The Fall of Rowland Graves

Perfect. So Perfect.

In the midst of perfection, though, some dark thing twitched and coiled at the base of his spine. He pulled at her mouth more insistently.

We'd better rectify this situation, hadn't we, Graves? We'd bloody well better or else ...

A low growl rumbled up from somewhere deep in his throat and he realised he was backing her toward a low dresser that stood against the wall between two windows. When her backside came against its edge, her startled gasp was muffled by his increasingly demanding kiss.

"Rowland ... " her voice had a disoriented edge as she pulled away. It was as might be expected; he couldn't remember ever giving into his urges with her this way.

"I can't stand it, Love," he ground out, taking her face in both his hands.

"What's that?" she whispered up at him, voice and body tight, "What can't you stand?"

"Dunning! The thought of him even touching you!" He leaned in to wrest a further series of bruising kisses from her.

She was breathless when they broke it off. His hands were on either side of her on the dresser now and she bent backward subtly at the waist to catch her breath.

"Oh, Rowland! I would never —"

"If your father marries you off to him you'll have to!" It was becoming more and more difficult for him to keep his voice down.

"Please! I will never!" she insisted, begging him to believe. "I only belong to you, my love!"

Rowland inhaled swiftly through his nose at those words, teeth clenching together under the tightening of his jaw. His hands came together at her waist and caught her up.

"Yes, Elinor," he said, with a low crackling of threat in his tone for anyone who dared take his angel from him. He hoisted her up to sit on the edge of the dresser. "You do belong to me."

The ferocity of his next kiss, his handling, startled a clipped moan out of her. And he devoured it along with every other beautiful little whimper and gasp that followed.

Her hands were at his shoulders to steady herself, lest she fall back against the wall under his forceful claims. His mouth was on the moving column of her throat, the rising flesh of her breast at her neckline. She accepted him though, rough hands and all. She always accepted him, any way that he came to her. Her knees were pressing in at his hips, and he snarled with some discomfiting new sense of possession.

She belongs to me. Me!

He clawed at skirts and petticoats, gathering endless fabric over her knees. He had to be inside her. To feel her. To know.

She was soaked when he found her with his fingers, and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth to hold back her sounds of want at his touch. His free hand was tugging at his breeches and shirt, shifting them out of the way so that his aching, steel-hard need could pour out heat between them. They needed to be joined together. Now.

Ask her, Rowland. You always ask first.

He could barely rasp out the words as he traced his fingers through the moisture between her thighs.

"Is this what you want, Elinor?"

"Yes, Love," she said, "but wait."

"Mmm?" He couldn't even form proper words.

Wait for what?

"Let me," she said quietly, and he felt her soft fingers circling his base in the dark, guiding him.

His Elinor brought him to her own wet entrance and he nearly came unravelled as she nudged the blunt tip where it was meant to go before releasing her hand. She leaned back a fraction of a degree, inviting him to bring them the rest of the way. Rowland didn't need to be asked twice.

With a slick push he was home, her walls clasping at him in affirmation. He could not go slowly, not be gentle on this maddening night. Immediately he was thrusting, ploughing into her. She drew her knees apart wider, silently telling him his fierce claims could be acted out this evening without regret.

She accepts the basest side of you, Rowland. You must do everything in your power not to lose her.

His hand was at the back of her neck, his forehead pressed against hers as his hips and thighs worked, delivering his cock over and over into her delicious, clutching heat. He felt her bottom scooting closer to the edge of the dresser, her hips tilting, seeking.

Greedy man. Let her enjoy this, too.

He brought his thumb between them, circling the pad among the slippery folds just above where he was moving, splitting her in two. His angel felt so impossibly perfect around him, and each time his thumb shifted back and forth across that firm little kernel of pleasure he felt her grasp at him from inside.

Forcing himself to slow his movements, Rowland concentrated his efforts now on increasing the frequency of her helpless, delicate spasms, delighting in the way they rippled over his flesh.

Her tightly restrained noises of pleasure were increasing in pitch and desperation, and it was all he could do to keep his motions deliberate and not pound into her like a madman.

Then: she was silent. Her body clutched at him in a pronounced series of fluttering contractions. Once. Twice. A third time, and she held him, clenched from within, her head falling back in the darkness, rolled under by her own release.

He leaned in to kiss and lap at her collar bone, tasting the salty thin sheen of sweat there, the movement of his hips taking up its mission in earnest once again.

"Tell me," he said to her, gripping her at the hips now for leverage.

He heard her swallow, wetting her throat again.

"Tell you what?"

"Tell me you belong to me." It disturbed him that he so desperately needed to hear it when the fact was already so plain.

Her hips were sliding further off the dresser.

"No," she said, her voice a low tone he couldn't remember hearing before tonight.

Her legs were coming down now, feet reaching for the floor, and he felt himself abruptly dislodged.

"Elinor, what —"

"I don't want to tell you, Rowland," she explained, the rasp of desire unmistakable now. His angel had never spoken to him like this. "I want to show you."

She pushed him back with her palms and, baffled, he stepped away, erection standing straight out from his body, demanding to know what had just happened.

"I don't understand, Love," he said with a shake of his head and a small, meaningless gesture of hands.

What is she on about?

"I want to show you that you're the only man I will ever belong to," she said, stepping toward him, "that every part of my body and spirit is yours, the way it will be for no other."

He could see her flushed skin and parted lips in the cool light of the moon, and wanted to pull her into a fast embrace at such words, though he still didn't fully understand.

Elinor gave him no time to do so, however, and sank to her knees in a broad puddle of fabric. Before more questions had time to form on his lips, one of her pale hands was gripping his still eager cock and he watched her lean close.

The light in the room was barely enough for a body to move about by, but he knew her blue eyes were focused intently on his face by the way her neck was tilted up. Her hand stroked at him lightly and he balled his hands into fists at his sides, his certainty still tumbling end over end at this bizarre turn of events.

"Every part of my body, Rowland ... "

She dipped her head and he felt ...

Rowland gasped.

He felt a warm, soft tongue being drawn along the underside of his cock.

" ... even the lips I say my prayers with."

She took him into her mouth, the hot, sweet luxury a contrast to the cool air of the room. He nearly collapsed at the sensation.

And words like that! Such sinful words from his perfect angel! They were enough to make a man spill everything he had right on the spot. He fought for control.

Elinor, his innocent dove, was suckling at him now, pulling, doing maddening things with her tongue and teeth.

From where had this come? He had never asked her to indulge him in such an act. Wouldn't have been able to even speak of a thing like this in front of her. Certainly she let him taste her, from time to time, but this ... This was different. She ...

She was easing her lips further and further down the length of his shaft. He wished there was more light, couldn't imagine what her lovely face must look like, jaw parted, working. Rowland was straining, losing his grip. He'd need to pull away soon, before he lost himself.

A hand was tugging, kneading at the loose skin of his scrotum now. The tip of her nose came to just brush against his body, and he felt her palate and the back of her throat closing in around him. Subtle shifts of her tongue while all else was still were sending him into lightning-quick flashes of freefall he couldn't control.

No, Rowland. Don't do that to her.

He jerked his hips back.

"Elinor, wait! No! You don't want —"

"Yes. I do."

Her hands were at his hips and, in a single swift move, had him buried to the hilt down her lovely throat.

This is some mad dream! I'll wake in the morning and this entire dinner will have never happened!

She was moving now, bobbing, drawing him in with an eager suction, hands stroking over him in time with the efforts of her mouth. Then came her moans. Feminine, muffled mewling over the impossibly hard girth stretching her lips apart.

Every part of my body, Rowland ...

You're the only man I will ever belong to.

He bit back a roar as white light exploded behind his eyelids. His balls rose up, tightened. The pulsing began and he couldn't stop it.

Every bit of love, frustration, fear, and joy spilled in hot waves down the back of her throat, and she drew from the tap, accepting, swallowing, devouring. Elinor tugged at him still, her small, slick fist milking him for every drop, and he shuddered under her touch until he had to pull away, to stop her when it became too much.

Rowland staggered backward to the small bed in the room, knees giving out just as he sat back. His angel was on her feet, coming to him, standing between his knees, kissing him before he had a chance to catch his breath.

"I love you, Rowland," she said when they settled, her hands at his shoulders.

"And I love you."

The words they said were the same as they'd been for months now, affirmations of love. But the rest?

What world was this? That his quiet little dove could give him such a gift? If this could happen, what else?

Perhaps this was a world now where inconvenient engagements could be broken off, wriggled out of with enough finesse.

Yes.

He and Elinor would be together. He was sure of it.

* * * *

"But Mrs Barlow, that's terrible! Let us go to my grandfather at once! Something must be done!"

"I cannot go to him!" Judith grasped the fingers of Margaret Ellery even tighter, and allowed her voice to crack just enough. "Don't you see, Mrs Ellery? That's why I've come to you. I cannot have such a shameful thing be known about me, about my sister! What it would do to Father to hear it! Or my sister's fiancé?"

Her voice was a whispered hiss that matched the light breeze along the garden's tall yew hedges, but the chill in the air didn't cool the few hot tears rolling down her cheeks. Thank Heaven this was a secluded area.

"But what can I do?" the young woman asked, shaking her pretty amber ringlets in confusion. She looked to Judith hardly a day over eighteen.

Easy enough to steer in the right direction.

"Go to your grandfather," Judith said, "Tell him what I've told you, only let him know that, for the sake of a family's reputation, the women involved don't wish to have their names mentioned."

Young Mrs Ellery drew her hands toward herself, shoulders slumping, eyes especially interested in a bit of lace on her apron, a look of scepticism furrowing her otherwise smooth brow.

"Please," Judith continued, wondering to herself whether actual hand-wringing might be too much, "If you can only convince him to write a letter."

"A letter to whom?"

"To the Fellows. At Oxford. This can't be allowed to continue, and perhaps if word is sent from someone they respect, like your grandfather, they can put a stop to it before it goes any further. Before any other women are ... are ..." She punctuated her plea nicely with a few more well-placed tears, refusing to repeat the scandalous words she'd already planted in Margaret Ellery's ear.

"Oh yes, of course!" the young woman said, bravely pulling Judith in for what she likely thought of as a comforting embrace. "Why of course he can send a letter! Quite right, Mrs Barlow. I'll tell him this evening, I promise, after dinner, and see that the letter is sent off myself. We'll set things right, you'll see. He'll never be in a position to do it again."

Oh, I suspect that will indeed be the case, Mrs Ellery.

After much clasping of hands and further sniffling reassurances, Judith was able to shed herself of the earnest Margaret Ellery and make her way back through the manicured garden and around to the front of the house where the carriage stood waiting for her, just where she left it.

Her eyes were dry by then, and her cheeks cooled. David, the coachman, sat up straighter at her approach before hopping down from his seat to open the carriage door. Judith had the presence of mind to favour him with a sideways smile and a wink entirely too warm to be given by a respectable woman to one of her household's servants. The young man coloured and shut the door behind her, before climbing back into place taking up the reins again. She smirked.

Entirely too useful, that one.

Her maid, Lucy, who she'd insisted wait for her in the carriage while she'd taken care of that whole business with the young Mrs Ellery, was leaning against the far interior wall, eyes closed, lips parted ungracefully. Judith decided to let her sleep, preferring quiet for the ride home.

As the wheels jounced her over the surface of the road, she rotated the small emerald ring she always wore on the middle finger of her right hand in that way she always did when her thoughts blotted out all else.

Her sister was far too innocent to be paddling around in the waters of intrigue, at least not if she thought she'd be able to hide her splashings from Judith. When Graves had stormed out of the dining room after dessert that evening, it was completely obvious where Elinor was headed when she excused herself only moments later. Obvious to Judith, at least.

She hadn't found them in time to catch the pair in the act again, but after methodically opening door after door, she'd discovered everything she needed to know in the darkened guest room at the south end of the hall. The scent on the close air in the room alone was enough to clearly indicate what had to have taken place within its walls.

So, she'd thought, as she'd fingered the rumpled linens at the edge of the bed that night, an engagement to another man isn't enough incentive for you to leave off, is it Rowland Graves?

If she couldn't put a stop to this whole ghastly affair by making her sister unavailable to him, then the next step was only rational. And the young Margaret Ellery would help her take it.

The rhythmic clattering of hooves ceased and the carriage came to a halt. Judith nudged the sleeping maid with the toe of her slipper.

"Wake up, Lucy."

"Mmm? Mrs Barlow?" The groggy woman blinked into the light coming in from the carriage window and stifled a yawn.

"We're home," she pointed out, needlessly.

Yes, home. Time to wait now. And watch. Her plan would either work or it wouldn't. If it didn't, well ... She would simply have to arrive at a new plan.

* * * *

Rowland stared from one sombre face to another, his hands hanging helplessly at his sides. It was as if he'd taken a stage to deliver a prepared speech, only to find his audience speaking another language entirely. His baffled silence was making it worse.

"I don't understand," he ventured, with a shake of his head, "How have I not been approved? Did you not receive Doctor Ellery's letter of recommendation?"

The greying, eternally waterlogged-looking Doctor Hooper raised a woolly silver brow at him from his seat at the centre of the long table. "We did. We also received his letter rescinding his recommendation, two days ago. And I suspect you know the why of it."

"What? No, I don't know 'the why of it.' I have no idea whatsoever!"

The other four Fellows, two seated on either side of Hooper, glowered back at him, their faces painted in a variety of expressions, ranging from judgement to disgust.

Am I in the right meeting? They haven't confused me for someone else? This is the twentieth of October, isn't it? As scheduled?

"No," Hooper's voice rolled with cynicism, "I'm sure you haven't the faintest. Either way, Oxford's school of medicine has no room for that sort of business. Enough reputations have been tainted already, wouldn't you agree, Doctor Graves?" The older man's smirk pushed Rowland past bafflement and into irritation.

"What in Heaven's name are you talking about?" He wanted to fling his hat into the floor in frustration. This professorship was supposed to have been all but secured, today's meeting a mere formality. He and Elinor should have been making plans to marry and move here already, and this man was turning the entire matter completely on its ear.

"Oh what indeed, Graves!" the man thundered, slapping his palm on the table. "You should know better than anyone what notorious gossips women are! Did you think your various episodes of impropriety would simply be kept quiet for your own convenience? That the daughters of gentlemen would stand for you running amok, taking advantage of their trust for your own gratification?"

Impropriety? Daughters? Plural?

"We won't stand for that sort of thing here," Hooper went on, "Do you know that Doctor Ellery's letter tells us that one of the young women was engaged to be married? For shame, Sir! We've no interest in tainting our halls with scandals of that nature." He looked Rowland up and down as though eyeing something particularly unsavoury a dog had dragged into his house.

Engaged to be married?

There was exactly one person who could conceivably be behind this, though he still didn't understand why.

Judith Barlow.

Desperation flooded him, pouring out of his mouth.

"Doctor Hooper, there's been a mistake!" He stepped forward in his effort to explain. "Doctor Ellery has clearly been misinformed. If you'll simply allow me to —"

"To what, Graves? Poison our ears with more lies? I've known Francis Ellery for over forty years. I trust him with my very life, and you ask me not to believe his word?"

Hooper's words hung there, gathering like a black storm over Rowland's head. His chest rose and fell in the condensed silence, the morning light partially silhouetting the table of Fellows, illuminating the condemning bald pates, but providing no warmth. His jaw shifted, tightly held, along with his gut.

"Perhaps you should consider a different line of work, Doctor Graves," Hooper filled the space in the room with his final pronunciation. "I don't think you've any future in medicine. At least not here."

And with those words, a door was closed.

So. It would be this way, would it?

Rowland narrowed his eyes at the array of Fellows who faced him from behind their table. Men who wouldn't listen. Who had made a decision based on a letter, to which they would hear no rebuttal, and which would affect them for only the span of this meeting, but would follow him for the rest of his career.

He knew men such as these. It was done. Done.

"Very well," he said, his voice low, seething. "By your leave, Gentlemen." He took off his hat in a mockery of the normal respectful gesture before turning on his heel and striding from the room, not waiting to hear a formal dismissal.