Cheryl Holt Read online

  How about her cousin Rebecca? Rebecca’s decision to accompany Sarah had also come about at Hugh’s recommendation. Was she simply a congenial, innocuous traveling companion, or was she actually an instigator of trouble? Mr. Stevens seriously believed that Rebecca had steered him to Sarah’s room, then stopped by—supposedly innocently—to check if Sarah was settled. Why? Was she anticipating that she’d catch Mr. Stevens on the premises? Could she have acted so despicably?

  They were friends, relations. When Rebecca’s parents had died four years earlier, Sarah had taken her in and provided food and shelter when Rebecca was out of options, when she’d had nowhere else to go. After prevailing on Sarah’s generosity for so long, what could Rebecca hope to gain by sending an unknown man bent on ravishment? Had that been her aim?

  Sarah refused to credit it.

  And the party . . . Was it the lewd assembly Mr. Stevens insisted? How could she find out? She could hardly wander the halls and go sneaking into people’s bedchambers.

  Should she depart for home as he’d demanded? Did she wish to leave?

  There was nothing for her in Yorkshire, no reason to rush back, and now that she’d met Michael Stevens, she was determined to stay. Distressing as it might be to chance upon him, she had to see him again.

  Throughout her musing, her eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, and she noticed a sliver of light emanating from the dressing room. No lamps or candles were burning, so she couldn’t fathom from where it emerged. She walked into the smaller room and was surprised and astonished to discover a peephole.

  Intrigued, she marched over to it and stood on tiptoe, trying to peek, but the hole was too high, so she retrieved a footstool, climbed upon it, and peered inside.

  A tiny room was visible. She couldn’t see the entirety, just part of one wall, a chair, a table, and a narrow bed. Two candles flickered in a holder, illuminating the enclosed space.

  Michael Stevens was there, alone, dressed as he had been earlier in a pair of tight-fitting trousers and naught else. He lounged negligently on the bed, his back against the wall, one ankle carelessly crossed over the other. From his rapt stare, Sarah assumed he was waiting for someone to join him. On the surface, he appeared relaxed and bored, but there was a restless energy hovering about him that piqued her interest.

  Would he realize she was watching? Was she the only one? He was acquainted with the purportedly perverted workings of the manor and had intimated that there were copious peepholes, so there could be many people spying on him.

  Did he know? Did he care?

  Conspicuously unconcerned, he rubbed circles across the center of his chest, his fingers scratching through the mat of curly, tempting hair. Languidly, methodically, he arced lower, past the waist of his trousers, across the placard. He was swollen down below, the odd ridge of flesh prominently manifested, and he stroked the heel of his hand along it, a pained look on his face, as though he was extremely uncomfortable.

  Despite the fact that she barely knew him, she sensed many things about him—what he was thinking, what he was feeling—and she could tell he was eager, expectant, anticipating whatever was about to happen. She strained against the peephole, searching for clues.

  Off to the side, a door opened, and a woman stepped into view. She was wearing a cloak, the hood pulled over her head and shielding her identity. Sarah rudely studied the goings-on, and when the pair began to talk, she pressed her ear against the hole so that she could eavesdrop on what was being said.

  “What’s your name?” Mr. Stevens asked, his voice husky.

  The woman spoke softly, and Sarah couldn’t discern her reply.

  “Who is your husband?”

  This response was also unintelligible, but Mr. Stevens chuckled over whatever he’d learned.

  “What is it you would like to do for me?” He regarded the woman with a jaded, intense expression.

  The woman gawked at her feet but didn’t speak.

  “You know the rules,” Mr. Stevens advised sternly. “You have to say aloud what it is that you want.” The woman hesitated, then leaned closer to Mr. Stevens and whispered something. “Ah . . .” he murmured, a brow rising, “one of my favorites. Are you undressed under your cloak?”

  “Yes.”

  “Show me.”

  Her fingers went to the clasp at her neckline, then pushed the fabric off her shoulders but the hood remained in place. Sarah observed the woman’s body in profile. She was naked, her breasts exposed. Her nipples were a brown color, elongated, and they jutted outward.

  Mr. Stevens reached out and manipulated both of them with finger and thumb, inducing the woman to writhe uneasily, and Sarah’s heart pounded. He was arousing the woman in the same fashion that he’d handled Sarah and, conscious of how it had felt, her own breasts reacted, tingling and hardening just from her watching. Though he was caressing someone else, it seemed as if he was touching her own bosom. Mesmerized, she was bothered and startled by how easily she was drawn in just from viewing the erotic interlude.

  “Excellent . . .” he crooned seductively.

  The sexy timbre of his compliment—bestowed on another lover—tickled down to her toes, and the realization confounded her terribly. The display was corrupt and deviant, and she understood that she should desist. Her behavior was improper, disquieting, and the outcome none of her affair. There was a shutter she could utilize to cover the hole, but embarrassingly, she couldn’t force herself to use it.

  Disgusting as it sounded, she was absolutely captivated by Michael Stevens. He was so handsome, so wholly virile, in a manner she’d never encountered before. Until they’d met, she’d had no idea there were men like him in the world, no inkling that people carried on in the shameless ways he welcomed, and a team of horses couldn’t have dragged her away.

  Like the worst sort of voyeur, she had to witness how the incident unfolded.

  He moved behind the woman and turned her toward the opposite wall—one Sarah couldn’t see—but it was clear that the couple was facing a mirror. Mr. Stevens was gazing over his lover’s shoulder, just as he had with Sarah, and he cradled the weight of her breasts as he nuzzled against her throat. Whimpering with apparent ecstasy, the woman’s eyes fluttered shut, her head tilted back, and he nipped against her nape.

  “Do you like it when I do that?” he questioned, fiercely twirling at the woman’s nipples.

  “Yes.” His lover was breathless, excited. “Don’t stop.”

  “Your breasts are so beautiful,” he declared, assessing the two mounds in the looking glass. “Just the size I like on a woman. Not too big. Not too small.”

  What!

  “Maybe I should take you here in front of the mirror, so you can see how splendid we are together.”

  Sarah lurched away from the hole, the familiar words ringing in her ears.

  “Look at us,” he continued. “Look at how exquisite we are with my hands on you.”

  The cad! Only hours earlier, he’d uttered identical statements in her very own boudoir! How dare he lavish the same praise on another! It made their rendezvous seem so tawdry and ordinary when, on her end, she’d ultimately decided that it had been the most fascinating, enchanting event of her entire life. After reflecting at length, she’d persuaded herself that he’d been as charmed by her as she’d been by him, that he’d found her to be special as no other man ever had, that she was attractive and appealing.

  Now, she simply felt like a fool.

  In a temper, she whipped away from the peephole so rapidly that the stool wobbled and tipped, dispatching her to the floor with a loud thump. She landed crookedly on her rear and smacked her ankle against the vanity. Pain shot through the joint, and she moaned aloud, then clapped her hand over her mouth, wondering if the occupants in the adjoining room had heard the commotion.

  If Mr. Stevens detected that she’d been snooping, she’d die of mortification!

  Cautiously, she tugged herself up to a standing position. Though her ankle ached and her
bottom smarted, nothing was injured but her pride. The beam of light from the hidden room was like a beacon, urging her to return to her perch on the stool, but she categorically refused to heed its beguiling call. However Michael Stevens might conclude his bizarre evening, she didn’t care to know. She didn’t want to know. Some mysteries were best left unexplored.

  She hobbled out, shutting the door that separated her bedchamber from the dressing room. Confused, anxious, haunted by what she’d seen, she forced herself to bed and jerked the covers high. Eventually, after suffering through hours of wretchedness and chaos, she fell into a fitful sleep.

  Michael heard a strange noise, as though someone had fallen, and it was followed by a restrained whimpering, but he didn’t allow the sound to distract him. There were several peepholes into the Viewing Room so, no doubt, diverse people were watching, and anything could be happening just beyond the walls.

  For a moment, he endeavored to conceive of who some of the spectators might be. Perhaps it was one of those eccentric men who enjoyed huddling alone and playing with himself during the proceedings, or one who became stimulated for later sexual congress by spying on others. Perchance it was one of the handful of aberrant men with baser appetites, those who were not attracted to women at all—but to himself as a potential partner. They would be impatiently waiting for a degenerate glimpse of his engorged member, an impressive sight by anyone’s standards.

  More likely, it was one of the women he hadn’t had yet, a newcomer to the party who was wondering if she had the necessary lack of inhibition to take a turn with him. They were all so overtly titillated by the prospect.

  After years of existing on the fringe of their society, he possessed a wicked reputation that was decidedly deserved, and they craved the chance to engage in carnal relations with him so that they could brag about their exploits later on. Come the morn, he would be the main topic of conversation over breakfast: who’d lain with him, how many times, in how many ways.

  His own motives for participating in Pamela’s lewd games weren’t specifically comprehensible. It was as though he was driven to prove, over and over again, that nothing mattered. Yet his obscure purposes paled in comparison to those of the women who coupled with him. They were lonely, bored, degraded in their pursuit of entertainment, but he declined to feel sympathy toward them. Pamela had devised the rules for the tainted amusement, and they flocked to indulge, hoping that something especially nasty would occur—the naughtier the better—so that they would have more to bluster about to their friends.

  He cared not. Not about their motives or their needs or wants. They could all go hang.

  Even as the contemptuous thought passed through his mind, he suffered a pang of guilt, remembering the vixen named Sarah into whose room he’d been stupidly drawn. Her chamber was close by, and he was glad she had no method of watching what he was about to do.

  The notion that she might stumble upon him in the midst of such corrupt conduct was unsettling and filled him with shame, and he grimly pushed her memory away. He didn’t choose to consider her predicament, or what might befall her. He didn’t plan to worry over her, or have her interfering with his practice of pleasure.

  Already, she was plaguing his battle-scarred conscience, the one he’d carefully tucked away when he’d fled London three months earlier. His heart had been bruised and battered by those he loved, and he’d had his fill of compassion and empathy. Now, he was content to drift, indifferent to his misdeeds, so he wasn’t about to countenance some red-haired witch burrowing under his skin.

  If she finagled herself into his life, he’d start fussing about her and chafing over her plight. He’d revert to the type of sensitive fool he’d been before events had taken their toll. The frivolous noblewoman had managed to insert herself into the middle of treacherous intrigues that were too abundant to mention, and if he wasn’t circumspect, he’d find himself checking on her, guarding her, keeping the lechers at bay, unveiling the scheme of her brother and cousin.

  Dammit! The blasted woman wasn’t any of his concern! How she’d been lured to Pamela’s house, why she’d agreed to attend the party, what might transpire because of her family—none of it was any of his business.

  He was here to fornicate and to gamble, and for no other reasons, and he wouldn’t fret or fume over an imbecilic spinster who didn’t have the good sense to depart when she should. The crazed woman needed a protector, but he wouldn’t endeavor to assume the role.

  He wouldn’t care about her. He wouldn’t!

  Forcing his attention to the mirror, he scrutinized his current paramour. Her breasts were nicely formed, and he toyed with them overly long. He was hard, ready, willing to offer her however much she’d accept, but the woman herself did not matter.

  No higher purpose lurked behind his actions. There was just the sex; vulgar and crude and risqué—just how he fancied it. The anonymous, blatant copulation fit his mood perfectly, and he intended to bury himself in this stranger until he couldn’t continue, until his overeager phallus was limp, his raging sexual drive finally, but temporarily, slaked.

  Gripping her hips, he deliberately flexed against her buttocks, letting her savor his enormous size, providing an indication of what was coming. Shoving the cloak off her abdomen, he eyed her pussy; it was bald and smooth as a babe’s. “You’ve shaved yourself.”

  “Aye.”

  “Just for me?”

  “Yes.”

  His male vanity was immensely stroked by the inane feat she’d performed for him. He cupped her, then roughly entered her with two fingers, conferring no ease, pilfering what he wanted, supplying what she craved, but as he worked against her in a fixed rhythm, another uncomfortable image of Sarah flashed, diverting his attention.

  What was it about her? She’d bewitched him!

  When he’d agreed to this evening of debauchery, he’d foreseen a leisurely, sating escapade with the woman in his arms, as well as with the various others who were scheduled to visit later, but intrusive thoughts of Sarah made this seem ridiculous; he was out of his element, unprepared to proceed. Suddenly, he felt unclean and profane—just when he’d resolved to feel nothing at all.

  Desperate to chase Sarah away—quickly—he whispered into his lover’s ear. “I’m ready now.”

  “Yes . . . all right.” She consented haltingly, and stiffened, apprehensive about the hasty escalation.

  “I’ll lie down on the cot.” He released her and moved to the bed, propping the pillows behind his head. She froze, either too disconcerted or too nervous to approach, but he was confident that she wouldn’t leave without providing him a carnal release. Others might be watching, and she’d never embarrass herself by fleeing the scene. Her vanity wouldn’t let her become a laughingstock.

  “Come here,” he ordered, and the terse command propelled her forward. She knelt down and fiddled with the buttons on his trousers. Her slender fingers slipped the top one through its hole. Soon, he’d be bared to her torrid gaze and able ministrations, and he braced for the rush of lust to flood over him, but it never arrived.

  Dispassionately, he waited. He was incredibly hard, his cock never failing to rise for any dubious occasion and, in anticipation, his phallus swelled further. Ultimately, he was free and in her hand. She stroked him and licked him, until his hips responded of their own accord, then she leaned down and slipped her lips over the crown.

  He was a big man, bigger than any of them ever supposed, and he didn’t let his impressive proportions interfere with his gratification.

  “Take more of me,” he decreed. Reaching for the back of her neck, he eased her down, and she went without complaint, while he stared at the ceiling, focused on a crack that ran from one edge to the other.

  The woman adeptly proceeded with her task, but true desire proved elusive until, without warning, Sarah once again rudely intruded into the center of the sensual exercise. He visualized her stepping out of her bath, wet and slippery and smelling like roses. He recalled the fi
rm, taut nipples he’d suckled, the slick, tight pussy he’d fingered.

  For some reason, she excessively excited him, so he closed his eyes and pretended that she was the woman stooped over him, that she was enticing him with her wicked mouth and tongue. Vividly, he imagined teaching her to suck at him, making her practice, encouraging her to master his favorite techniques. Adamant yet gentle, he’d be a relentless instructor, and she’d be an apt, enthusiastic pupil, set to learn what he deigned to impart.

  Steadying his paramour, he held her in place, granting her as much as she could manage, urging her to take a bit more.

  “Sarah . . .”

  In his mind, he pictured her in all her nude, glorious splendor, and his level of desire soared to a previously unascertained height. He shuddered and let himself go.

  Chapter Four

  Sarah sat on the verandah, her face shielded by a bonnet, observing the other guests and enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. The fabulous summer day was quickly approaching evening, temperatures were balmy, the sky bright blue and filled with fluffy white clouds. Soon, everyone scattered about at the various tables and settees would venture inside to dress for supper, and she should have been content to relax, but disturbing ruminations kept creeping in, rendering it impossible to cherish the moment.

  After her encounter with Mr. Stevens, then her subsequently stumbling upon him during his odd tryst, she was definitely in a state. He had cluttered her senses in indescribable ways, and though she screamed at her overly zealous mind to give it a rest, her active imagination wouldn’t calm down. The only matter she could contemplate was him and what he’d been doing.