A Bluestocking's Vice: Dukes of the Demi-Monde: Book Four Read online

  She looked as if he’d seen her before, somewhere. Peterson shook away the feeling, sure that he was simply imagining things, concentrating on the redness at the woman’s throat.

  Strange wasn’t the best way to describe it. Peterson had seen that flush on a woman’s body before—but only in bed, and only after he’d spent an inordinate amount of time between said woman’s legs. Peterson forced himself to avoid thinking about it as he handed the woman the glass, watching her gulp down the water as if her life depended it.

  After a short, intense period of silence, with Peterson looking with utmost concentration at everything else in the room, the woman let out an anguished sigh. ‘It—it hasn’t worked. It’s even worse.’

  ‘What is worse?’ Peterson moved closer still. The scent of the woman washed over him; soap and starch, with an odd floral undercurrent that had his heart racing. ‘Are you in pain?’

  ‘No.’ The woman shook her head, her voice filling with shame. ‘It isn’t pain. It’s… oh, you work here. I suppose I can tell you—unless there is a lady in the building?’

  ‘The establishment is currently closed, madam.’ Peterson paused, wondering how best to tell her what his actual function was. ‘And as for—well, as for working here—’

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me. There is no need to tell me—look at you. Dark, brooding and brutal.’ The woman let out a short burst of hysteria-laced laughter. ‘You are probably responsible for the most vile sorts of moral degradation.’

  Peterson blinked. ‘Well, I—’

  ‘And I suppose you cannot tell anyone I was here.’ The woman held a hand to her head; there was anguish in her face, real anguish, surging and ebbing in waves. ‘And—and oh, Lord, what is to become of me? What am I being punished for?’

  Even if the woman didn’t look mad, madness was beginning to look like the only possible explanation. Peterson moved to put his hands on her shoulders, ready to gently but firmly push her from the room, when the woman suddenly threw her arms around him.

  ‘Oh, goodness.’ Her voice was equal parts embarrassed and reverent. ‘I—I don’t know why I did that. I do apologise.’

  The flood of scent and softness was making it increasingly difficult for Peterson to think logically. ‘You… you could always stop.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I probably should.’ The woman didn’t move an inch; if anything, she pressed herself more tightly to him. Peterson swallowed as the swell of her breasts came to rest against his waistcoat. ‘But—but this helps. Oh, no, it actually helps…’

  Perhaps he had simply fallen asleep at his master’s desk, and was having a particularly lurid dream. Peterson prepared to disentangle himself, already sorry at having to leave the mysterious siren’s warm, yielding embrace, before the woman murmured guility in his ear.

  ‘I… I drank something left in the corridor. The label said Reviver… I am beginning to think I made the most dreadful mistake. And the only way to extricate myself from this condition is perhaps to—to go through it. To… release it.’

  The Reviver. The aphrodisiac that his master had been speaking of for the past week—the potent mixture that had hit London’s pleasure-houses like a gunshot. Peterson, still spellbound by the woman’s sheer presence, fought a desperate urge to laugh.

  How much of it had she drank? Three teaspoons was meant to be able to send an elephant into an erotic frenzy… oh, Lord, if it made her insensible the Club would have hell to pay…

  ‘Sir. I am retaining control of my faculties through the most severe and constant effort, and I believe clarity is necessary.’ The woman still spoke in the breathless, half-panting tone that had Peterson’s cock hardening despite his best intentions. ‘My reputation—my principles—require absolute discretion on your part. If you assist me in… in attaining the release that I require… you will be doing me the very greatest of favours. A favour that will be well renumerated.’

  He couldn’t have heard correctly. It had to be a trap. Peterson swallowed, acutely aware of how tightly he was holding her, replying in a tone that was gruff with restraint.

  ‘Madam. You do not know who I—’

  ‘I cannot know who you are. Don’t you see? I don’t care a whit for who you are. Whether you are—are the flagellation expert, or the orgy master, or whatever other degenerate role you play in this house of sin. Whatever sort of expert you are, you are considerably more expert than I in such matters.’ The woman’s lips moved closer to his ear, her tone sending tingles down the back of Peterson’s neck. ‘Relief. Now. As quickly as possible.’

  A man could only take so much temptation. More importantly, a man could have no qualms about obeying a direct order—especially Peterson, a valet of impeccable talent. Gritting his teeth, biting back a sigh of hunger, his hands moved to the woman’s waist.

  ‘Ahhh.’ The woman’s sigh was like music. ‘You see? Even someone else’s touch calms it.’

  ‘Calms what?’

  ‘The flame. The—the need.’ There it was again in her voice; the shame. Shame that only stiffened Peterson’s cock further. ‘Oh, if only I knew how to do it myself—’

  ‘Hush.’ Peterson held her waist a little tighter. ‘You don’t need to. I’m here.’

  Now his lust had overcome his caution, everything suddenly seemed very straightforward indeed.

  With a brief burst of strength that made the woman gasp, Peterson lifted her off her feet and sat her on the desk. He gripped her skirts in her fists, pushing the fabric away from them both as he stood between her pale, shift-clad thighs.

  ‘Tell me if it’s too much.’ He gently placed his hands on the woman’s thighs, stroking her flesh, his fingertips thrilling at the touch. God, how long had it been since he’d touched a woman so beautiful? ‘Tell me if you don’t want it, or don’t like it.’

  ‘’Everything burns.’ The woman’s face, her blue eyes heavy-lidded with anticipation, sent sparks through Peterson. ‘Every touch is balm.’

  ‘Like this?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman sighed rapturously as Peterson pushed her shift upward. ‘Oh, I should hate it, it’s so wanton—’

  ‘No shame.’ Peterson couldn’t help but lean closer, his mouth a hairsbreadth from the woman’s earlobe. ‘You are unwell, no? You took something that made you feel unwell. I can provide relief.’

  ‘Like a doctor.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then give me relief, doctor.’ The woman reached down, her hands gently encircling Peterson’s wrists. Peterson bit back a grunt of pleasure at her touch. ‘This… this hunger is worse than any sort of pain.’

  Peterson took a deep breath as he leaned back. He looked at the woman exactly as she was; flushed, breathless, near-delirious with desire as she urged him to pleasure her.

  This was definitely, without a doubt, the most erotic thing that would ever happen to him. He wanted to remember it for the rest of his life.

  ‘Well?’ The slight touch of imperiousness in the woman’s voice only made it sweeter. ‘Will you—’

  She stopped, her words melting into a sigh, as Peterson kissed her.

  Relief. What would bring her to release quicker? She understood the concept, at least, even if she didn’t know the mechanics. He had to develop a stratagem, a plan—but oh, it was difficult to think at all now that the woman’s warm, yielding mouth was on his, her kiss deliciously sweet. Sweet and clumsily ardent, as if she had never known kissed beyond first exploratory pecks. Peterson gripped her thighs as he leaned into her, unable to restrain an answering sigh as his tongue brushed gently against the roof of her mouth.

  ‘No.’ Her frustrated tone as Peterson pulled away. ‘Do it again.’

  ‘Lift your thighs.’

  ‘Only if you do that again.’

  ‘Do you want to bargain, or do you want to order me?’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘You don’t seem sure.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Then lift your damned thighs, and hold your tongue.’

  W
ith a flash of excitement in her frosty blue eyes, the woman curled her thighs upward. Peterson pulled her closer, her skirts sending every paper on the desk flying into disarray, biting his lip as he took in the blonde curls at the meeting of her thighs.

  ‘You can see my—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you—’

  ‘I’ll give you relief, you impatient chit, and quickly.’ Peterson couldn’t resist a small smile as the woman’s breathing quickened. She liked it, then—a touch of impertinence. He would remember that. ‘Now come here.’

  With one impatient hand, he reached for the woman’s bodice. Curling his fingers, gripping the ribbons that tied the neckline of her gown, he pulled her into a deeper, harsher kiss.

  ‘Mmm.’ This time he couldn’t control the moan that left his throat. The situation was so close to dreams he’d had, to fantasies he had indulged in, that his body had begun to take the lead. The woman’s response was so ardent, so enthusiastic as she sighed against his mouth, that the sheer amount of pleasure he was feeling began to feel suspicious.

  Was it a trap? If so, what was he being trapped in? Peterson didn’t have time to furnish the thought as the woman caught his wrist in her fingers, pulling his hand to her mound with a sigh that mixed anguish and bliss.

  ‘You are too slow.’ Her tone was passionately urgent. ‘Don’t make me command you.’ Her flesh was hot against Peterson’s fingers. ‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to hold your tongue?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to give me relief?’

  God, he loved a fight. A commanding woman was infinitely more exciting than a thousand shy maidens. His palm thrilling at the feel of her, Peterson explored her with his fingers.

  It was only as he touched her deeply, felt her wetness, that he realised all over again the gravity of what they were doing. The strangeness of it—as if they were both in the same dream. Pulling away from the kiss, his hand steady against her curls, Peterson whispered in her ear.

  ‘Tell me if you want me to stop.’

  ‘If you stop, I’ll die.’

  That seemed definite enough. Breathing in the scent of her, grazing his teeth against her shoulder as a wild stab of lust shot through him, Peterson began to stroke her in earnest.

  ‘Like this?’ He parted her inner lips, running his fingers over her. The heat of a woman had always left him half-undone. ‘Does this help?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman’s whimper was breathless, her tone something between an order and a plea. ‘More.’

  He could give more. He could, and would, give her everything she wanted. Caressing her, her curls tickling his fingertips as he explored her, Peterson gently brushed against her tightly-furled bud as the woman cried out in unmistakeable pleasure.

  ‘Why does—why does it feel like that?’ Her whisper after such an uninhibited cry only increased Peterson’s lust. ‘I didn’t know it—oh, do it again.’

  Peterson obeyed. Obeyed once, twice, the caresses flowing from tens to dozens to a timeless, golden blur as the woman pushed against his hand, her hips rolling as she sought yet more pleasure. A quick, frenetic rhythm came from nothing, as swift and spectacular as wildfire, setting the woman on a definite path to climax as Peterson moved faster and faster still.

  He was close. How could he be close to finishing without being touched? Unimportant now, irrelevant—she was on the verge of coming, he could feel it in her body, and he was damned if he’d start worrying about himself when her pleasure was paramount.

  ‘I shouldn’t want this.’ The woman’s shocked murmur seemed to play no part in the enthusiastic response of her body. ‘This—this is the devil’s work.’

  ‘If you want me to, I’ll stop. You know that.’

  ‘And I’ve told you that if you stop, I’ll die. Or worse, I’ll—I’ll ravage you, and I don’t even know how to do it.’

  ‘You can still talk. It means I’m not doing my job well enough.’ Peterson brushed his lips against hers, the feel of her like hot silk against his hand. ‘Hold your tongue, or I’ll hold it for you.’

  ‘I shouldn’t like it when you say brutish things. It—it must be the drink.’

  ‘Shut up, and take your pleasure.’ Peterson let his teeth graze against her earlobe. Lord, he had to be dreaming. ‘Or I’ll begin to think that you lied about what you drank.’

  He moved faster, stroking her bud, his teeth tight on her neck with more strength than was warranted. Just a little more pressure, more swiftness, and she’d break—she was quivering now, squeezing her thighs around his hand, her cries more abandoned with every passing minute.

  ‘Oh, I—oh, Lord.’ The woman ground against his hand, her face the very picture of frustrated want. ‘Please—please help me.’

  ‘It’ll come. Give it time, and it’ll come.’

  ‘But I’m impatient.’

  Her stubborness was delightful. Peterson couldn’t resist a low growl of laughter as he kept his rhythm, his hand slow and exacting against her.

  A devious thought struck him. ‘I can make it come quicker. Will you let me make it come quicker?’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman nodded frantically. ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’ll mean being rough with you.’

  ‘Then be rough with me.’ The woman’s voice shook. ‘I’m stronger than you think.’

  Of that, Peterson had no doubt. With a harsh sigh, bending his head to the woman’s demurely covered chest, he pulled her bodice downward with a rip of several stitches. Ignoring the woman’s shocked gasp, lost in the ripe tumble of her breasts as they fell free, Peterson brought his mouth to one of her stiff, swollen nipples.

  The woman’s thighs tightened convulsively as he sucked hard. Her cry came, high and arching, as her desire flooded his weary hand.

  Swift. Frantic. Perfect.

  Fighting the urge to continue, Peterson pulled away. For a long, strange moment he stared into the woman’s eyes. They were both panting, breathless, as if they had fought an unexpected war.

  Then, with a snap of God’s fingers, the connection broke. Peterson pulled away, not knowing where to look as the woman jumped up, her fingers a blur as she restored herself to some semblance of order.

  After several silent, uncomfortable moments, she looked as she had when she had first burst into the room. The flush at the base of her neck had faded, her skin now a pale cream as she spoke awkwardly.

  ‘I assume you require payment for your—your services.’

  ‘No.’ With difficulty, Peterson remembered where they were. ‘It’s hardly as if you booked an appointment.’

  ‘I insist.’

  ‘I insist that you don’t.’

  With a final, fraught look at Peterson, evidently wishing to argue further, the woman left as quickly as she had arrived.

  For a long, silent moment, Peterson stood as still as a statue. Eventually, with a long, low whistle that did nothing to encapsulate his feelings, he sat in his chair.

  Had it actually happened? Had a woman really just thrown his arms around him and demanded… well…

  … and had he actually given it to her?

  He was as hard as a rock, breathless, the scent of rosewater and female desire still thick in the air. Not only had it happened, it had happened with more potency and strength than almost every other event in his life.

  Why wasn’t he following her? Why wasn’t he demanding her name, her surname, her address? Demanding that she stay with him?

  No point in trying to prolong a perfect moment. Peterson tried to believe it—tried to forget, even as he sat rock-hard in his master’s chair. But as he reached for the newspaper with shaking hands, the memory of the woman’s skin still hot on his fingertips, he knew that he had done something unforgettable.

  Rebecca didn’t wish to lie to herself. It was her honesty, almost to a fault, that had given her satisfaction in an otherwise fraught and dreary life. Which is why, with a trembling sigh that moved through every one of her bones,
she admitted to herself that what had happened in the Cappadene Club had felt wonderful.

  Wonderful beyond measure. To be brought to a fever-pitch through no fault of her own, and to have said fever most expertly calmed… why, only the most ferocious hypocrite would pretend that she hadn’t enjoyed what had occurred.

  That did, of course, leave her in something of a quandary. Not merely a quandary—the most impressive moral dilemma of her otherwise blameless life. She had wandered the streets for some hours, desperately looking in any number of shop windows for utterly unsuitable articles, before returning home and feigning a convenient headache.

  The headache had saved her the trouble of dinner, bathing, and conversation. When morning came, alas, she had to bathe, converse and eat breakfast—the coffee scalding her throat, the apple powdery and unchewable in her mouth. With her heart in her throat, knowing she needed succour, Rebecca had made her way to the house of Mary Atterson as soon as she deemed it a respectable hour.

  Mary Atterson’s morning room was the most morally unimpeachable room in London. Rebecca sat amidst the violently floral furniture and vasework in silence, feeling like a rat that had managed to sneak into a dovecote as Mary took a restrained sip of tea.

  She had always so enjoyed tea with Mary. The woman was wise, witty, and had a refreshingly diligent attitude to matters of morality—she was no dilettante, managing to visit the poorest areas of the city without turning a hair. Still, when it came to how she had spent the day before, Rebecca was fairly sure that what she had done could turn Mary’s hair white from root to tip.

  She had to find some way, any way at all, of reducing the guilt she felt deep in her soul. They had spoken of any number in ways the Vice Prevention ladies could improve or expand the work that needed to be done in London. Perhaps, in this fallow period of silence, she could ask something a little more personal.

  She cleared her throat. ‘If… if one of the ladies who attend the meetings for the prevention of vice was to do something shocking, what would be done about her?’