Page 15 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

Cressida thought herself experienced. A widow well-versed in the arts of seduction, the act of surreptitiously carrying on with a gentleman.

Fool she’d been.

He’d kissed her with such ferocity, it scattered her thoughts and set her hands aflutter, fingers fidgeting in the air, unmoored and overeager. It was only once she melted into him, and slowed his lips with hers, that they finally came to rest upon his shoulders. And then he pressed forth, one thick arm snaked around her waist, pulling her closer, the crinkling of her silk tea-gown deafening against the silence. She dug her fingers into his shoulders. Yes, he was as deliciously built as she’d dreamed; all solid muscle wrapped around his massive frame.

He tasted wonderful.

It had been so long since she’d been handled like this, with the urgent need and careful consideration of a lover. Months.

His kisses slowed, his lips tasting hers, no longer devouring. His breathing was heavy, and Cressida felt the foolish impulse to reach for his collar and tear it apart with her hands, neckcloth and stick pin be damned.

Oh, but how she’d yearned for this, and how she’d earned it, enduring the hideous attentions of her repellent husband for all those years. Now she could be free to find real pleasure such as this.

She’d always been careful about these sorts of things, having never given in to desire with a man in her own home. But this time, she very much wanted this tall, strapping specimen to have his way with her, up against the library wall, with her legs wrapped about his middle. Of course, she would not allow it, no matter how her body tightened, how she craved it. Kissing was fine, but any rutting ought to be carefully arranged for off the premises. That was how one evaded gossip and scornful looks.

The doctor’s hand slid up her back, to the nape of her neck, caressing her as he drew out one more long kiss. But then he pulled away and rested his forehead against hers, panting. No , she wanted to cry. Why had he stopped? She dared not open her eyes, afraid it might end as quickly as it had begun.

“Please,” she whispered, her fingers working their way down his lapels, along the placket of his shirt. His chest rose and fell under her hands. How desirous she was of laying her palm against him there, to feel the heat of his skin. For although her body had warmed, it was not her own heat she sought. It was his, against her, under her, encircling her. “Is it not nice, this?”

“You…” he choked out.

She opened her eyes. His face, inches from hers, was hard. His brows were drawn, his square jaw set. In agony? In desperation?

“You can’t mean it,” he finally finished, voice rasping, eyes intent upon hers. “You jest, you… you play with me. Surely not… not even if…”

Cressida smiled. Gently she reached for his spectacles. He started, but after a moment drew back slightly, allowing her to remove them. She set them on the shelf of books alongside them. And then she placed a hand upon his cheek, stroking it, feeling the slight scratch of his whiskers, the warmth of his skin.

“Don’t be daft, Doctor,” she murmured as she studied his mouth. He’d a little scar running perpendicular to the edge of his lower lip. From what? she wondered. “We both know that you’re far from it.”

This time, Cressida kissed him, taking that lower lip between hers.

Something in him broke. He seized her, taking her up in his arms, turning her about, and pressing her into the bookshelf, hard.

Cressida barely had a moment to gasp. She heard something hit the floor with a thud. And then he was upon her, rubbing his body against hers, kissing her jawline, then around her neck just above her collar. Oh , she realized, her senses slowly returning. He’d dropped the book he’d been holding. Spinoza, he’d said it was .

Suddenly she felt him, hard and insistent against her thigh. She wriggled instinctively, wanting him against her, wanting more than she really ought to just now. The shelf pressed into her back and her head, but she didn’t care. He sucked at her throat. She bit back a moan.

One massive hand drifted from her shoulder to her waist. In her loose gown, without the armor of a corset, she felt a surge of excitement as he squeezed her there, and caressed her, his hand rising with every kiss upon her neck. Her body ached in anticipation. And then, so casually, almost as if by accident, that same hand grazed her breast, her hard nipple. She bit her lip, digging her fingers into his back, desperate to regain her control. But then he palmed it, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her, all the way to her core.

And then Cressida did moan.

Like some wanton harlot, entertaining a man in her own house, in broad daylight. She froze, suddenly panicked.

After a moment Dr. Collier halted. When still she did not speak, he jerked away as if he’d been burnt. Cressida stumbled, then regained her footing with one hand upon a shelf. Silently she thanked Bartholomew for insisting upon only the best and sturdiest furnishings for the library.

“I beg your pardon, Dr. Collier,” she managed, surprised at the unsteadiness of her own voice. “I don’t usually comport myself like this.” She felt about her hair, making sure it was tidy enough to not give her away. “At least, not outside the privacy of the bedroom.”

Still his face was wild, determined in a way that nearly made Cressida reconsider the immutable laws she’d enacted for these sorts of things. His eyes, though, looked horrified.

“My lady. I—I don’t know what to say, how to even begin to apologize for myself—”

“Oh dear, no. No, darling, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

She reached over and plucked his spectacles from the shelf where she’d placed them. Her body still throbbed. How could she stand to send him off like this?

But how could she allow it to continue, when she’d always been uncompromising when it came to this? This was not just her home, or even her blasted dead husband’s. It was her sons’ as well. And she would sooner die than see Arthur or Henry tangled up in her romantic escapades.

“There’s no occasion, no setting, no place in this world where my… my forwardness would be appropriate, and I… I don’t know what to say.” Dr. Collier’s ears were red now.

“Hush,” Cressida said, sharpish. “Hang propriety.”

She stepped toward him and unfolded his spectacles. He made to reach for them, but she ignored his hand, and stood up on her tiptoes to place them upon his face herself.

“If you truly think I thought that inappropriate,” she murmured, allowing her fingers to trail down his face, to his neck, then spread atop his shoulders as she smoothed his jacket, “then perhaps you really are daft.”

A muscle flexed in his neck. She reached down with one hand and forced his tight fist open. She laced her fingers through his.

“I should very much like to continue our discussion,” she said coquettishly.

He watched her, his face inscrutable as she brought their joined hands up to her face.

“That is,” she said, pretending to study their hands—hers so slim and elegant, adorned with a spectacular ruby ring, while his were large and veined—“if you’re so inclined.”

She lowered her lips, placing the gentlest of kisses atop the back of his hand. And then she released him. His expression was determined, his eyes wide, still staring at her mouth.

“You’re familiar with the Euston Hotel, I gather?”

He nodded slowly, his gaze still hard.

“Well then,” Cressida said, giving him a radiant smile. “Perhaps I shall see you there?”

He licked his lips, and with apparent difficulty managed to say one word: “When?”

“Whenever you send for me,” she whispered, still smiling.

He thought of nothing else but fucking her for the entirety of the following week.

Well, that wasn’t completely true. He spent nearly as much time excoriating himself for his perverse disposition. But he could not be swayed.

She would have him.

She’d said as much, both with her words and with the exhilarating way she’d responded to his kiss, writhing upon him like she’d been driven mad with hunger. She hadn’t blanched at his rough handling, hadn’t turned up her nose when he’d revealed his hand. In fact, she’d smiled with those fetching dimples, looking very well pleased with herself.

Matthew had never been wanted like that before. Certainly not by someone like her.

It made him delirious.

The feeling could not even be tempered by the dining room of the Transom Club, where he stared at the wall, thinking only of how painfully glorious she’d felt through the loose silk of her gown. Matthew sighed, resting his chin upon his hand.

He’d only need to say the word, and she would meet him at that Euston Station hotel. But how? How could he?

How could he request for her to come to him? It seemed both impossible and utterly necessary, if he were to continue living.

“What is this now? Are you planning to ever rejoin us on this plane of existence?” spat Mr. Hudgill.

“I highly doubt that ,” interjected the sour Mr. Mordaunt. “I have it on good authority that he was seen dining at the Athenaeum last week.”

Somehow, once again, he’d found himself seated with the former newspaperman and the mysterious old Scot.

Matthew could barely hear the sound of his fork clattering to the plate, on which rested a still-intact carrageen pudding, looking quite forlorn and deathly pale. He loathed the dessert.

“What? Our Dr. Collier, guilty of such perfidy?” the elder man sputtered. “I don’t believe you.”

“Oh?” Mr. Mordaunt cocked a wild gray brow. “Why not ask him yourself?” He lifted his fork to point at Matthew. A repulsive globule of white, gummy pudding dripped from its tines onto the tablecloth.

Matthew wished very much to be excluded from this conversation, indeed from the entire course. But it wouldn’t do to get up just now.

So he remained seated, still as a stone.

“I will not,” declared Hudgill, summoning all the strength he could muster from his reedy voice. “My trust in the doctor is implicit. I would not drink my madeira with anyone less than forthright.”

Matthew suddenly felt even more uncomfortable.

“Bah, you miserable pinchpenny. I doubt your madeira is anything to boast about.”

“Wouldn’t you wish to know,” the stooped Hudgill snorted.

For a moment Mordaunt appeared to consider this, but his baleful look quickly returned.

“No, I truly do not.”

“At any rate, I don’t believe you.” Hudgill did his best to straighten himself up. “Whoever suggested thus is a miserable liar.”

Matthew began to clear his throat, wishing to correct his defender before this tangle blew up into something far more serious. But he was far too slow to forestall the old man’s miserable temper. Mordaunt slapped the table with his open palm. The remaining dishes jumped, clanging mutedly against the tablecloth. Matthew felt the eyes of the dining room turn to them.

“My sources are solid, damn you!” Mordaunt growled.

“Then name them, you ruffian!” Hudgill shouted in reply.

“Gentlemen, the bylaws, the bylaws!” Matthew hissed.

“Oh, now you care for our bylaws?” Mordaunt regarded him skeptically. “Who’s to say you’re not sitting here dreaming of your name upon the Athenaeum entrance ballot? Even as you dine among us, sharing our conversation and enjoying our carageen pudding?”

Matthew looked at his untouched dessert dish one more time, then pushed it as far from him as seemed polite.

He noticed Mordaunt eyeing the hideous, colorless glob. The man’s own dessert plate was empty.

“By all means, take mine,” Matthew offered.

Mordaunt stared at him, eyes narrowed. Finally he reached reluctantly across the table, snagging the china plate without releasing Matthew from his scornful gaze. He set to the dessert in the same manner, his stare unwavering as he chewed.

As if one could chew the monstrous thing. Matthew checked himself, not wishing to retch.

On any other evening, he truthfully would be thinking of how grand it would be to sit within the hallowed walls of the Athenaeum, dining alongside the finest minds of the age. How thrilling it would be, how utterly unbelievable, to finally be recognized and appreciated.

But tonight, membership at the club of his dreams seemed a cheap, paltry thrill compared to being desired by her . To having his back clawed at by her. To have her underneath his hands, within his arms, warm and receptive to his embrace. It was a need he’d chased his entire life, one that until now he’d only found in the excitement of the gaming tables.

“You’re looking awfully flushed, Doctor,” Hudgill said, interrupting Matthew’s thoughts. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“No, no…”

Matthew removed his spectacles and wiped the lenses. He’d have to divert the two nosy old trouts if he were to make it through the evening. As he replaced his spectacles, he conjured the best kind of bluff. One that was true enough, but not exactly the truth they were after.

“It’s only, well. I’ve met a woman, you see.”

He could nearly feel the breeze as the two old men sat up straighter. Good.

“Yes, a widow.”

“Comely?” asked a suddenly intrigued Mordaunt, between bites of the carrageen pudding.

“Very.”

“Of ample means?”

“Yes.”

“Very good, very good, lad.” Mordaunt chuckled and sat back, wiping at his mouth with his napkin. “My advice is to marry her straightaway. You know what they say about widows, don’t you, boy?”

“Erm…” Matthew squinted. He didn’t like the suggestive tone the man was using. “I’m not quite sure?”

“Bilgewater! No need to fill the doctor’s head with such filthy notions.” Mr. Hudgill shook his head. “No need to forfeit your independence, or hand over the reins of your household. You’ll regret it all your days, Doctor, I swear it. Be wary of widows, is my advice.”

“And, I suppose, you would be the expert? A bachelor who’s lived at his club forever and a day?”

“Why… I never…” the elderly man reached to his side, feeling about for his walking stick which leaned against the table. When his hand clasped about it, he pounded the floor twice, drawing all eyes in the room to them once more. “Now, listen here, Mordaunt, just what are you suggesting?”

Matthew quickly stood up.

Both Mordaunt and Hudgill looked at him, eyes wide with surprise.

“I…” Matthew started, feeling the heat creep up his neck.

He was ostensibly only speaking to the two men at his table, but with the entire dining room unusually enraptured by the daily locking of horns between the two curmudgeons, it felt as if he were addressing the Transom Club in its entirety. He lifted his head higher.

“I beg your pardon. I have… correspondence to attend to.”

And then he quit the room, his heart thudding.

He never wanted to see carageen pudding again, for as long as he lived. If you’d not been such a coward, you might dine at your own house , a vicious little voice at the back of his head suggested. You might have a wife to tend to such matters. A wife to instruct your cook, to set the menu to suit. You might have married Harriet.

No. Matthew set his jaw. He did not wish to have Harriet.

He never had.

And then another voice, far more sonorous and enticing, emerged from his memory.

Whenever you send for me.

Matthew blew out a shaky breath as he stalked down the hall, making his way to the entrance where the curly-haired porter was examining his fingernails atop his high desk, barely acknowledging Matthew’s approach.

“Pantler. I have two requests.”

The lackadaisical young man straightened up and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir?”

“First, I require a cab.”

“Very good, sir,” Pantler said with a slow nod. “And the other?”

Matthew felt something like an electric current sparking across his skin, twisting through his veins and arteries, lacing through his muscular tissue.

“I need a message sent. Right away. To one Lady Caplin, Rowbotham House.”

The porter didn’t flinch, immediately opening one long drawer within his desk and producing a clean sheet of paper. He slid it toward Matthew, along with his own inkstand and pen, then returned to scrutinizing his nails.

Matthew had his doubts about Pantler’s diligence, but he prayed that the club regulations would hold, and protect both him and Lady Caplin from gossip or rumor.

Heart in his throat, he lifted the pen.