Chapter Nine
Clad in a dressing gown, Andrew sat at the side of his bed, looking at the object he held in his hands. Years hadn’t been kind to his little rag companion. Her expression had faded, her button eyes chipped, and she’d lost some of her yellow yarn locks. She’d accompanied him on countless journeys, had been there during his darkest hours and rise to success, and he’d never been able to let her go. She was a reminder of all the roads he’d traveled to get where he was; just looking at her caused emotions to swirl up in him like sediment in disturbed waters.
Right now, holding her in his palm, he felt… guilty.
What the bloody hell was I thinking?
The truth was he hadn’t been thinking. From his encounter with Primrose at the masquerade to the debacle at the plumassier’s a week ago, he’d been driven by a force that had nothing to do with rationality. It didn’t matter that his desire for her was intense, inexplicable, and irresistible: he had no excuse treating her like he had.
As if it weren’t bad enough that he’d abandoned her when she was a girl, he’d now done it to her again—and Primrose deserved better. Hell, she deserved everything.
Everything that you can’t give her.
Telling himself that he’d left her for her own good didn’t ease his frustration. Nor did he find consolation in the fact that he would continue to protect her from afar as he’d done in the months preceding his disastrous intervention at the masquerade. Now that he’d held Primrose, kissed her, touched her… his gut clenched, his groin burgeoning with heat.
He’d had sex with countless women, for profit and for pleasure; never once had he felt the way he had with Primrose. Never had he been so absorbed by another, body and mind. Never had another’s pleasure been so inexorably twined with his own.
She’s not for you. Let her go.
He yanked open the drawer of his bedside table, his touch gentling as he returned the doll to its rightful place. He got up, pacing the confines of his large and luxurious bedchamber. He’d purchased this grand house in Mayfair three years ago, and being in this room with its white marble fireplace, Aubusson carpets, and carved mahogany furnishings usually settled him. Reminded him of how far he’d come. He was no longer a whore living hand to mouth but a man who had businesses, properties, investments—everything he’d once dreamed of.
For the first time, he wondered, Is it enough?
“What the devil is the matter with me?” His muttered words echoed in the empty room.
He dragged a hand through his hair. Then he rang for his valet.
A while later, hot water lapped against his skin as he leaned back in a large copper tub. He’d spent far too many years surrounded by grime and dirt, and bathing was one of his favorite rituals. Equipped with the latest plumbing innovations, the room had hot water piped directly to the brass taps on the side of the tub. Marble imported from Italy lined the walls and floor, and a fireplace kept the room steamy even as wind and rain blustered outside the window. Here in his sanctuary, he was protected from the winter storm… but not from his own inner tempest.
He wasn’t fit for Primrose. He didn’t have a title or family; his reputation couldn’t be more notorious. There was not one respectable thing about him.
I don’t care about any of those things. Her words haunted him.
He rubbed his hands over his face. If she knew what he’d been—what he was—she’d undoubtedly be singing a different tune. Yet he couldn’t keep the devil from whispering in his ear: what if… what if…?
The notion was unthinkable. She needed a husband whose status could protect her, give her the security she needed—the kind she hadn’t had for the first four years of her life. He wondered if she understood the origins of her fears. If she recalled any of those roaming childhood days, no anchor to safety, people floating in and out of her life… including him.
The coward who’d left her behind.
The old knots of guilt tightened; he shoved the thought from his head.
Instead, he reached for the bar of translucent soap that he’d had his valet pick up for him. He brought it to his nose, sniffing. He’d recognized the distinctive garden scent of Pears soap on Primrose. In truth, he’d smelled the soap on too many ladies to count and never taken a particular liking to it—except on Primrose. On her, its fragrance mingled with the subtle feminine musk of her skin to form a rare and potent aphrodisiac.
Beneath the water, he went hard.
He ran the bar over his damp chest, the turgid muscles twitching at the slippery sensation. Perhaps his self-imposed celibacy was feeding into his inappropriate desire for Primrose. Since ending his last relationship two years ago, he hadn’t bedded anyone. Hadn’t wanted to. Being alone had seemed right somehow. His focus had been on work, success—making something of himself.
Whenever the urge had arisen, he’d simply taken matters into his own hands. Looking back, he hadn’t frigged himself in weeks; perhaps he needed a release. Something to take the edge off. He fisted his cock, running the tight grip from root to tip.
The fantasy he’d fought to suppress rose in his mind’s eye, and, this time, he let himself go back to the plumassier’s. Closing his eyes, he inhaled the fragrant skin of Primrose’s arched neck as he fondled her pussy. God, she was wet, her passion natural and generous. When he rubbed her bold little pearl, she gasped his name. He swallowed the breathless cries of her climax as his fingers delved deeper into her lushness.
His biceps flexed, the sound of the rippling water transforming into the silken rustle of skirts being raised. He imagined himself going down on one knee—only right to worship such a treasure. He pictured what he had touched: slender, curved legs topped by a silky blonde nest. With his thumbs, he parted her cunny and swiped his tongue up her sweet pink slit.
His chest surged, his fist jerking. He’d always enjoyed a woman’s pleasure, and the idea of eating Primrose’s pussy made his heart pound in his cock. He searched out her love-knot with his tongue, tickling it, egged on by her breathy pleas. Her fingers slid into his hair, holding him close as her cunny gushed honey into his ravenous mouth.
He found her entrance with his middle finger, the tight little hole resisting as he eased in just the tip. Her lush passage squeezed his digit, his grip tightening on his cock to mimic that delight. He’d never had a virgin before, never thought he wanted one. Yet the idea of being Primrose’s first—her only—made him shudder with lust.
His bollocks burgeoned, and he palmed them with his other hand. Water sloshed against the tub as he frigged himself harder, faster, fantasy blurring into animal need. He climaxed, releasing his seed in hot, rapid spurts.
Panting, he rested his head against the tub’s edge and closed his eyes. He was sated but not satisfied. A part of him wondered if it would always be this way.
~~~
“I think that does it, sir.” Kendrick, Andrew’s valet, stepped back, waiting for his approval.
Andrew inspected himself in the cheval looking glass. He’d lured Kendrick away from a penurious viscount; as far as he was concerned, the valet was worth his weight in gold. As fastidious as the famed Beau Brummell, Kendrick ascribed to strict principles of simplicity and elegance. The navy frockcoat, shawl-collared waistcoat, and grey trousers fitted to Andrew’s form with nary a wrinkle. Beneath his cleanly shaven chin, the cravat was tied in a perfect Mathematical.
“Yes, that will do—” At the knock, Andrew frowned and bade entry.
A footman entered the dressing room. “Pardon the interruption, sir, but there is a young woman here to see you.”
Andrew’s heart bumped against his ribs. “What is her name?”
“She wouldn’t give it, sir, but she said that she is here on an urgent matter and that you told her to seek you out.”
Would Primrose abandon all propriety… to see me?
Joy, raw and ungoverned, jolted him into action. Before he knew it, he was striding out of his suite and down the steps to the drawing room. He entered… and stopped short.
The woman standing by the window wasn’t Primrose.
“Odette.” Reining in his disappointment, he frowned at his employee. “What are you doing here? I gave you specific instructions to stay with Miss Kent at all times…”
He trailed off as premonition hit him like an icy fist.
“A calamity has befallen, sir,” the French maid blurted. “Miss Kent—she has eloped!”