Page 10 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

After bidding Henry good day, while urging him once more to read Dr. Johnson, Matthew sought out Lady Caplin to beg a favor.

Which was how he found himself following her butler, a large, stoic man with tidy gray hair, through the maze of the manse. When they arrived at the conservatory, the butler gave him a stern look and instructed him to wait.

Matthew thought it silly, and a bit of a charade, for he knew Lady Caplin must be within. But fine folks had their ways, as his aunt would always say. He supposed he’d better get used to it if he wanted to pass election to the Athenaeum. He already felt elated at the prospect of being granted access to Rowbotham House, but if he could manage to be admitted to the Athenaeum as well?

His heart surged.

And just to think, a mere few weeks ago all had seemed lost. Harriet, and with her any shot at a happy domestic life. Along with any hope for a better life in general, starting with a better club. Hell, even his reputation had seemed forfeit, after that terrible business in the East End spieler.

That recollection quickly twisted his high hopes, and his excitement darkened into anxiety. Until the bank holiday, Fliss had warned. And then…

Suddenly the butler appeared again, holding the door open. He nodded.

Matthew swallowed and went forth, doing his utmost to leave his worries about guts and garters at the conservatory threshold. He’d puzzle out the solution to Charles Sharples soon enough. He had to.

For now, there was the Athenaeum to think about.

The air of the conservatory enveloped him immediately, hot and heavy with moisture. Matthew felt very much as if he were stepping into a foreign land, an equatorial jungle. The entire space was chock-a-block with foliage: tall palms, vibrant and exotic blooms, and strange plants with broad leaves nearly large enough to shade a grown man.

“Dr. Collier.” Lady Caplin was fiddling with some violently magenta flower, a plant mister in one hand. “How lovely to see you this afternoon—Wardle informed me you wished to speak with me?”

She stood with her back to him, dressed in a delicate, gauzy white gown that appeared far fresher than it ought to in such humidity, its ruffles still crisp and voluminous. Indeed, even her hair was sleek, shining, and neatly knotted. Matthew wished he might remove his jacket, but he dared not. He ventured deeper into the tangle of plants. A pleasant bubbling sound came from a fountain somewhere nearby. The floor tiles were so richly decorated, it felt a crime to tread upon them. This was unlike any other space he’d occupied within the manor. Whereas the rest of Rowbotham House was loud in its assertion of luxury and dominance, the conservatory was more subtle. Lush, verdant. Romantic.

“All is well with Henry, I hope?”

“Yes,” he managed.

“Good.”

Lady Caplin looked over her shoulder, a softness to her face as she studied him. After a moment she smiled wide, those dimples appearing on her cheeks. Then she turned back to her plants.

Matthew realized that this was her private space, her sanctuary. How could it not be? He couldn’t recall ever having seen her so relaxed, so dreamlike. Quickly he looked away; it wouldn’t do to think of her in that way. She might flirt with him, might make a game of it, but she was not for him.

“It is clear that his skills have improved,” she said, “and for that I must thank you.”

She picked up a potted orchid, holding it far from her pristine white gown as she began walking down a tiled path. Matthew hesitated, but decided her intention was for him to follow. So he did. She came to a little alcove with a potting table and set the orchid gently down.

“If it’s not Henry you wish to discuss, you must mean to ask after my half of the bargain.”

Admiring her fine collection of books had reminded him of the Athenaeum’s collection. They spent four hundred and fifty pounds per annum maintaining and improving their own private, members-only library. His mouth opened slightly.

“Well, then.” She smirked and crossed her arms, sauntering closer to him as she spoke. “I’ll have you know I’ve spoken with my brother, Sir Frederick Catton. He’s agreed to bring you to luncheon as a guest.”

Excitement surged in him. Just as quickly though, it receded, as he considered her exact words.

“As a guest?” Matthew choked out. “Our agreement—”

“There’s no need to pull a face, Doctor. No one has perished.” She sighed, cocking her head to one side as she considered him. They now stood scandalously close. In the sweltering heat, that floral scent she always wore was even more potent, especially as it was accentuated by the ambient aroma of the surrounding greenery. “Yes, I’m well aware the agreement was to enable you to stand for election. I have not forgotten, and I shall uphold my promise to its full extent.” She lowered her voice, as if imparting a secret. “This is merely the first step of my overarching strategy.”

Matthew felt his center tighten. Why did she have to be so damned alluring? Why must she torture him so? With some effort he nodded, doing his best to appear civilized while desperately trying not to focus on the bead of sweat running along her neck, then down her chest, underneath the bodice of her gown…

He tore his gaze away only to be caught by hers. Her dark eyes glinted with amusement, a wry smile playing across her lips. The heat in the room increased exponentially. Mortified, Matthew suddenly wished to be immolated on the spot.

“Doctor, might I beg a handkerchief off of you?”

Glad to have an instruction to follow, he produced a clean folded square from his pocket. This one was plain, with no incriminating initials embroidered by Harriet’s hand. His entire body felt clammy underneath his summer suit.

She locked eyes with him intently, as if she wanted to be certain of his attention. And then she pressed the square of linen to her neck, just below her ear. And then a little lower. Then lower still, down to her décolletage. Matthew’s breathing slowed. He could no longer meet her eyes, only watch her hand pathetically, desperately. And then she came to the top of her bodice, her slim fingers pausing, waiting. Matthew couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t be thinking these thoughts, feeling these urges. And yet he couldn’t look away.

She languorously slid the folded handkerchief underneath the bodice’s neckline.

Christ, how he wanted to pull her close, fiddle with the small buttons, and open her gown. He wanted his mouth upon her, tasting her, teasing at her nipples through the fine fabric of her chemise. His head felt thick and heavy, his cock hard. The world around him had slowed; everything was heady and dreamlike. Blasted humidity.

His fingers itched with the urge to touch her, to slide a hand behind her neck and…

Fuck . He squeezed his eyes shut.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” she said, her words slow and deliberate. “I did not realize I was being indelicate.”

Matthew drew a shaky breath. When he forced his eyes open again, she was holding the handkerchief out. He couldn’t meet her eyes, could barely move to retrieve the handkerchief, now damp and richly scented.

“There now. Are you all better, then?”

No . Not hardly . Every cell in his body was tight and uncomfortable, desperate for relief.

“Of… of course,” he said, his voice thick. “I shall…” He backed up, knocking over a wicker ottoman. He righted it, his ears burning. “I shall see you next week.”

“Until then, Doctor,” she said.

But Matthew did not know how she looked when she said it, whether her expression was twisted in disgust or smug at his brutal humiliation, for he couldn’t look up from the lovely decorative tiles as he backed away. He could not bear to endure her censure.

He turned tail and fled.

He hailed a hack, unwilling to walk the city with his mind so arrested by the image of her fingers gently sliding the handkerchief across her bosom, skating just underneath her gown.

Mrs. Ellam met him at the door. He didn’t speak, didn’t pause, merely nodded his thanks as she took his hat and coat. Then he crossed the threshold to his study and locked the doors behind him. Immediately he collapsed in his chair and unbuttoned the fold of his trousers. He didn’t even glance at his locked drawer of lurid materials.

The image of her… of Lady Caplin, the elegant, graceful viscountess with her absolutely lovely tits, was more than enough.

His cock was already rigid, straining against his drawers. With a low sigh, Matthew pulled it out and ran his hand down its length, thumbing the feverishly hot head. Eyes shut, he conjured up a picture of Lady Caplin on her back, those glorious breasts bare, her gaze sultry. He groaned as he slowly stroked himself. The way she’d slid his handkerchief under her gown… had it brushed her nipples? Matthew bit his lower lip. What color would they be? In his fantasy he saw himself alongside her, teasing them erect, rolling them ever so gently between his fingertips. Taking them into his mouth, between his teeth.

With his idle hand, he reached up within his jacket, fishing around until he withdrew the still-folded square of linen. He held it up to his nose and inhaled deeply.

Hints of whatever eau de parfum she wore overwhelmed his senses. Matthew wasn’t fool enough to suppose he could place it; he only knew it was light, it was floral, it was feminine, and it was her . Good lord, if only she’d run the handkerchief along her thigh, higher and higher until it smelled even more of her.

A pulse of even greater desire ran through him. With one hand he shook the handkerchief out to its full size. And then he brought it to his throbbing prick, bunching it around the head. Matthew tightened his grip the slightest amount, and increased his rhythm just so.

He’d never wished to think of Harriet like this, never thought it right to draw her into the filth of his imagination. But Lady Caplin… something about her manner, the sly way she teased, the knowing look as she tortured him so.

Perhaps she might… perhaps she would enjoy—nay, even desire—this sort of thing.

Perhaps she’d wish for him to straddle her. Perhaps she’d gasp when he grazed her breast with the tip of his erection. Lick his length and take him into her mouth, using her saliva as a lubricant. Tongue that sensitive spot on the underside of the head.

Matthew breathed heavily, squeezing his eyes tighter, not wanting to lose this fantasy. Warmth was building in his middle, his groin, his thighs; an urgent and intoxicating sensation.

Then, with that devilish grin, she would place her hands on her tits and press them together. And he’d thrust in between. It was too much, thinking of her saucy smile, how she would watch first his face and then his prick, tucking in her chin for the best view as it slid up toward her mouth and then back down again. How he would then finish, releasing his seed upon her face, her lips. Her tongue darting out to—

“Christ… Lady Caplin…” he groaned as he finished into the handkerchief, his voice rough and hushed.

His heart hammered in his chest, and his entire body fell slack. He threw his head back, deepened his breaths. His limbs were heavy and warm, and he felt he could fall asleep right then and there.

But he couldn’t enjoy it. His mood came crashing down, unable to bear the weight of his shame, all forty years’ worth. He squeezed his eyes shut. For in this moment, with the clarity of one who’d just indulged in a desperate, ruinous fantasy, all he could think of was one thing.

How could he ever face her again after that?