“No, we won’t see.” A woman of beauty such as she was rarely thwarted and never in situations like this. “I don’t need any man that badly,” she said, bristling at his divine-right presumption and perhaps more for the reason he was so assured. Women never said no. “If you’ll excuse me. There must be something here I can use for a dildo.” She began to roll off the bed.
He stopped her in midroll, grabbed her ankles, flipped her on her back again. “You’re not excused,” he said, curt, autocratic, deeply autocratic. “And I happen to have something you can use for a dildo.” Each word was clipped and cold, his mind overcome by a pure, high white fury, the sound of those words—You wouldn’t know any of them— crashing in endless waves through his brain. His eyes half shut, his rage concealed behind the shield of his lashes, he hauled her by her ankles to the edge of the mattress, shoved her feet back so her legs were bent, so her sex was exposed. So she was available. For him alone.
Then he drew in a ragged breath and undertook to suppress his monstrous jealousy.
And failed.
Struggling against his punishing grip, Zelda muttered, “You’re hurting me.”
“Forgive me,” he said without looking at her, and tightened his grip.
“Maybe the others like bloody male domination,” she hissed. “But I don’t!”
Dalgliesh’s gaze lifted from the small trail of pearly fluid glistening in her pubic hair. “Really? You should tell that to your cunt.”
“I’m quite capable of restraining myself,” she huffily replied.
His lips curled in a detestable smile. “Care to wager on that? I can practically see your heartbeat in your clit.”
“Screw you,” she spat.
“Is that an invitation?” His voice was soft as silk.
“It most certainly is not!”
“Really,” he said again in that same unconvinced tone. “From my vantage point, you look damned inviting.” Sliding his hands up her legs, he forced her thighs wider effortlessly as if she’d not been resisting and contemplated the lodestone of his lust: her pink, pouty, glistening labia; her bright pubic hair; that enticing pulse visible in her prominent clitoris; the increasing flow of pearly essence wetting her genitalia and those areas susceptible to gravitational forces.
He was going to fuck her.
Regardless of what she said or did or thought.
He was almost smiling as he let go of one leg and placed his hand palm down on the inflexible, boned satin covering her stomach. Slowly splaying his fingers in a deliberate, willful gesture, he exerted a small, decisive pressure. Making it plain that he was in charge, she was not, and she’d service him whether she liked it or not. The bewitching Zelda had shattered the established patterns of his life, and at the moment, he was very much inclined to exact payment for the anarchy she’d sown, and more primitively—demand a price for all the men she’d fucked.
She saw the cold ferocity in his eyes, knew she was powerless against his size and strength, and instead of terror, she was shamefully aroused, excited, overcome with a deep and terrible craving. Fevered and frenzied, she began to tremble, her desire for him an ache of longing, a sick, melting ache.
A sudden, knowing warmth infused his eyes. “I thought you weren’t excited,” he said, husky and low, a smile in his words. “I thought you didn’t like male domination.”
“I’d slap you if I could,” she muttered.
“No, you wouldn’t.” His grin was condescending. “You’d open your legs wider so I could give you what you want.”
She should hate him for his arrogance and assurance, for his cheeky insolence, for all the women before her. Instead, delirious with longing, flame hot and seething, heedless to all but her desperate need, she opened her legs wider while he watched, a faint smile on his face. And she almost said, I love you, too, despite that smile, because he was the most beautiful, desirable man she’d ever known. But she wasn’t completely lost to all reason, and he’d probably walk away if she did, which wouldn’t do at all. So she addressed him with similar cheekiness. “Give me what I want, and I’ll decide if you’re accommodating enough.”
His smile widened. “Am I being graded?”
“Did I say that?” she replied as he had earlier.
He laughed. “I’m going to have to pick up my game.” He adjusted her bottom minutely on the bed as if half inches mattered and, looking up, met her gaze with a look of innocence. “I’m hoping for a high score.”
“I’m hoping for a little more speed.”
“You always do. Have you ever considered a change of pace?”
“Have you considered how it might affect your score?”
“I’m planning on it. Stop wiggling.” He was guiding his erection into her liquid cleft.
“I’m not wiggling, I’m trembling. There’s a difference.”
“Here’s another difference,” he murmured, entering her only marginally and stopping. “Now do your multiplication tables,” he drolly said, intent on inhibiting the lady’s normal tempestuous rush to orgasm. “We’re going to slow this down.”
“Don’t be cruel,” she panted.
He was unprepared for his cock’s sudden independence, and as his erection surged and another small measure of her sleek, silken warmth engulfed his rigid length, a brief question of who or what was in charge ensued. And was quickly settled.
Fornication was, after all, Dalgliesh’s speciality.
Zelda’s breathing had quickened at the increased penetration; she softly moaned, whimpered, wanting more. “God, Alec, don’t do this to me,” she pleaded, trying to raise her hips to lure him in more deeply.
“Wait,” he whispered, holding her down.
Another whimper, her body was melting, turning liquid with longing. “I can’t.”
“Try . . . for me.” His voice was gentle. He felt her relax under his hand, felt her yield. “There now,” he murmured, sliding his massive cock in another small distance. “Better?” He was watching her, an unreadable expression in his eyes—an exile in a strange land questioning custom and usage and moral equivalent.
Her lashes lifted fractionally. “More.” A pouty little sound.
His sigh was imperceptible; was there a prorated price for anarchy? “What do I get if I give you more?”
“My gratitude.” My undying love. The last forbidden words.
He glanced at her with a small smile. “I’m not sure that’s enough.”
“Then what do you want?”
I want to own you and keep you like some goddamn benighted sultan. “Let’s start with a kiss.” He sighed aloud this time. “Damn witch.”
But their kiss was brief, the merest token. They were both too ravenous and far beyond sweet caresses. Although he could wait longer than she. He smiled. Perhaps anyone could. In the end though, he didn’t make her wait because he wished to please her more than he wished to punish her. An aberrant concept—punishment—in any event, prior to his meeting Miss MacKenzie. Furthermore, he wasn’t particularly self-denying, his cock was aching, and time was at a premium.
There was no time in fact; they should be next door right now.
“Try not to scream,” he whispered, sliding his hands around Zelda’s corseted waist. “Katy’s next door.” His grip was firm but gentle now, without prejudice—a temporarily tamed bluebeard who understood with the clarity of the morally degenerate that his life was going straight to hell. He should leave, he should send her home, he should return to his bluebeard castle and pull up the drawbridge. Instead, he slowly, deftly, with highly professional skill, penetrated her hot, welcoming body while she panted and shivered and arched up to meet him. And when he reached the deepest depth, when his cock had nowhere else to go, he flexed his legs and, with a low animal sound, pushed.
Gorged, glutted, crammed full, she gasped, pleasure exploded and shuddering, and softly moaning, she surrendered to the raw, wild ecstasy rippling outward from her overwrought vaginal tissue.
For protracted,
heart-stirring moments, the world disappeared and the lovers absorbed the seething, tumultuous, transcendent impact of cock to womb. Perhaps their nerves were overstimulated after hours of sex, or sensation was amplified by excess; perhaps the depth of Dalgliesh’s invasion was to blame for their disorientation.
But inherently attuned to female responses, he’d heard her gasp, recognized the nature of the sound, and given his size, understood he might have done damage. Moments later, rallying first, he kindly asked, “Did I hurt you? Should I stop?” The last a magnanimous offer, considering the state of his arousal; perhaps an impossible offer.
Zelda’s eyes opened so slowly he braced himself for affirmative answers and the personal dilemma to follow. Then she smiled a familiar, sensual smile; he nodded and smiled back. “I’ll be gentle.”
“Not too gentle.”
His grin was warmly boyish. “Yes, ma’am.” And he proceeded to give the lady what she wanted in range, scope, pacing, and carnality. He knew what not too gentle meant for her.
She began to climax quickly like she always did.
After a swift, cursory debate that only briefly considered consequences, he climaxed with her and in her.
“Sorry,” he said afterward, clearly not meaning it, not knowing what he meant, cavalierly shrugging off his indecision. Applying himself instead to more practical functions like withdrawing from a saturated cunt without staining his trousers. Pushing himself upright, he carefully eased out. “I didn’t want to change again,” he said, although added reason for his fully clothed performance had to do with complicated, untidy sovereign power.
“So practical,” Zelda murmured. “And you needn’t worry about climaxing in me. I just had my menses.”
He suppressed his surprise. Why hadn’t she said that before? “I might do it again then.”
“I’m extremely amenable right now.”
He looked up from wiping himself with his handkerchief. “You probably shouldn’t say that.”
“Do we have time?”
He hesitated for a fraction of a second, then sighed. “I wish.” Dropping the handkerchief, he began buttoning up.
“In that case, I need a towel.”
He stopped for a moment, his fingers arrested; he didn’t take orders well, particularly from women.
“Please, your lordship, sir,” Zelda playfully said. “Is that better?”
“Sorry. You’re different.” He abruptly grinned. “In so many charming ways.”
He turned out to be extremely versatile as a lady’s maid. But then he’d had considerable experience—generally taking off clothes, but reversing the procedure wasn’t demanding. After his fetching and carrying, hooking and tying bows, slipping on shoes, clipping on jewelry, handing over hairpins, they were only ten minutes late to the nursery.
They arrived hand in hand, breathless and laughing.
Chris looked up, then instantly raced toward his father.
Alec picked him up, swung him into his arms, and cheerfully said, “First, I think you should show Miss MacKenzie how to stoke those fire boxes. She’s going to be amazed.”
“It’s real fire!” Chris exclaimed, swinging his gaze toward Zelda, his eyes wide with excitement, pleased he had his playmates back. “Put me down, Papa, and I’ll show her!”
Zelda was amazed and mildly alarmed as the coal-stoked engine box turned bright red and little puffs of smoke erupted from the engine. She glanced at Alec in silent query.
“Only under supervision, darling,” he murmured. “No one wants the house to burn down.”
A servant came in with drinks for the adults—whiskey from Alec’s Scottish estate, although he didn’t say where it was and she didn’t ask. They were both more guarded when not in full rut. While Chris kept up a running commentary, Alec and Zelda sat side by side on a wooden bench pulled up to the train table, kept Chris company, exchanged fondly benign glances when Chris wasn’t looking, and drank their whiskey.
A garrulous six-year-old didn’t require more than the occasional word of agreement or encouragement from his audience and he was happy. Although Alec did say once, “That’s enough coal, Chris. I don’t want another engine to explode. It did once,” he said to Zelda under his breath. “Chris was thrilled. I was less thrilled. The servants weren’t thrilled at all. The draperies caught on fire, then the carpet, then—Chris, no, stop—that’s quite enough.”
When a servant came to announce dinner, Alec turned off the main switch, Chris ran ahead to announce their arrival, and Alec and Zelda walked downstairs hand in hand. Like lovers. Like lovers who’d known each other longer than two days. Like lovers in love, those at the table thought with varying degrees of interest as they observed the couple enter the dining room.
Creiggy pleasantly thought, Will wonders never cease?
James was amazed. Presents were one thing. But this? Having served Dalgliesh both in South Africa and England, having always opened all the earl’s mail, having been instructed to use his own judgment with regard to the perfumed billets-doux arriving at Dalgliesh’s door, he considered himself privy to his lordship’s attitude toward women. And now, this sudden breach of custom.
As for the servants in attendance, since their employer’s affections had already been thoroughly discussed below stairs, they viewed their newly enamored lord and his guest with less surprise. Actually—no surprise at all.
CHAPTER 18
IN CONTRAST TO luncheon, the earl was in a conspicuously good mood at dinner. He was charming, affable, fully engaged, offering up topics of interest, introducing bits of local gossip, conversing with grace and wit—his attentions extending to Chris, whom he entertained with several edited stories of his boyhood. All the while casually monitoring Rowan’s management of the dinner with a glance, a lifted finger, a smile. As for his lover’s comfort, he took particular pains to see that Zelda enjoyed herself. Including ordering a special champagne.
“For you, darling,” he said, looking down the length of the table to where she sat in the hostess’s chair, elegant and beautiful in her violet gown, his diamond sparkling in her cleavage. “I hope you like it.” His heated gaze could have ignited wet elm.
Zelda’s face turned cherry red. She’d never been able to overcome the inconvenience of her pale complexion.
“You’re embarrassing Miss MacKenzie,” Creiggy chided.
“I’m so sorry,” Alec blandly said.
Creiggy sniffed. “If you sounded like you meant it, it might help.”
“Should I get down on my knees?” Alec roguishly queried. “I’m more than willing.”
“Alec, please,” Zelda murmured.
His smile instantly disappeared and, sliding up from his lounging pose, he quietly said, “I’m truly sorry, dear. I’ll behave.”
James muffled a gasp.
The servants stopped what they were doing.
Even Rowan lost a modicum of his dignity.
Chris opened his mouth, then shut it as Creiggy’s fingers bit into his arm.
“There now, that’s better,” Creiggy briskly said into the silence. “I’ll have a wee dram more of that whiskey, Rowan. It’s a right fine bottle.”
From that point on, Dalgliesh was circumspect and discreet, never overstepping well-mannered convention.
His gallantry and kindness had a predictable effect on Zelda; she was even more enamored, more in love. How sweet he was, she thought, how unselfish. How utterly charming. Not that she didn’t understand that falling under his spell was the height of foolishness. That he seduced and enchanted with careless goodwill. That a man of his reputation only played at love.
Yet she was drawn to him like every other woman he toyed with, she sternly reminded herself. She must remember this Crosstrees paradise had a definitive limit. Once their holiday was over, they’d both return to their former lives.
She understood the rules.
Amorous amusements were countenanced in the fashionable world, even viewed with leniency, provided one adhered
to the orthodox canons. Men, as Dalgliesh had alluded to, were allowed more freedom in their carnal amusements. Married women were expected to provide their husbands with an heir and a spare before embarking on an affaire. Unmarried females were in theory taboo; in practice, they, too, were susceptible to passion. But always, always, the end of an affaire required a civilized adieu.
The world of the haute monde was small and incestuous, socializing restricted to a narrow coterie who met at the same receptions, parties, dinners, and country house weekends. Husbands and wives, their lovers, ex-lovers, and future lovers, young ladies and gentlemen, those of a certain age who only observed the modish in their pleasures—all repeatedly rubbed shoulders or elbows or other more intimate body parts. Discretion was key, undue emotion was considered bad taste, and agonizing over a love affaire was embarrassing for everyone.
Zelda was perfectly aware of prevailing custom. Nor did she wish to be viewed as one of Dalgliesh’s lovesick discards. She refused to play such a profitless role.
In the meantime, however, she intended to fully enjoy the sweet enchantment of this rare, golden idyll. To that purpose, she upended her champagne glass, quickly drained it, and took pleasure in the sparkling bubbles sliding down her throat.
Dalgliesh had been watching her and smiled. God in heaven, she made him happy. He signaled to have her glass refilled.
In the course of dinner, James and Zelda found that they shared a cousin twice removed and exchanged stories of the globe-trotting George Hamilton. Which brought up Zelda’s globe-trotting travels, which in turn offered a further glimpse into the man she’d come to love. Alec had traveled extensively beyond Europe. He’d surveyed the diamond fields in India and Brazil, hunted in Persia and with the Bedouins in the Sahara, sailed to Antarctica, climbed in the Himalayas, and spoke six European languages and numerous African dialects from his travels on the continent. And had been to a great many places most people hadn’t.
“I’m impressed,” Zelda said, lightly. “I feel quite provincial.”
“On the contrary, darling,” Alec replied, his voice smooth as honey, “you’re the most enlightened, adventuresome woman I know.” With an affectionate smile, he raised his glass to her in salute.