Page 16 of The Baron Without Blame
There was a part of him that still knew this was wrong. But Martin could barely hear it. Lolly wanted this, whether she married him or not. He wanted this. It had to be the right thing. She was the woman for him, whether their fate lasted these ten minutes or ten decades.
His lips returned to hers, drinking in the taste of her want, reveling in how she massaged her body against his. She needed him as much as he needed her; there was no better feeling than that. Still kissing her, he gathered her skirts in his two hands, drawing them up to her waist. He was about to repeat the action with her petticoats when the drawing room door opened.
“Time to come in now, Rosalind,” Lord Turner called. “You’ll get a chill.”
They stood to the far right of the door, and an ornamental potted tree acted as a screen so they were not within direct eyesight. But barely. If Lord Turner cared to turn his head and squint, he would clearly see his daughter against the wall.
The man did not turn his head. “Yes, Papa!” Lolly called. “We’ll return directly.” After Martin released her, she smoothed her skirts, as if that could hide the desirous fever in her eyes or the red swell of her lips. For his part, he looked away, reciting French conjugations to erase the evidence of his cock. Lolly walked ahead of him on the path, smiling to her father as she reached the door. “We lost all thought of time to the philosophy of equality.”
Lord Turner was not fooled; he smiled indulgently at Lolly and leveled Martin with a more sober glare.
Martin found he didn’t care whether Lord Turner disapproved. He really didn’t care for anything other than what Lolly thought. “Thank you for the discussion, Lady Rosalind. Have I successfully changed your mind?”
She looked back at him with a smirk. “I’m sure I cannot say until I have given it more thought.” And she sauntered inside.
Chapter Eight
Northfield Hall was the type of house that grew deathly quiet at night. Wrapped in her quilt on the first story, Lolly could hear the creaks of servants closing up each room, the slow footsteps of her father retiring to his suite, the groan of the floorboards as everyone settled for the night. And then…nothing. With the thick curtains tied shut across the windows and brick walls closing her in, the house went silent. After a while, she couldn’t even hear the crackle of the fire, seeing as it had cooled to embers.
It hadn’t bothered her the other nights. She had fallen asleep almost as soon as tucking herself into a cocoon of covers.
Tonight, however, her whole body buzzed, as if it were midday instead of midnight.
What a day it had been. Burning anger at Martin, bookended by two unforgettable kisses. The last one in the garden had felt endless, like a bursting glimpse of eternity.
Even now, she felt the ghost of his lips exploring her skin.
He was only a few rooms away from her. This had always been true, but tonight, Lolly felt it as if he were lying on the mattress beside her. Separated only by a few walls and several hundred feet, Martin slept. She imagined him on his back, just like she was. Except he wouldn’t turn to covers for comfort. He would be sprawled, two powerful legs stretching towards the bedposts. It was a warm enough night that perhaps he wouldn’t be wearing anything except his nightshirt.
Maybe he would have removed even that.
Lolly pressed her eyes closed, a wave of hot desire rolling deep inside her. She shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help picturing him naked. She had felt his muscles beneath his clothes just hours earlier. His chest would be strong and firm, a canvas waiting to be kissed. His arms would flex as they reached above his head. And his legs…
Lolly had never properly seen a man’s legs without trousers, but she remembered how they had felt pressed against her thighs, fully clothed. Strong. Demanding. With specific ideas of what might happen next.
There was his member, too. It was cloudy in her imagination, but that didn’t matter. Again, she remembered its silhouette, nudging between her legs. She hadn’t expected that to be so blinding, not with bolts of material between them. But the memory of it alone drove her fingers down to her quim. She rubbed her thumb against the point that always begged for attention. She imagined it was Martin, as eager for her as she was for him. She pressed herself against the mattress the way he had pressed her against the wall. She conjured his teeth nibbling at her neck. And while her thumb pulsed against her peak, her fingers slid downwards, charging all the way down to her channel. She made herself gasp, imagining it was Martin in all his male glory. Her daydream got bigger, looser, turning him into a shadow above her, kissing her as he pounded her, and before she even wanted to, she lost control, arching against her palm in white-hot pleasure.
She drew her hand back, trembling. She always did extra prayers the morning after nights like this. Begging forgiveness. Hating her body for coating her fingers with such wet, wanton desire. Wondering if she was the only deviant.
But it felt so right whenever she gave in. Natural. Her mind disappeared into her body; her body seized her mind.
Although neither did it feel like enough. She always wanted more: more time, more pressure, more fingers gathering inside of her. She didn’t know exactly what marital relations would feel like, but she imagined it was what she did to herself, only better. More intense. More meaningful. More beautiful.
Martin had all but admitted to engaging in relations before, even though he wasn’t married. He didn’t have to waste hours in the night, wondering about the act. Worrying about whether, by choosing not to marry, he was sacrificing the opportunity to experience it. Worrying whether his life would stretch into loneliness without it.
It was a horrible reason upon which to make a decision. But there was a part of Lolly that was tempted to marry Martin only because it would mean she could finally experience the act. And hopefully experience it more than once. Whereas if she fled to Boston, she was good as committing her virtue to God. She couldn’t ask Frances to give her a position with children and then turn into a fallen woman. She would have to be a paragon of all good behavior.
If only she could experience the one time. Get it out of her system, so that it didn’t hover over her decision. Then she could choose between a life with Martin or a life on her own, without her current haze of lust.
Her fingers had stopped trembling, but the rest of her body hadn’t calmed yet. Rather the opposite: the heat between her legs felt more liquid than ever, and each nerve pounded against her skin, yearning for someone’s touch.
He was only a few rooms away.
It was insanity, what Lolly was thinking of. It was abandoning all principles of good behavior and chastity. It was declaring herself loose and undeserving of respect.
She did it anyway.
Wearing nothing more than her nightgown, wrapper, and cap, Lolly tiptoed down the corridor. The silk carpet felt sinful beneath her toes. Near the landing, a floorboard squealed in protest at her weight, and she hurried into the shadow of the grandfather clock. But no one stirred.
