Trust me regency risks, p.1
Trust Me (Regency Risks), page 1
Trust Me
©Copyright Natasha Blackthorne 2014
Edited by Jon Rauch
Cover Art ©Copyright Natasha Blackthorne 2014
Kindle Version
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, “shared” or distributed in any printed or electronic form, including email or IM, without prior written permission from the author, Natasha Blackthorne, at n.blackthorne@yahoo.com.
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction, sharing, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
This e-book contains explicit erotic scenes and graphic sexual language. Some readers may consider such content offensive. It is for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country and/or state where this e-book was purchased. Please store your files where minors cannot access them.
DISCLAIMER: Natasha Blackthorne writes romantic fiction for entertainment purposes only. Please do not attempt to use this book as a “how-to” book for any topic. Her works are not meant to be a guide or a representation of modern BDSM practices or lifestyles. Please seek the guidance of an experienced practitioner and/or your personal physician before trying any new sexual practice. The author, Natasha Blackthorne, will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of her titles.
Trust Me is written in British English.
Trust Me
By Natasha Blackthorne
Book two in the Regency Risks Series
Dedication
Sincere thanks to Carol, Tammy, Tarah, Katalina, Gabrielle, Juanita, Kitt and all my Facebook friends. Thank you all for helping me to keep my balance and focus and for understanding me.
Thank you to my editor, Jon Rauch
Thank you to all my readers and those who have helped and supported me.
Special thanks to Alvania Scarborough.
Dear Readers
Trust Me is an erotic historical romance. It features frequent, graphic descriptions of sexual acts and frank sexual slang from the time period. As a work of historical fiction, it is not meant to be an accurate portrayal of modern BDSM lifestyles or practices. It also contains arcane medical and sexual beliefs and practices. It is not meant to be an accurate portrayal of modern treatment or recovery from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Devon, England
Autumn 1819
Chapter One
The clock on the mantle chimed once and then was silent. Jon had never expected to find himself already in bed at one in the morning on his wedding night. Much less to be ensconced in a rented cottage in the country and married in a private ceremony witnessed only by servants.
But then, he had entered into a very different sort of marriage than he had ever intended.
His wife lay in his arms, her naked body limp, slightly damp with sweat. Her scent surrounded him: lavender, rose and all the sweet aroma of a woman’s sexual arousal. Firelight burnished the dark honey colour of her skin to glowing amber, and her hair lay spread over the white pillow, blacker than ink. Her thick lashes lay like sooty crescents on her cheeks. Her full lips were a rich burgundy wine.
She reminded him of the Creole women he’d known in the Caribbean and New Orleans. However, for all her being half-Spanish and raised in Ireland, Anne was wholly English in her manner.
That contrast fascinated him. Endlessly.
“I feel your stare… it’s burning me.” Her voice was soft, slightly breathless.
“You’re too beautiful.”
“You sound aggrieved over the matter.”
Perhaps he was.
He had anticipated marriage being different. Once he’d gained her acquiesce to wed him, he had expected some relief from the pressure of his feelings. Instead, he’d experienced a letting go of his remaining resistance to her appeal. He traced his fingertips over her check and chuckled softly. “You’re too beautiful.”
The barest hint of a smile flirted over her full, sensual lips. “You are aggrieved.”
She rolled away, and pressed into his stomach with her broad, round arse. He slid a hand over the gently curving cheek, lingering to savour the satiny texture of her skin. Lust pulsed in his loins. He gave her buttock a smack.
“Too damned beautiful.” He gave her another smack.
She jumped and gave a soft squeal. “Ow!”
He pulled her halfway back towards himself. “You can roll away from me but you cannot escape. Not now.” He slid his hand over her hip and down between her legs to cup the plump, warm softness of her mons. His other hand he rested at the base of her throat and felt the beat of her pulse. “I own you now, in every possible way.”
Satisfaction surged through him. She was his. Completely.
And he felt the increase in her heartbeat. The gush of wetness between her legs.
It had been like this the past few days since he’d brought her from Plymouth to the rented cottage in Devon. He was mad to have her, again and again, as though not more than a few hours could pass before their flesh must meet. And there had been no room for novelty or games, he just had to have her.
He had not intended to take her again tonight. It really wouldn’t do to wed her and then immediately take to treating her like a whore. Or even a mistress. But she was always making him lose his control. He shifted their bodies until she was beneath him, then he positioned himself between her thighs.
She moaned and pressed against his lower pelvis.
“Be still,” he growled, and he thrust all the way into her hot, wet, tightness.
She moaned again and hugged his shaft with her inner walls.
Desire knifed through him and he groaned. He bent and put his face to the curve of her neck and thrust and thrust within her. Harder, faster. He gripped her hips and gave her everything he had to give. That’s how it was.
There was no hiding his loss of control from her. No hiding the depth of his need.
The softness of her belly, the surprising firmness of her generous, full breasts and their hardened peaks, the feel of her body crushed beneath his, made his heart pound harder. A renewed tide of blood rushed hotly into his cock, making it throb against her tight walls.
“Jon! Jon!”
The sound of his name, spoken so frantically in her soft voice, sent sparks of fire from the base of his spine, through his shaft and threatened to make him spill.
He held still and reached between their bodies to stroke his fingers over her nub. That little protuberance was sweetly swollen and straining to his touch.
“Come,” he said with his mouth against her ear. He nipped at her neck.
A reflexive shudder racked her body. A fresh surge of wetness from her anointed his cock.
He nipped at her again. “Come for me.”
She trembled and gave that distinctive little catch of her breath, the most dulcet sound in all the world. He held his own breath, his heart pounding even harder, his hand shaking a bit with anticipation as he continued to stroke her. She trembled harder and harder, her moans growing convulsive. Her inner walls clenched on his shaft, over and over. Her nails raked from his shoulder blades, digging in, laying slicing, stinging scratches down his back.
God. God. God.
His control broke. His hips pumped frantically against hers.
The stridence of her cries increased.
She was coming a second time.
Her cunt grasped him, squeezed him. Pulled him in deeper. She clenched him harder, wave after wave, a rhythmic suction that made his cock leak frantically.
His hips arched forward and his seed roiled through his rod with force, deep, body-rocking surges of come erupting again and again. Heated splashes bathed his flesh as he remained embedded deep within her. He collapsed upon her, panting.
Now that was a fuck.
Hard to believe he had gone all his life as a man, all that time before, and been satisfied with so much less.
He chuckled through his panting and then he nipped at her neck again. “Wench.”
She gave a breathy, soft laugh.
He clamped his jaw to keep himself from spewing a gaggle of sentimental nonsense at her.
As he had done the previous night.
Well, the chit already knew that she had his heart twisted about her little finger. What good did it do to keep reiterating the matter?
He pulled his weight off her.
But she didn’t move, her body remained limp beneath his and this time the scent of her sweat was far stronger. He would have to make sure her nervous, intrusive maid didn’t attempt to wake her too early.
He laid his head on his pillow and took her hand and placed it to his cheek. He would lay here and catch his breath and then go call for some hot water and…
Jon awoke with a start and reached beside himself in the bed.
She was there.
Her body was warm. He put his hand above her left breast and held it there, feeling the strong, sure thump-thump, thump-thump of her beating heart.
Relief washed over him. But his breathing was still rapid.
He had dreamt he was at a palace attending a royal affair. And he had been so desperately loo
king for her. Asking everyone he passed if they had seen Anne Bourchier, the young widowed Lady Cranfield.
One old crone, a flower seller who seemed to have snuck in the door, had shaken her head sadly. “Lady Cranfield is dead. She died with young Lord Cranfield in that terrible accident.” And she had handed him a delicate, white flower.
He had stood staring at it, so pale and fragile against the dark grey of his suede glove.
White. Of course.
The symbol of a young woman who’d died childless.
A peculiar chill took hold in his guts. He wasn’t ready to give it a name. But it was damned cold in here this morning. He shook himself mentally and with some reluctance he moved away from Anne’s warm softness. She moaned softly and stirred but did not awaken. He arose from the bed and rang for Toby, his valet, to bring him strong black India tea. Then he sat at the small writing desk and tried to focus his thoughts on the coming day. There were many details to consider for their coming travel to Scotland.
Along with the steaming-hot tea, Toby brought some letters from London. Jon had sent for his mail a few days ago, but he wasn’t particularly interested in perusing the stack just yet. He wanted to go for a ride and clear his head before he dealt with any business matters. Yet he found himself frozen, staring at the steam rising off his tea. He scowled.
That damned dream.
Why the devil would he have asked for “Lady Cranfield” or “Anne Bourchier”? She was his wife now, Anne Lloyd, Lady Ruel.
“My lord.”
Jon lifted his gaze from the teacup to his valet’s sober face. “Yes, Toby?”
“There is a letter from the dowager.”
Jon raised his brows. “Is there really?”
He scowled. He’d purposely seen to all Grandmother’s needs and wants before leaving Mayfair for Plymouth. What the devil could she possibly need now?
“I’d best have a look.” Jon held out his hand.
Toby pulled a heavy looking letter off the top of the stack and placed it in his palm. Jon stared at Grandmother’s seal and couldn’t help curling his lip.
A most unwelcome intrusion.
“Shall I bring you anything else, my lord?”
“Kidneys and bacon.” Jon said distractedly as he broke the seal on the letter.
An hour later, the meat lay congealing and one of the grooms was exercising Jon’s horse. Jon had begun drinking his second glass of Scotch and couldn’t help but stare again at the words almost viciously slanted across the velum pages.
Lady S. tells me that this Lady C. threw herself at your head and made such a spectacle of herself that you will be forced to marry her. It is a matter of indecent interest that has set all tongues wagging. Lady W. B. and the Countess of C. both say they believe you are already gone away on your wedding trip. Is that it then? I demand to know! Have you married Lady C.? Please tell me you haven’t wed this hoyden!!!
Untidy blots of ink followed the last word and showed exactly how overset his grandmother had been when she had written.
Anger burned through him and his jaw actually ached. He tried to consciously relax it.
God but it galled him beyond bearing that anyone could imagine that he would ever allow himself to be forced into matrimony — or any other situation, for that matter—against his own will.
But even more vexing was the indignation he felt on behalf of Anne that anyone should believe that he had not wanted to wed her. Or that she had thrown herself at him in a shameless, desperate display lacking in pride.
Who had whispered such tales?
He didn’t need to think long on the matter to know the answer. The culprit came clearly to mind. Lady Scott, otherwise known as Cherry to her intimates.
Then there was his former fiancée, Lady Maria Waterbury, and the current Countess of Cranfield, Francesca Bourchier. Neither woman would be inclined to kindness where Anne was concerned.
His gaze returned to the letter and several more lines seemed to leap up at him from the page.
Ungrateful boy! May God damn you to blackest hell if you have wed such a shameless, drunken slattern!!! How can such a woman ever be worthy or fit to shoulder the responsibilities of a countess of Ruel?
His anger burned with more intensity. How like Grandmother to write such things so bluntly in a letter that might be opened en route and read by anyone. She often lost control over her sense. He could just see her now. Her blue eyes blazing, the cords in her neck strained, her patrician face white with rage.
He compressed his lips. Grandmother had apparently decided to take gossip as truth. She’d played judge before even meeting his new wife.
He and Anne must go to Mayfair and face all the rumours down.
That was all there was to be done.
And people must see Anne in all her dark beauty, her ducal aloofness. They must see the Countess of Ruel the way he saw her. Not the way jealous, vindictive gossips painted her. They must see for themselves that he had not been forced into any misalliance but rather that he had found his true wife.
But this was going to hurt Anne.
She hadn’t been in Society in years. It would hurt her to be thrust back into Mayfair so quickly after their marriage.
He had planned to take her to his hunting box in Scotland for the winter. A whole season for them to be alone, except for their servants, and to become accustomed to marriage.
Anne needed that time away. Alone.
He had promised it to her. And he didn’t like breaking his word to anyone, much less the woman he loved above all else in life.
Good God, had he just allowed himself to think that sort of sentimental tripe? Yes, he had. And it was complete truth. He did love her with everything inside himself. Sometimes the feeling was so strong, it was like a pain in his chest, in his throat.
And it was going to hurt him even more to hurt her. He had hurt her. Just weeks before, at that damned house party at Eastwood Place when he had been so resistant to loving her. He’d been determined not to change for anyone, not even Anne. And he had been mixed up inside and behaved harshly… cruelly? He drummed his fingers on the desk and swallowed against a tightening in his throat. Yes, ever so briefly, he had been cruel to her.
Well, he’d vowed never to hurt her again.
Yet now he must.
The heaviness in his chest surprised him. He realized that he was actually quite… sad.
He had been looking forward to their winter alone.
He released his tension in quiet whistle, and then tapped his fingers upon the desktop again.
There was no help for it. They must face this. No one could be allowed to believe that either of them was hiding in shame.
The bed creaked and drew his attention.
Anne had sat up, her black-as-midnight hair tumbled over her shoulders and her dark blue eyes were huge in a face that seemed a bit strained. A catch in his chest caused him to hold his breath.
He glanced back at the letter.
You stupid boy, did you forget yourself and stash your brains in your breeches?
Well, no one would ever accuse Grandmother of being shy of expressing a vulgar opinion in private.
He let the letter fall to the desktop. He approached the bed and shook his head. He forced a grin, to hide his lingering anger over the infuriating letter. “My shameless darling.”
Her lush, burgundy-red mouth dropped open. “Jon?”
He sat beside her. The scent of lavender and rose oil and early morning indulgence in newly wedded carnality. Resentment warred with rising lust.
He definitely was not ready to share her with the world.
He let his fingertips glide over her bare upper arms, lingering over her silken, warm flesh. “I received a letter from my grandmother.”
“Oh…” Still heavy-lidded with sleep, she blinked several times. “Is she well?”
“Yes, my love, she is well. Quite well.”
She dropped her gaze.
“You look so very young. Innocent.” He chuckled softly. “Certainly not old enough or experienced enough to be a woman of scandal.”
