was that few guests had made much effort to speak with her beyond the usual greetings and compliments. Perhaps they assumed she'd be gone from Henry's house and life before the end of the season. And perhaps they were right.

"Bloody Christ, are you sure?" said Henry, loudly enough to raise a few eyebrows. Darby nodded and stepped sheepishly away.

"What is it, Henry?"

"The fucking kitchen was on fire." He patted her back softly as she gaped at him. "I suspect it's more smoke than anything." He sighed. "Something always goes wrong at these damned things." He kissed her cheek. "I'll be back."

As she watched him dash out of the ballroom, Ada turned her attention to the couples still happily twirling around the ballroom. She loved dancing. Hosting, on the other hand, was a tiresome business. She longed to attend somebody else's ball, to drink their champagne and spend the evening dancing and strolling about on Henry's arm.

She stood. Her restlessness had got the better of her; it was time for a change of scenery—or, at the very least, a brief trip to the dessert tables. If it meant crossing the ballroom unaccompanied, then that was what she would do. Surely Henry's guests had witnessed more shocking things than a lady traversing a ballroom by herself. And she doubted she counted as a lady anyway.

As she plotted her steps across the room, Sir Anthony Weston appeared again before her.

"Could I persuade you to let me escort you, Ada?" He held his arm out to her.

"Oh, I—" she faltered. Anthony's persistence was baffling.

"Henry asked me to take you to the garden."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Just for a moment," he said quickly. "He said you were warm." He grasped her hand and placed it around his arm. "Would you do me the honor?"

Ada moved mechanically as she pondered his words. Of course Henry had asked Anthony to escort her. He didn't know how Anthony had spoken to her before. And considering that he had once asked Anthony to caress her for his amusement, it didn't strain credulity to think that Henry might ask him to escort her for some fresh air.

Guests nodded and smiled as they passed. If people wondered why she was on Sir Anthony's Weston's arm, they certainly didn't show it. She supposed Anthony's presence—his title, at least—lent more legitimacy to the evening's proceedings.

She breathed deeply as they stepped into the cool evening air. "Oh, thank God!" she sighed.

Anthony laughed. "I knew you would appreciate a turn outside."

Ada looked back at the house. She could hear distant laughter and the faint strains of a polka. When she turned back, his gaze was trained squarely on her face.

"Sir Anthony," she said, coloring, "it's kind of you to look after me."

"It is my pleasure entirely," he said softly. Too softly. "And will you call me Tony?"

"Oh, Sir Anthony, I must leave that to Miss Wharburton."

His smile stiffened slightly. "We are friends, are we not?"

Ada looked again in the direction of the house. "Are we?"

His grip on her arm tightened. "We are certainly...familiar," he said, pulling her firmly closer.

"Sir Anthony, I—"

"Ada, you have screamed your pleasure into my mouth."

"Don't."

It was too late. Anthony was staring at her mouth as he spoke; his hands moved deftly to her waist. Ada looked up at him, her heart pounding.

"I've covered your beautiful breasts with kisses," he went on.

"Anthony!" She pried his hands from her waist and gasped as they moved to cup her bottom. "Stop this."

"I've felt your nipples grow hard against my tongue."

Ada burned with shame as she felt her body respond to his words. She closed her eyes and felt him lean in closer.

"Let me touch you," he whispered.

She watched in shock as his fingers brushed across her décolletage. Her breasts rose and fell against the tight bodice of her dress as she caught her breath.

"You want me to touch you."

Ada shook her head and looked again at the house. Anthony gripped her chin and turned her to face him.

"Ada."

She looked at him. It would be so easy to capitulate. She doubted he even wanted all that much beyond a kiss and perhaps a brief touch of the erection that was pressing hard against her leg. It might at least put a stop to Anthony's dogged pursuit of her.

But before she could answer, Anthony's lips were on hers. She opened her mouth to protest and immediately felt his tongue enter. She whimpered as she tried to wriggle away from him, and he moaned appreciatively. He couldn't possibly think she was kissing him back! She slapped at his chest with a gloved hand. His fingers dug into her arms; she feared she'd find bruises the next morning.

Anthony was behaving abominably, and the truth—the really terrible truth—was that the feel of his tongue against hers was sending tickles of pleasure down her spine. She dimly remembered something her mother had once said—something about women's powerlessness to resist the pleasure men offered. "God must have known," she had said, "that it was the only way we would put up with them." And now, as Anthony angled his head to kiss her more deeply, she felt her nipples tighten beneath her bodice. She hated herself a little for it.

Anthony released her mouth at last. "Since that night," he said, his breath ragged, "I've thought of nothing else."

"You mustn't say another word, Sir Anthony." She hoped she sounded more self-possessed than she felt.

He smiled. "Very well." He stroked the soft swell of her breasts above the low, lacy neckline of her dress. "No more talking then."

Ada closed her eyes and exhaled. All she had to do was turn and scamper back to the house. It didn't matter that Anthony's fingers were making her breasts flush with arousal. It didn't matter that her breathing had quickened. It didn't matter that his hands were growing more demanding by the moment. To her mortification, she moaned as he reached into the neckline of her dress and found her oversensitive nipples. Why had she worn such a low-cut dress? Her breasts had looked ready to spill over the bodice all evening; it was all the invitation Anthony needed. His thumbs raked back and forth over the hard tips; she squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to look at him.

Surely she could will her feet to walk away from him. This life hadn't turned her such a wanton that she couldn't resist a handsome man's hands on her body. Another gasping moan escaped her as Anthony pinched her nipples lightly. His lips were on her neck, kissing and licking the overheated skin. He was making her pussy ache, and she loathed him for it.

"You're wet, aren't you, Ada?"

She looked away, her shame coloring her cheeks.

He took her by the chin again and watched her as he pressed his other hand firmly between her legs.

"Oh, God," she sighed, her eyes growing misty. The pressure was too much and too little at once; her pussy needed to be fucked, but she wanted only one man to fuck her. Yet Anthony's hand promised at least a reprieve from the sweet torture. She moved her hips subtly to increase the pressure. The noises seemed to come involuntarily from her—a sharp gasp here, a breathy moan there.

"I can make you come this way," he said through gritted teeth. "You want that, don't you?"

She needed him to stop talking; the more he talked, the less this encounter seemed like a waking nightmare she could shake off later. She pulled him toward her to kiss him and moaned into his mouth as her orgasm got closer. His tongue pushed hard into her mouth and simulated what his cock was clearly desperate to do. She felt him hike up her skirts and whimpered as his fingers immediately found her wet pussy through her linen split-drawers.

"So wet for me," he murmured against her lips.

She thought of Henry. She thought of Miss Wharburton, whom she had not even met but still pitied. She was disgusting for letting Anthony finger her. She was disgusting for kissing him to quiet her own lustful noises.

He gripped her more firmly by the ass and fingered her faster. She threw her head back and moaned, hating the pleasure and hating her body for betraying her. Anthony's lips were on her chest, her neck, her chin; his kisses were aimless and relentless.

"Let me taste you," he said as he leaned in to lick her throat.

"No," she said, but it sounded like a moan. She was getting close.

"No? You don't want to come on my tongue?" he taunted between kisses. "But I can make you feel so good, darling."

Her eyes snapped open. Darling. That was what Henry called her.

She felt suddenly far too sensitive; the pressure of Anthony's fingers was too intense to be pleasurable. Even the touch of his lips felt oppressive.