Page 42 of The Austen Affair

I try to pursue Hugh, but Mr. Crawford calls my attention back to him before I can depart. He seizes my fingertips, bending to kiss them as the dance ends. “You are kinder to him than he has any right to,” he remarks.

I pull my hand away. “Not this again, Mr. Crawford. I have made it perfectly clear that I am fond of Hugh. And if I am kind to him, it is because he is kind to me. We were not always such a good team, but we are now in the rhythm of it.”

Mr. Crawford’s muddy-green eyes rake my face. “There are many men who would be kind to a woman so good as you.”

“That has not been my experience,” I tell him.

His expression hardens, and I see a flash of rage—and yet I do not fear his anger is directed at me. “I am sorry indeed to hear that. It is my belief that every good man has an obligation to act in defense of the fairer sex against men who would otherwise take advantage.”

My breath catches, fear spiking through my veins.

We are at a party where alcohol flows, and tempers might run high.

I cannot tell what even a decent man like Mr. Crawford might do if he observes his sister’s despair while he is in his cups.

I’ve joked about him challenging Hugh to pistols at dawn before—but now I’m not sure it was ever anything to joke about.

Seeking to calm the mood, I incline my head deeply to Mr. Crawford as I drop into a curtsy. “Thank you very much, Mr. Crawford. For the dance.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Bright,” he says, with a wink that feels a mere shade of his former jovial self. “I believe you were so kind as to initiate it.”

His hollow attempt at flirtation notwithstanding, I know in the marrow of my bones where I need to be right now.

I turn my back on him and start frantically weaving through the crush of bodies.

When I finally find Hugh, I do it by crashing straight into his chest. He seizes me by the forearms and holds me upright.

I gaze up at him to find that his face is white as a sheet.

“She knows, Tess,” he says.

“I know,” I say, squeezing his arms back in return. “But in a way, isn’t that what we wanted? We needed her to know your uncle didn’t betray her.”

“Yes, but—” Hugh chews his lower lip, and God help me, even his fretfulness is hot. “Like this? What are the ramifications? How does this affect the time line, my family, our position—”

“Hey,” I whisper. “Hey. Breathe with me. For one second, don’t torment yourself with the future. We’re in the here and now.”

Hugh does his best, swallowing heavily. Then, fixing a smile on his face, he asks me, “Are you enjoying the ball?” The wry twinkle in his eye suggests that we both know very well that he is not.

“Very much,” I tell him. “But I’ve seen enough now.” I want to get Hugh as far from Mr. Crawford as possible before any tension boils over. But I also don’t want to alert him to any threat—not least because Hugh has proven he’s not exactly fistfight-avoidant.

Hugh’s expression transitions immediately from anxious to bemused. “What do you mean? You’ve been so pleased.”

I tighten my grip on his arm, admiring even now the hidden sinew beneath his jacket. “I have been very pleased indeed. But wouldn’t you like to go home?”

Hugh lets out a bark-like laugh. “It’s a party, Tess. I always want to go home. But we did this for you. Jane Austen’s over there in the corner. Wouldn’t you like to have a second shot at conversation with her?”

My eyes flick only momentarily in the direction he indicated, but even Austen herself cannot tear my attention away from Hugh Balfour at this moment. “No, I learned my lesson. Never meet your heroes. I know what I want right now. I want to go home. With you.”

Hugh blinks. Slowly but surely, recognition begins to dawn in the depths of his eyes.

“Don’t you want to take me home?” I ask him one more time.

“Yes,” he says, the sound coming from the deepest part of his throat, flat and husky. “Oh, God, yes.”

We slip out of the inn at once, saying goodbye to no one.

Our carriage is waiting outside, and Hugh helps me up into the coach.

I wait breathlessly while Hugh shares a few words with the driver, arranging it so that he will take us home and come back for the rest of the household when the ball is actually concluded.

We have several hours alone ahead of us.

But we don’t waste a second of them. The horses barrel forward in the pitch-black night, illuminated only by the glow of a single warm, yellow lantern. We are moving with an urgency that suggests we’re fleeing from something, but really, we’re fleeing to something. And to each other.

The very instant the door to the carriage snaps shut with Hugh inside, I slide to him on the interior seat.

His hands move to my waist, and mine to his chest. For the briefest moment, we linger with our foreheads touching, an embrace so intimate and yet restrained, not kissing and yet sharing each other’s breath.

And then the dam breaks. We can’t hold back anymore and we don’t try. We fall into each other with an animalistic heat. I hold him tight, tighter, tightest—and find myself distraught that we cannot draw closer. Cannot merge flesh. At least, not yet.

Hugh is almost too tall for the carriage ceiling.

He’s hunched over to stop his head from brushing the roof, so I lean backward on the seat, pulling him on top of me.

I savor the feeling of his weight on my body, comforting me and sparking desire all at once.

I open my mouth wider to welcome his tongue, and I feel his hand inching up my thigh beneath my dress. My lips curl into a smile against his.

The ride isn’t smooth, but that’s actually a bonus. The carriage wheels bounce on the cobblestone road of the village, creating a delicious effect not unlike sitting on top of a vibrating washing machine. By the time we reach the house, I’m more than ready. I’m desperate for him.

We stumble out of the carriage as it lurches up to the front steps and rush inside. I toss my shawl carelessly on the foyer floor, and halfway up the staircase, Hugh lets his hat slip from his hand and drop to the carpeted steps.

I spare half a thought for the other inhabitants of this house—the staff—and pray to God that the ball means that they took the evening off for merriment of their own. The house certainly seems empty enough. Although I doubt that would stop us.

As we reach the landing at the top of the stairs, Hugh asks me, his voice hoarse with desire, “Tess Bright, may I…?”

I nod fervently as I take his chin in my hand, pulling his mouth to mine.

He whispers into my throat, and the reverberations make me tingle with anticipation. “I’m going to need more than that.”

“Yes,” I respond. “Do whatever you want with me. I want exactly what you want, I promise. You have my enthusiastic consent.”

Hugh’s smile is wolfish. His grip tightens against the small of my back, protective and also possessive, pulling me closer to his strong, broad chest. “Oh, thank God.”

There’s no time to make it to a bed. No time at all. I am certain I will die without him inside me, and by the pounding of his heart, I know he feels the same.

Luckily, the upstairs of the house is deserted. Hugh lifts me onto a nearby mahogany console—a dainty table I fear will crack under this sudden onslaught of passion—and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist to counter the potential for damage.

My skirts hitch up well past my hips, revealing my knee socks and garters.

I scrabble at the strings of his breeches and find success.

His cock springs free, a soldier at attention, and I take it in my palm like a holy thing, guiding it instinctively between my legs.

I am wet, beyond ready, aching for the addition, and he slides into me like butter.

Hugh moans in my ear, a low, depraved sound I revel in knowing I drew out of him.

He has thrown away all refinement now. He dives into me with an unrestrained pleasure that only heightens my own.

We are melding together seamlessly. Skin to skin, and soul to soul.

Each powerful thrust coaxes another breathless moan from my chest. We slip into a delicious rhythm as I straddle him yet tighter, rejoicing in the feeling of his warm hand clutching my thigh, the other cradling my waist.

Hugh’s clever mouth settles over mine, sucking my lower lip.

My eyesight wavers, going momentarily white with ecstasy.

Getting the response he was hoping for, he moves leftward to pay the same attention to my earlobe, almost smug.

Crying out, I arch my head back, letting it bump against the silk damask wallpaper.

This is not how good Regency people fuck.

My arms tighten around his neck as, melting, I start to lose strength in my knees.

The pitch and frequency of his plunges escalate.

He daggers repeatedly into me, hard and fast, and yet it feels like an almost feather-like glide.

I hear my own moans of pleasure as if they are coming from someone else.

I am not a sentient human being with a voice box—I am tender skin and singing nerve endings.

Finally, my body can resist the inevitable no more, and an explosive shiver runs up from my deepest, most delicate parts, heating my entire self in a shower of golden fireworks.

I nuzzle my nose against Hugh’s, my breath mingling with his as he grins.

Knowing his job was well done, he finally gives in to his own climax.

A shudder racks his body as he pulls out, and I feel the hot trickle of cum against my inner thigh.

Longing for a return to being entwined, I only hold him tighter to me, unwilling to let us separate so soon.

“What now?” I ask.

Hugh’s response is ragged. He tenderly lifts my thighs from the console, his hand now clutching the base of my ass, and begins to carry me into his bedroom. “I want to take you behind this door, lay you down on a feather bed, and put my tongue between your legs.”

My cheeks pink with anticipatory delight. “I’m listening.”

“Then I want to worship you like an idol on a marble pedestal.”

I try to say something clever, but all I get out is a grateful mumble.

Hugh shoulders his bedroom door open and does exactly as he promised.

He lays me out on the mattress with an extreme gentility, an awe-inspiring contrast to the ferocity he’d just shown in the hall.

His free hands run in a caress from the nape of my neck, before grazing over the swell of my breasts in a tantalizing skim against my begging, desperate skin.

I require a firmer touch than a tease, and I ask for it in the starkest terms. “Please.”

“A gentleman always complies with a lady’s request.”

I rush to remove my dress, ripping the silk fabric up over my head. Hugh moves to assist as I fumble while unlacing my stays, his big hands surprisingly nimble as he unhooks the undergarment and lets it fall away.

His mouth is making love to the crook of my neck again, and I let out an unladylike groan as his lips dance down to graze against my tender nipples.

Then Hugh stands back, at his full height, his eyes drinking me in for a moment: I am completely naked except for my knee-high socks and garters.

He wears a goofy, almost intoxicated smile.

I am quite certain I’m wearing the same one.

Then Hugh sinks to his knees.

When it’s over, and I have screamed and moaned in exultation and begged for more and been graciously obliged, I pull Hugh onto the mattress beside me.

I curl into him, burying my nose into the crevice of his collarbone, breathing in the sharp, masculine scent of Hugh’s sweat blended with his cologne.

He wraps his arms around my waist as I bathe his throat with kisses.

“Aren’t you going to ask what I want to do with you now?” I ask him.

Hugh laughs, a throaty chuckle. “What do you want to do with me?”

“I want to degrade you,” I tease. “I want to make you hot and sweaty and dirty. I want to make you curse filthy, low-class words.” I begin studiously sucking on the side of his neck, and Hugh lets out a stifled groan.

I pause, continuing as I share my plans for him, whispering them as a sacred prayer.

“And I want you to like it. I want to drag you down to my level.”

Hugh closes his eyes like a contented cat. “ Fuck, Tess. That is incredibly hot.”

A self-satisfied smile curves across my cheek as I roll over, pulling his weight on top of me again, and he sinks onto me. “I thought so, too.”