Pleasurable Pursuits

I could never resist a good romance novel.

This is a multi-chaptered pursuit. A pleasurable one, you might say.

~

July 1830

London

Miss Emilia Townsend did not break the rules. Not because she did not think they should be broken, but rather, she found herself content to fade into the background, to avoid confrontation, to not draw attention to oneself.

She watched as her dearest friend, a woman opposite from her in almost all ways, tipped back a glass of champagne and danced along to a merry fiddle, the center of attention without even trying. Emilia supposed Lady Charlotte had that luxury, being the sister of the most powerful man in the realm.

"Come, Emilia!" Charlotte said now, her blue eyes shining with mischief. "Dance!"

"Ah...no thank you," Emilia murmured, thinking of guzzling down her own glass for some liquid courage.

"Who is not dancing at my soirée?" a sing-song voice demanded.

Emilia couldn't help but smile as Charlotte squealed, reaching for the newcomer swathed in a silken, toga-style dress that left shockingly little to the imagination. Though, she was in the same boat, wasn't she? She toyed with the neckline of her one-shouldered emerald drape dress, her other arm bare save for a gold-colored leaflet wrapped just above her elbow. Maybe this hadn't been a good idea.

"Miss Townsend, yes?" the melodious voice caught her attention again.

Emilia turned to look at Lucinda Lovegrove, England's most sought-after soprano. The woman was beautiful, with long, flowing red hair, glassy green eyes, and pale skin without a blemish in sight. "Yes. A fantastic party, Miss Lovegrove. Truly, you've outdone yourself."

The woman inclined her head and grinned. "Many thanks, love. Any friend of Char's is a friend of mine. And you'd best call me Lucy. More champagne?"

"Oh no, I - "

And suddenly Emilia found herself holding two glasses of champagne. Christ. As Charlotte and Lucy carried on, conversation animated, Emilia downed a mouthful of the effervescent wine. Oh, but that was really quite good. She shrugged and downed the other glass, and that nervous, panicky feeling that overtook her in crowds left her like evaporated dew as she set the glasses down on a nearby table.

In truth, they weren't supposed to be there, not at the townhome of an opera singer who found herself in the scandal sheets nearly every week. Emilia absent-mindedly traced the edge of her gold domino mask as she took in the revelry. Almost every inch of the marble floor was haphazardly covered in lavish, brightly colored rugs. Silken curtains fluttered in a gentle breeze that came through the open French windows, but the room was warm and heady with the crush of bodies.

In one corner, men played cards, taking breaks to shove powder up their noses and down brandy. In another, a couple locked in a sordid embrace completely ignored their audience of giggling women and whistling men. The entire thing was sumptuous, sinful, and all those other s-words that ladies like Emilia and Charlotte were supposed to pretend didn't exist. Emilia hiccupped and leaned against the wall that boasted papered images of cherubs and satyrs. Her head swirled with the jubilation of it all, or maybe that was the champagne. Emilia had never done something like this, but Charlotte, wonderful, mischievous Charlotte who eschewed what society dictated and expected of her, had made this happen, securing them an invite to the most exclusive masquerade of the Season.

It was a good way, she supposed, to say goodbye to London before being setting off to the north to attend to her Aunt Henrietta in Bath, a fate just slightly better than becoming a permanent spinster chaperone to her younger sister at seven-and-twenty.

Tingling on the nape of her neck cut through her reverie. The movement almost not her own, Emilia turned and scanned the room until she locked eyes with a man, maskless. How nice it must be to openly enjoy such revelry and not have the beau monde paint you as some type of ungodly leper, she thought dryly.

The man's eyes, some odd shade of silver or gray, moved over her body until meeting hers unabashedly, and she felt her face grow hot. Dressed in the Grecian theme, the gauzy costume draped artfully over her generous bust and hips, more revealing than anything she'd ever worn before. Her reddish-brown hair, normally tied up neatly, streamed over her shoulders in a straight fall down her back and was decorated with laurels.

She frowned as he continued to stare. Does he recognize me? Emilia touched her mask again, but it was still in place. It took her only another few moments to recognize him - the Earl of Averleigh, a friend of Charlotte's brother. She glanced away from his frankly unsettlingly direct gaze and caught sight of the companions he stood in a small semi-circle with. A swarthy man with close-cropped hair she didn't recognize, and...oh, Christ. Claremont.

"Charlotte. Charlotte," Emilia said, her voice urgent, breaking her friend's conversation with their generous hostess.

"What is it, Em?"

"Your brother."

Charlotte froze. "Drat. I should have known that dunderhead would be here."

Lucy followed their gaze to the duke himself, her pink tongue running over her full bottom lip. She tossed her hair back and shamelessly tugged her neckline a bit lower. "Never fear, my dears. I will play the great distractor. Away with you both, before we all get into trouble." She sashayed over to the trio of men, greeting them gaily.

"I want to be her," Charlotte sighed, watching her retreating form.

"Char, come on!"

"Oh, right!"

They traipsed through the crowd, dodging grabby hands and leering men. Emilia didn't know if it was the champagne, but she laughed delightedly, breathless, and her heart ached a little at the notion Charlotte would not be three doors over for much longer. They caught their breath in a mostly-empty hallway save for a couple wound so tightly around one another they could barely be told apart. Emilia placed a hand on her midsection and another on the wall, unable to quell her nervous giggles.

"Quick, we must split up. We're always together; he'll know it's us immediately, even with the masks," Charlotte said.

"Wait, what? No, do not leave..."

...and, Lady Charlotte was gone, her blue costume fluttering around the corner.

The couple next to her continued to embrace, and Emilia made a face before reaching for the double-oak doors in front of her, flinging them open. A small library. She took a breath, shutting the doors and leaning against them. The sounds of the party became muted.

Moonlight spilled through the French windows at the back, set behind a large mahogany desk and a straight-backed chair. Her slippered feet padded over the plush carpeting as she walked along the tall shelf of books, squinting to read the titles. She came to a stop at Foraging Plants of China, lifted the heavy tome, and sat at the desk, opening to a page at random. Botany had interested Emilia for as long as she'd been able to toddle around her parents' garden. She marveled over the healing qualities of herbs, their ability to season a dish, and the fact that a plant so small and unassuming could literally kill a man if he underestimated it. Her eyes scanned the page.

Stellaria media (known as chickweed). An annual and perennial flowering plant originally native to Eurasia and naturalized -

"Interesting place to set up shop during a party."

The yelp she let out was embarrassing as she shot up from her seat, a bit dizzy, but Emilia was too affronted to care. How had she not heard the doors open?

Well, now they were closed, and a giant of a man leaned against them, blocking her escape. The Earl of Averleigh looked at her, one pitch black brow raised high. "I must know why that," he gestured to the open book with his drink, "interests you more than what is going on outside." His voice was so deep it seemed to rumble in his chest.

She frowned. Her mother would expire on the spot to find her in a room alone with Averleigh, a man known for taking his pleasure with widows and actresses. Averleigh's eyes had skated over her in ballrooms more than once, so Emilia wondered if her, ahem, costume led to his newfound interest...were men really so predictable?

"Miss..."

She forced herself to hold his gaze and ignored his probe for her name. "If you must know, it's Foraging Plants of China." Why was she so flushed?

"Enthralling." He crossed the room in three long strides until only the desk separated them. He set his amber-filled tumbler down. He placed his palms on the wood and leaned closer.

Emilia noticed, much to her chagrin, that his hair was the color of obsidian and curled slightly at the ends, and her fingers twitched gently at her sides, aching to run through the silky tresses. He was several heads taller than her, and his wide shoulders looked strong and thick with muscle. The only imperfection on him was his nose, crooked at the bridge. She wondered if it he had inherited it, or earned it, possibly by being punched in the face, which she could see happening.

"It is," she said, and swallowed. "I didn't even hear you come in."

Averleigh hadn't dressed up, but his waistcoat was open, his shirtsleeves rolled up. His fitted black breeches fit his thighs snugly, and for just a moment, Emilia imagined sitting on his lap, arms twined about his neck, breaths mingling.

"So I noticed." He gave her a slow smile, teeth gleaming in the darkness. His eyes roved lazily over her, pausing on her low neckline, at the way her breasts threatened to spill out.

Why in the known world had she let Charlotte talk her into this costume again?

This audacious man, who had never glanced twice at her during any of her three unsuccessful seasons, was now invading her space and effectively trapping her.

Averleigh reached out, and Emilia froze, but all he did was ghost his fingers over a laurel leaf in her hair. "Who are you supposed to be?"

Her throat was bone dry. She was sure her face was bright red. "P-Persephone. The Goddess of Spring."

The corner of his sinfully full mouth turned up as he regarded her. "I suppose that makes me Hades, then."

Like a lion stalking its prey, he skirted the desk, and suddenly he'd backed her against the French window, blessedly cool on the heated skin of her exposed back. Averleigh loomed over her, and it was clear that her traitorous body would let him do anything he wished to her in that moment.

"You haven't told me your name," he murmured, touching the dimple in her cheek.

He smelled like eucalyptus and sandalwood, and faintly, cigar smoke. "And you haven't told me yours," Emilia shot back, lifting her chin. Of course, she knew it already. Everyone did. Garrett St. James.

He leaned back, a bit surprised at her sudden boldness. "Garrett."

"Garrett," Emilia repeated, tasting his Christian name on her tongue.

The earl's eyes darkened, and his hand came up to cradle her cheek, warm and slightly calloused. "Forgive me, goddess, but my current thoughts are quite impious," he said.

Perhaps it was the champagne. Perhaps it was him. Perhaps she was about to be confined to Bath with her aunt for the rest of her life, and she wanted something just for her. "Show me."

With a groan that sounded low in his throat, Averleigh leaned down, cupped her face in his hands and claimed her mouth as if it had always been his. Emilia's head felt pleasantly fuzzy as she leaned into him, fisting the rich fabric of his shirt in her hands. His chest was firm beneath her touch, a contrast to the softness of his mouth. He teased her lips open with his tongue, and Emilia immediately received him, stroking it with her own. She stood on her tiptoes to press closer to him because still, it somehow wasn't enough. Christ, but he can kiss.

She'd been kissed before. She'd been touched before. Those stolen moments had been nice, new, and exciting, but this man before her lit her body on fire. When his hands left her face to slide down, down, over the fabric of her bodice, her hips, and moved to grab her bum, she let him, sighing. He pulled away from her to catch his breath, and her cheeks and chin stung from the dark stubble on his sharp jaw, but Emilia barely noticed.

Averleigh shamelessly hefted her bottom in his big hands. "Damn, but you've a great arse."

Certainly not the politest of compliments, but she glowed under his praise nonetheless, as she looked up at him through her lashes. What are you doing? Stop, Emilia Townsend! Stop immediately! her conscience sounded. She ignored it.

She could do nothing but close her eyes and tilt her head back as the Earl of Averleigh lowered his lips to her throat, kissing and nipping in the most delightful way. "You're so soft," he said against her. "Like a flower petal."

"You have a way with words, don't you, my lord?" she asked breathlessly, eyes half lidded as she enjoyed his attentions, gooseflesh erupting on her arms.

"And much more," he said, and she didn't have a chance to call him out on his arrogance because he was lifting her by her great arse as if she weighed nothing.

"Oh!"

He sat her on the desk and shoved the chair to the side, leaving her legs dangling over the opening. Here, they were more level, and she took time to take in the angles of his face, his high, aristocratic cheekbones, the freckle by the corner of his eye, his dark slashing brows. His skin had seen some sun, tanned and flawless.

"You're really quite handsome, aren't you?" Emilia whispered, and her eyes widened with horror when she realized she spoke aloud.

But he looked taken aback, almost sheepish. "I - er, that is...thank you."

They were silent another moment as they regarded each other. She contemplated his response, and then his mouth found hers again and all thoughts flew from her head. Garrett swallowed her sounds of pleasure as he kneaded the small of her back with his palms. Unthinking, she hooked a leg around his hip, bare skin exposed as the flimsy material of her costume slid up to the top of her thigh. His hand replaced the fabric, tracing a short path from her ankle to her knee, and oh god, he was so close to that part of her, closer than any man had ever been.

Could she really do it? Could she ruin herself?

His fingers teased and danced over the skin of her inner thigh as he kissed her, and the tingles erupting across her hips took over the thoughts in her head.

"Do you want me to touch you, goddess? Do you want me to stroke and tease and taste you?"

Oh, dear god, yes.

He must have read her mind, because suddenly his palm and fingers covered the heat and slickness of her, touching her most intimate place. "Please," she gasped.

Averleigh angled his head so his lips were at her ear. "So wet for me, aren't you? Look at how swollen your little pearl is." He punctuated his scandalous words by teasing that sensitive bud with the pad of his thumb.

Her body was taut as a bowstring, her breasts heaving with the breaths he wrung from her. "My lord!"

"Shush, beauty. I want to take my time with you."

He was maddening, dipping his head to press his stubbled cheek on the upper swell of her breasts, the contrast on her soft skin delicious. With his free hand, the earl tugged down her bodice until she was naked from the waist up, and he pushed her down until she lay flat upon the desk. He bent over her and sucked one hard nipple in his warm, wet mouth the same time he slid his index finger inside of her.

Emilia tensed as she felt the sensation build in her lower belly and the place between her thighs. He stroked her gently, and she marveled at the wonderful, fiery feeling of a part of him inside her. She felt the twitch of his own sizable desire against her hip. Emilia wanted to touch him - badly - but could not work up the nerve.

"So tight," he drawled in her ear, lifting his head, picking up the pace of his stroking. "Tell me what you feel."

How could she put it into words that she felt like she wanted him to swallow her whole? She wanted to tell him to do whatever he wanted and damn the consequences, just so long as this pressure inside of her burst. "I can't," she whispered.

"You can," he replied in earnest. "Tell me what it feels like to have my finger inside your sweet cunny."

She'd never heard that word spoken aloud before, and it set her face and body to flaming. "I want...I..."

"More?" he asked, and added a second finger, curling them inside her.

She felt gloriously full, on the edge of a precipice, unable to quell her rising moans. Her eyes fluttered shut as her back bowed off the desk.

"Look at me," the earl commanded, and his voice was guttural. "Look at me when you come, goddess."

Emilia met his eyes, tempestuous and expressive, and it was the end of her. He swallowed her near shout with his mouth as she felt herself tighten around his wonderful ministrations. Suddenly she came with an intensity that outshone any pleasure she'd ever given herself in the darkest hours of the night, because this she felt from the tips of her toes to the roots of her hair. Her nipples tingled with it. Her - her cunny absolutely throbbed with it.

The Little Death, the French called it. And how right they are, Emilia mused as she lay back, boneless, upon the desk they had just desecrated. Their breathing mingled harshly in the stillness, the sounds of the party distant, belonging to another life. She watched the earl watch her back through heavily lidded eyes, the corners of his mouth turning up in a move that was unmistakably self-satisfied. She would let him have this.

And then he moved over her, one hand going for her domino mask. "If I'm to take you, it's going to be completely."

Oh, hell.

The post-bliss haze dissipated as Emilia scrambled back on the desk, putting as much space between herself and the earl as possible without tumbling off the other side. Christ, what time is it? Charlotte had to be looking for her. She yanked the bodice of her costume up, and the skirt of it down.

"Er, so sorry, but I really must be going. I'm sure my friend is worried sick." Or maybe she isn't? Maybe she is off in another room with another stranger? Unlikely.

Emilia almost missed the flash of confusion and disappointment in the earl's eyes, and her stomach shifted uncomfortably that she was the cause of it. He leaned against the window, gesturing towards the door. He was stone-faced, and Emilia tried to ignore the blatant erection that still strained at the front of his pants. She turned and placed a hand at the double-oak doors before pausing. What did one say to a man that had just made one see stars?

"Um...good night."

He didn't say anything.

"And...thank you."

Averleigh looked at her incredulously before letting out a laugh. "Who in the blazes are you?"

And that was all she needed to fling open the door and sprint out into the hallway, because in no terms was she going to tell the earl that he had just defiled the actual Wilting Wallflower, as the rags had referred to her after a fainting episode at her come-out all those years ago.

Emilia was just able to meander into the main room of the party, still boisterous and in full swing, before she was yanked unceremoniously into a tight alcove.

"Where have you been?" Lady Charlotte hissed, stamping her slippered foot, and then paused when she took in the sight of her.

What must she look like? Emilia reached up to smooth down her hair and realized the laurel leaves had become tangled in the tresses or displaced altogether. She could feel her swollen lips, still buzzing with the earl's kisses. She tried to straighten her dress.