Page 21 of Enticing Odds (The Sedleys #5)

She could send for him at his club. He’d told her as much.

But still Cressida hesitated, and still she remained in London, alone and melancholy, arrested by indecision and ambivalence. She wished to go out, but there was no place to go, nothing worth attending, nothing worth risking an encounter with some hoodlum who might expose her for what she had been up to.

So she carried on quietly, keeping to herself, playing cards with Henry, tending her garden. Anything to put off her return to the country.

Until she could bear it no longer.

At the secretaire in her drawing room she penned a quick note, her heart racing. It had been several days since she’d last seen him.

She wanted him. Desperately.

Her eyes fell to the little gold casket she’d purchased at the curiosity shop by the docks, with the engraved goldfish on the lid and the two diamond-studded gold dice within.

He was a gambler; it had been unwise of her to stake her future happiness upon someone drawn to risk as pathologically as a moth to flame. But Matthew nearly always won. He never courted games of pure chance, never dabbled in anything so dangerous as a hazard table. She felt a sudden urge to reach for the gold box, to open it and examine the dice, to hold them reverently in her hand as if they were a talisman. But she forced her gaze away and instead sealed the short missive she’d written.

When she handed it off to a footman, it took her a moment to search her memory for the name of the club at which he was a member.

The Transom Club. She wrinkled her nose as she spoke the words aloud. It sounded so plain, so… dull. No wonder Matthew sought membership at the Athenaeum, a proper gentleman’s club.

She went to the conservatory to wait for him, wishing she could wash away the uncomfortable churn of emotions, the unease of her ambivalence, the anxiety over wondering whether he would come. It pierced her heart like a dagger, even as Cressida knew it was pointless, this worrying. For of course he would come.

Even though he was far too good for the likes of her.

She paused, pursing her lips in a half-frown. Was he truly, though? He hadn’t denied knowledge of this Mr. Sharples. And there was that boy on the steps of the hotel, and his limp handkerchief incongruously embroidered with an elegant M.C.

Matthew Collier.

Don’t be foolish , she told herself. It was a silly thing to think. Why, she could hardly imagine the number of people in this city who must possess the same initials.

And yet that was all she could think of as she waited. Had she been a fool? Was she continuing to be a fool, calling him to her at her own home?

Cressida supposed tonight she would uncover the answer. She did not know how to feel about it.

Pacing the immaculately tiled floor, she ran her hands delicately atop the blooms, then stopped to finger a waxy leaf the size of a tea tray. She’d always done her best thinking here, amid the verdant foliage, in the thick, humid atmosphere. It hardly bothered her, for she wore her favorite tea-gown, without a corset, and the sun had set some time ago. As with most other conservatories, Rowbotham House’s was not heated, which would make it rather unpleasant during the winter months.

But for now it was tolerable, and with the scant, soft lamplight and the pitch-black darkness beyond the glass panes, it felt downright seductive.

Cressida lowered herself onto a cushioned wicker lounge, reclining into a nest of pillows. She shut her eyes. The hour was late. What exactly did she want?

She did not know.

She must have drifted off into a light sleep, for the next thing she knew was the sound of the doors to the adjoining drawing room echoing across the cavernous ceiling, then of purposeful footsteps crossing the conservatory’s floor.

Thankfully it was only one set of footsteps. Wardle was circumspect, as always. Perhaps her butler was the only man Cressida had ever trusted.

She had wanted to trust Dr. Collier. But how could she now?

Cressida sat up, her heartbeat accelerating. Would she send him away for good? Or would she go against good sense and forgo all the protections she’d put in place for herself?

Everything felt slow and dreamlike. In truth, she wasn’t quite sure if she was awake. Cressida blinked and moved her hand against the white silk of her tea-gown. It felt cool and smooth. She must be awake.

“My lady,” a familiar voice breathed.

He stood before her, dimly lit, emerging from the palm fronds and monstera leaves that cast strange and ominous shadows upon the decorative terra-cotta tiles.

Cressida shifted from her recline, assuming a more polite and restrained pose even as heat pooled within her, warming her chest, her legs, low in her stomach.

The doctor approached slowly, as if fighting through a crashing surf, his eyes intense behind his spectacles. He appeared half starved, half drunk; desperate for a kind word to fall from her lips, as if he’d perform any task to gain it, no matter how dubious.

“You sent for me,” he said quietly, halting his approach one pace before her.

It struck her, this distance left between them. A shock of hurt spread through her, but she remained calm. It was a distance well deserved, for she had reason to believe she’d been deceived.

“I didn’t send for you on Tuesday, if you’ll recall.”

“I do,” he agreed, his voice thick with a hint of apology, a lock of wavy hair falling into his face.

She supposed this would be easier, had she already made a decision. But she still hadn’t.

He stepped closer, his movements tentative, his eyes searching her face, waiting for a reproach.

When he saw none was forthcoming, he fell to his knees before her, took her hands in his, and buried his face in her upturned palms.

“I thought you might never send word again,” he whispered, his lips brushing against the heels of her hands, sending sparks of pleasure up her arms and throughout her body.

Cressida pressed her thighs together. Ought she not question him now? Probe for answers to just what sort of trouble they were in, and how this Charles Sharples knew him? How he knew her , of all things? Yes, that was the correct course of action. Not to break free from all caution and good sense, and wantonly give in to primal lust.

Heart in her throat, she gently pulled one hand from his face and stroked his hair. He sighed into her lap.

And Cressida knew she could not bear to cast him aside. Not now. Not in this moment. Soon, perhaps, but not yet. Not until…

Her hands slid to his firm shoulders, urging his head up from her lap. Without a sane, logical thought in her head, she bent forward and took his face in her hands.

She kissed him.

Every lonely hour, every cross word, every problem in Matthew’s life melted away as the heat of desire took hold. He met her lips with a languor to match hers, tasting, slowly building in fervor. His body was taut, and tightening more by the moment, his cock thick and rigid, bulging against the fall of his trousers.

And then a fierceness broke through; he pulled her down from her perch on the lounge and into his arms. The light wicker furniture rocked in the wake of her departure.

She was so soft, so perfect.

Matthew pulled back slightly, his breath shaking.

He wordlessly removed his jacket, balled it up, and placed it on the floor behind her as a makeshift pillow, onto which he lowered her gently down. She looked up at him, her lovely dark lashes lowered, her toffee eyes made even more beautiful by the soft lamplight.

“You’re gorgeous,” he breathed, then released a shaking sigh. “I don’t want to remove my spectacles, I wish to—”

“Then don’t,” she murmured, her voice so low, so smooth.

Matthew swallowed. She’d sent for him, she’d kissed him, and now she lay before him, her elegant fingers working at the large, fussy black ribbon at her neck, untying it with a pronounced deliberateness.

It was exhilarating.

His heart thrummed; he felt every inch of his strength, his potential. Because of her. Because she wanted him, still. He could forsake gambling forever, if only she would fuck him like this. If she would always welcome him between her legs.

The ribbon fell apart, and the collar of her gown opened, exposing the smooth skin of her throat. He fell upon her, and she gasped.

Matthew kissed her, bit her, tasted her, relishing every moan, every quickened breath. She writhed underneath him, the silk of her skirts rucking up as her legs rubbed against him. Lady Caplin, the highly esteemed and ruthless viscountess, dug her fingers into his back. Begged for him in that breathy, velvety voice.

“Matthew,” she whispered, “I wanted to send for you on Tuesday.”

“Why didn’t you?” he growled, his lips against her clavicle, tracing along it as one hand ran up and down her side, gliding easily over the silk of her gown.

“You know why,” she hissed, trying to shift her hips to find him, to press herself into his hardness.

“Patience,” Matthew murmured as he reached down and cupped her between her legs, the silk bunching up in his hand.

“I don’t wish to speak of this just now,” she warned, even as she bucked up from the ground, pressing herself into his palm.

“Do you not?” he challenged.

Everything had gone to shit, everything was a complete and utter mess, but she wanted him still. Would she, though, when she knew the extent of his failure? Matthew did not know. But he had to. Perhaps that was why he pressed her even now, as she opened herself to him, inviting him to feel her, to taste her.

He sat up, feeling around the tiled floor for the end of the silk pooled around her knees. When he found it, he gripped the slippery hem of her garment with both hands and smiled wickedly.

She stared back, one eyebrow raised.

“You’ve never met me here, in your home,” he said, pushing the skirts of the gown higher, ever so slowly, appreciating the cool silk of her stockings, the fine linen of her drawers. Thousands of filthy thoughts flooded his mind, of what he’d like to do to her… what he’d like her to do to him.

If only she would still have him.

She didn’t respond, but instead placed her head back upon his bunched-up jacket, her eyes closed in anticipation. He undid her drawers and pulled them down. Wordlessly she aided him, lifting her bottom off the floor, pointing her feet elegantly as he slid them off.

As she submitted to him, Matthew pushed his advantage.

“Cressida,” he murmured. “You’re gorgeous, so gorgeous… truly magnificent.”

He just caught a glimpse of her raising her head as he buried his between her legs, tasting her lips with the lightest flicking of his tongue.

He was rewarded with a gasp as she jerked upwards. Emboldened, Matthew took hold of her bottom, digging his fingers into the firm, soft flesh. His cock throbbed at the sensation.

Matthew took his time, adrift in the heady tension of their pairing here, on the conservatory floor, the same place where she’d chased that drop of perspiration with his handkerchief, down her chest to the alluring space between her breasts. Now it was Matthew’s turn, as he traced around her clitoris with long, teasing strokes while she moaned impatiently beneath him.

“Why did you not send for me on Tuesday, Cressida?” he murmured against her. It felt sacred, to breathe her name as he paid her court in such a torrid fashion.

She sighed prettily. For a brief moment Matthew’s determination wavered. She might send him away. She might push him off and refuse him.

Very well , he thought, and set to a steady rhythm. So be it .

He would give Lady Caplin her pleasure until she said otherwise.

“Cressida,” he repeated, begging this time.

“Because… someone knows ,” she gasped, her words stilted.

He must be on a good tack. Matthew continued working his tongue, ignoring the racing of his heart, the shaking of his arms, the throbbing of his cock.

“And… and that person… seems to know you , you foolish—” Her hands clutched at his shoulders, gathering his shirt up into her fists. “ Matthew! ” she cried out, her body tensing below him.

He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, could feel the press of her thighs against the sides of his face. He kept to his rhythm.

He was rewarded with another frenzied cry, another jerking of her body up against his mouth.

She was right. He was foolish. He’d never been so foolish in his life. He’d never been this vulgar, in his actions if not his thoughts. He’d never dreamed of a woman as lovely and refined as her begging for him. He’d never dreamed of thrusting his prick between those two wonderful, shapely breasts.

Not until she’d taunted him in this very room with those very same tits.

Matthew sat back on his heels, his thoughts a muddle, his body aching with longing.

She lay back, her body heaving, a sleepy smile upon her lips. Those endearing dimples nearly did him in, nearly broke his heart.

“You called me Cressida,” she said, her eyes closed, still smiling.

“I did,” he admitted, his heart still pounding. Was this the moment? Would she send him off now? Would he ever see her again? “Ought I not have?”

“No,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “I liked it. Very much.”

Matthew was indeed foolish. He removed his spectacles and scrubbed his face with his hand before replacing them.

“Unlace your gown,” he said, his voice raspy and unfamiliar.

For a terrible moment she said nothing, did nothing. A pit formed in his stomach.

And then, still reclined, she began to move, slowly untying the giant black velvet bows that adorned her front.

She still wanted him. Even though she’d never marry him. Never birth him a child. Never live in his little home where his surgery was located. Even as he loved her with all his heart, fool that he was.

He unbuttoned his trousers and shucked them off before moving closer.

“I do know that person. The man who came to your kitchens.”

“ Matthew ,” she scolded, squeezing her eyes shut tighter. “Please do not. I told you I don’t wish to speak of this.”

His throat was thick, his thinking foggy.

“I feel…” He clenched a fist, then released it. “I feel I must tell you.”

“And I demand you cease any further conversation about it,” she said, overenunciating each word. “For the moment, at least.”

The black ribbons, released from their tight bows, looked as comfortable as she did, lying in a crumple against her chest, gently rising and falling with each breath. Matthew held his own breath and slid one finger underneath them, searching for the split in the bodice.

Then he slid his whole hand under. She felt warm. The linen of her chemise did nothing to dampen the effect, nothing to shield her hardened nipples as they brushed against his palm. Matthew bit back a moan.

“They’re quite lovely, are they not?” she said dreamily. “My finest feature, no doubt. Although my hair is rather lovely, too; I’m not humble on that account, either.”

Matthew shook his head at such a reductive analysis as he straddled her, his weight upon his knees.

“No. Every part of you is immaculate. All together,” he rumbled, his voice low, “every inch, every smile, every frown, every word, every thought… Cressida… you’re… you’re worth far more than the sum of your charms.”

When she did not respond, Matthew prayed he’d not misspoken. Still, he pushed the gown back, revealing the thin chemise, without a corset. And then, with anticipation so tight in his middle that he feared he might spill prematurely, he worked the chemise down over her shoulders, over the exquisite peaks of her breasts, to her waist and elbows, where it loosely bound her upper arms to her sides while exposing her chest completely.

“What’s this?” she said coyly, wriggling against the unintentional restraint.

The movement shook her breasts in the most enticing manner; a bolt of pure need struck him in his core.

“A… fancy, if you’ll allow,” he pleaded. “It’ll be… well. No prophylactic necessary, as a mark in its favor.”

She raised her brows. But then she grinned.

“Very well. Tell me—”

“Remove your chemise, the sleeves…”

Sitting up, she was able to gracefully shed the top of her gown, to shimmy out of her chemise so that both bunched up about her slim waist.

It was everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d never dared to admit to himself he wanted.

He pushed down his drawers and withdrew his prick. As he took himself in hand, he shut his eyes, begging himself to hold on, to manage a few moments of his most lurid fantasy before he lost control and finished all over Lady Caplin’s—Cressida’s—beautiful breasts.

He shifted further up, then lowered himself. When his cock brushed against her soft skin, he moaned a curse.

Suddenly her eyes widened, realization dawning on her.

“Oh, Doctor,” she teased. “You’ve a terribly filthy mind.”

Matthew stared into her eyes in wordless agreement.

“Here,” she begged, “let me help.” She dipped her head, taking just the tip of his cock into her mouth, before pulling back with a frown. “That’s not quite enough, is it?”

And then she spat on him. Reached up to slide the saliva up and down his shaft. Took the head once more into her mouth.

She spat again.

The elegant, dignified Viscountess Caplin.

Lust clouded his mind. Matthew forgot about Charles Sharples and his blackmail. He forgot about his own small, middle-class life in Marylebone, with its steady stream of patients during the day, followed by evenings spent alone; he forgot the Transom Club and its middling fare and contentious conversation.

All he could think of was the woman below him, and her exquisite breasts that she was now squeezing together.

His cock now slick with her saliva, Matthew pushed forward, sliding into the tight press of that spectacularly erotic space between her breasts.

“Cressida, fuck,” he growled.

He pulled back, then thrust again. Stars dotted his vision, his body tightening beyond anything he’d ever felt before.

Matthew managed only a few more repetitions before his body uncoiled in a wonderful burst of pleasure, and he came all over her warm, slippery tits.

Knees aching from the hard floor, heart banging heavily against his ribcage, Matthew collapsed atop her, gingerly so he wouldn’t crush her petite form. She smelled dainty and floral, but also musky and heady, just as she’d tasted.

He dug his hands into her thick hair, which had worked itself free of its pins, and squeezed two fistfuls of it. He loved her. By god, he loved her.