Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

T he room was much like the parlor—warm with a roaring fire in one corner, cozy, home-like. In fact, Cora could imagine the redheaded courtesan curled up in that chair in the corner doing rather mundane things like reading a book or planning the house's menu for the week. The bed, however, was quite massive, a four poster with thick velvet curtains tied back revealing silk and pillows and shadows, where sins were happily committed.

The door closed behind her, locked, and then Liam stood beside her. So close but not touching. The air grew heavy between them, expectant. Never before had she felt his presence as she did now—a palpable thrumming at her back that made the slim space between them impossible to pass through. An impossible torment, too, for such a slim space to separate the hard planes of his body from her own curves. The air thick, breathing a chore. Her heart pounding. Impossible. Painful. Pleasure? Time and that sliver of air between them would tell.

Would they simply… watch together? Would he… touch her as well? Why were they doing this? Other than curiosity, of course.

That, they shared, it seemed.

She broke the spell, broke away from him, and they circled the room in different directions, he with his hands shoved into the pockets of his great coat, and her tracing her fingertips over everything—a small clock on the mantel, the edge of a frame, the back of a chair leaned against a wall and—

"Oh." She rocked back a step to investigate what had only been an odd flash at the corner of her vision.

"What is it?" Liam shrugged out of his greatcoat, flung it across the bed, and joined her.

"There are holes here." She reached her fingertips to them. "In the wall."

He cleared his throat. "I see."

The holes in the wall seemed to glow, growing large and larger. She saw flashes of movement inside them, the pale glow of candles. She heard the low murmur of voices. The air between her and the wall seemed to thicken. She could not look. Could she? She'd peered into many a bedroom, and many charged spaces between men and women's bodies in the pages of books. But this was… entirely different.

She rubbed a hand up and down her arm. This… real . Trying to suppress the sensation of sparks across her skin, she bit a bloody groove into her bottom lip with her teeth.

Until a solid warmth pressed against her from behind. Liam. So easily he'd broken through that thick-aired barrier between them, like a knife through butter, to press his heated body against hers. He rested his palm against the wall above the holes and leaned into her, his chest brushing against her shoulders, his breath hot on her neck, his body a cage. Her cage.

She should bristle, shove at him. But she couldn't. Didn't even want to.

"Go on, then. Look," he said.

This was it. Her moment to be brave. "Sh-shouldn't you look with me?" Her voice sounded smaller than she wanted it to.

"No room, darling. You look and tell me what you see."

She licked her lips and pressed her palms against the wall, leaned forward, the very tip of her nose touching it.

Liam moved with her, his chest and abdomen hot and hard against her back.

She swallowed as his hand landed on top of hers, trapping it against her upper arm.

"Well? What do you see?"

A room drenched in flickering yellow light. A chair. Juliet. And… "There's a man. He's sitting in a chair facing this wall." His legs open wide, his shirt open, too, a hint of dark hair sprinkled across his exposed chest. His trousers pulled tight across his thighs.

"And?"

"And she's behind him. She's whispering something in his ear. He… he likes it, whatever she's saying."

Liam's lips touched her ear. "What would you like me to say to you?"

Oh, anything in that tone of voice would do just fine. It sent sparks flying across her skin once more. And this time, she could not rub them away, replace them with other, less dangerous sensations. Her breath hitched as she spoke. "N-now Madam Juliet is sitting on his lap."

"I should like you to sit on my lap one day. I'm not na?ve enough to think you willing, to leave my position behind you, and drag a chair across the room for us. But… one day…" He ran a single fingertip down the length of her neck and hooked it in the back of her gown.

She shivered. What he said could not be true. But it was impossible to respond when he seemed already to have moved on from words like heated drops of scented oil against the skin to touching. More touching. His fingertip beneath the line of her gown her only focal point.

He growled near her ear, "Tell me what you see now."

"Now—"

His knuckles made a path of fire across her back from shoulder blade to shoulder blade.

"Now," she managed to repeat with a hiss, "he's kissing her."

"Where?"

"Her neck."

"Like this?" He pressed his lips to the back of her neck, a long, slow, lingering kiss.

And instead of giving him a proper answer, she moaned. How could something so simple wake her up so entirely?

"Now what?" he demanded, his lips close to her ear.

"Oh…" She closed her eyes on a breath of pleasure. She hardly knew what would be next. So, she opened her eyes and peeped through the hole once more. "Her breast."

Liam's hands teased the top of her gown, and with light pressure, she felt him undoing her tapes. "What about them?" he asked with the same tone he might ask her if she wished for tea.

"The man is touching them." Her gown gaped and slid down one shoulder.

"Like this?" Liam's arm slipped into her gown and wrapped around her ribs, only her shift and stays between them. He cupped her breasts. "Or…" He trailed his hand up the side of her breast and then slipped into her gown underneath her shift, pulling her breast away from the support of her stays and into the support of his warm, confident hand. "Like this?"

What did it matter if he mimicked the man on the other side of the wall perfectly or not? What mattered, the only thing which mattered was that his movements existed, and they existed only for her, that his skin found hers, and his thumb was flicking over her pebbling nipples. This, how it should have been their first night together, how it had been in the garden. This, the promise of the night that had meant ruination for her, had trapped her future in this viscount's capable hands.

She'd not been scared that night, though she should have been, though any woman would have been. She'd been more scared in the weeks after when her wild viscount had turned tame, when he'd caged that part of himself he'd let loose in the garden.

But here her tiger prowled once more, dragging his lips across her shoulder and playing with her breast, and only those two things arcing ecstasy through her, lighting her up with the promise of more.

"Don't stop watching," he commanded. "Tell me what is happening. That is your sworn duty to me right now, Cora. Do not fail me."

It took every ounce of control in her body to do as he said instead of melting into his frame. But she liked how he'd commanded her, and she liked the idea that they would do this together, her the eyes and him the hands.

"Now what?" Another demand.

She could not deny him. "She's changed how she is sitting on him. Her back is to his front. Her legs are straddled. Alongside his legs. She's reaching behind her. Arching her back. To tangle her hands in his hair. Both his hands"—Liam squeezed, and Cora moaned—"cup her breasts."

Liam's arm, long braced against the wall above them, dropped and joined the other at the front of her body to find her other breast and pleasure it as well as he was pleasuring the first, making her arch into his hold, making her legs give out beneath her. Liam only holding her up as he squeezed and teased, scattering kisses up and down her neck and shoulder.

She wriggled, pressing her bottom against his groin. He was hard and long beneath his woolen fall, and that made her wriggle even more, made her arch and press, attempting to break through the barriers still between them.

One of his hands stroked down her body to cup her hip, to squeeze it hard. "And now?"

"Now he's… he's lifting her skirts. And his hand is beneath them. Between her legs." She could barely speak. Certainly could not complete sentences properly anymore, each of her words punctuated by a breathy pant, by a need that went beyond language.

"More, Cora," he demanded when she stopped speaking.

"She has thrown her head back, and—oh… he bit her neck."

Liam bit her neck, and she screamed, a soft cry that said in a scorching tone more and please do not ever stop . One of his hands wrapped into her hair, and he pulled her head back, swallowed her scream with a kiss. Hard, possessive.

This, the gentle, appeasing man from her first month married?

No. This her masked seducer from the garden.

Two different men. The same man.

He released her from the kiss and nudged her face back to the wall.

"He's doing something I cannot see," she said, this time not needing to be told to tell him. If he would pay her in pleasure for every description, she did not wish to miss a thing. "Beneath her skirts."

"I think I know," he said with a dark chuckle.

Cora had her guesses as well. And they were the same as his, she knew, when he began to ruck her skirt up her thigh and then slipped his hand under the hem, smoothed his hand down her belly, and stroked between her legs. He nipped at her earlobe as he explored her body, seeking, seeking—

She hissed.

"Ah. There it is. Shall I tell you how hopeless I have been?"

"Um, huh, I…" Hopeless? Him? The man who stole her speech with each careful circle he rubbed around that aching bud at the center of her body?

"Because I did not know this even existed until I began to read your favorite sort of books. The clitoris. Apparently, it's quite necessary to a woman's enjoyment. Tell me, Cora, are you enjoying this?"

" Yes ." A word she, apparently, still had command over.

"God, me, too. I've dreamed of this—of you in my arms, skin flushed, panting, of me who made you that way. It is me, isn't it? And not the man in the other room?"

"Who? W-what other man?"

He pressed his thumb hard against her bud, and she cried out, "Liam!" as bright blooms burst in the darkness behind her closed eyes, as shock waves of pleasure rocked her.

"It's me, then." His voice raw, pleased. "Look again. Tell me."

"She… she's riding him. Her head thrown back. His hands on her hips. His hips, thrusting up."

"Do you want me to—"

"Yes." She spun and wrapped her arms around his neck, surged up on tiptoe and crashed her mouth against his. "Yes. Right now." Every nerve in her body screamed for him, for more, for what she'd just seen and described. She threw her entire body into begging him, tumbling them both backward as his arms came around her, clenching her to him. When the back of his legs hit the bed behind them, he fell, and she fell on top of him. He lifted his knee between her legs, rucking her skirts up above her knees and settling his thigh with exquisite pleasure at the very core of her. She ground against him.

No need for timidity between them. Past that entirely. Past, as well, the misunderstandings between them. They may not want the same things in many ways, but here, now, they were of one mind, desired only one thing. The beating of his heart against hers, the seeking of his hands along her back and legs, the meeting of their lips for long, heated sips of one another. Only passion and promise and—

"Wait." Liam pressed his hands onto her shoulders, and distance crept between them, cold and painful.

"Is something wrong?" Difficult to blink away the fog of her lust.

"No." He ran a trembling hand down her hair. "Nothing except… not here."

"I don't understand."

He pushed her gently to the side and rolled to sit, returning his hands to her shoulders, her neck, as her skirts pooled around her waist, rumpled and ruined. "Not here. In this place, in this bed. I want you in our bed."

"One surface is as good as another, surely." She gave a little bounce. "This one's fine."

"It's not. You're a viscountess and my wife. I have more respect for you than this." He surged to his feet, tugging her upward with him, spinning her around and securing the tapes of her gown. He grabbed his greatcoat from the edge of the bed, then took her hand once more, and dragged her out of the room.

She stumbled on the stairs and fell into his back. He righted her, and they continued, out the door, into the parlor, and all the way out of Mother Circe's Nunnery. He helped her up into the carriage, which waited in the alley.

"Shouldn't we say goodbye to Madame Juliet?" The sun streamed hot and bright through the windows, and she held her arm up against it.

"No."

"Of course not. She's… busy." Lord, but her mind had been blasted into pieces, each thought a burden to see through to the end. Her body throbbed, an uncomfortable pulse now that the end, the satiating pleasure of orgasm, was not ensured.

"To the townhouse," Liam told the driver, "and be quick about it." By the time he sat across from her, stretching his long legs, one foot shaking at the ankle and vibrating the entire coach, the conveyance rolled into movement.

What had happened? They had been perfectly situated to end the nightmare of their marriage, to replace old days with something happier, and he'd… run. At least he'd taken her with him this time. There was that.

Her breasts ached still, and her skin burned. "Liam, I did not mind staying. I do mind, however, being teased into a frenzy, then denied."

"Me, too." Truth in the gruff disappointment of his voice. "But, hell, Cora, I'm banishing our previous time together from existence. That night I came to you and made you my wife—it never happened."

Well, it had felt that way a bit. As if nothing was happening…

"Our next time is our first time, do you understand?" He moved across the carriage and sat next to her, took her hands in his. "And it must be perfect, not in a bed half the men in London have come on." He lifted her chin with his knuckles, and she found his eyes softer than before. "I want it to be perfect for you."

Perfect was… nice, but perfect also often happened only because of a control so fine and exact, not a single detail went unplanned. Was that what she wanted?

She offered Liam a reassuring smile as he swiped his thumb across her lips.

"May I kiss you?" he asked.

She nodded, and instead of the hard, demanded caress from earlier, he sipped at her lips, as if they possessed world enough and time enough to melt into each other forever, to learn the taste and shape of lips not their own, then learn the taste and shape in each and every new expression that twisted them up and down in sorrow and in joy. Watching in the brothel, her need for Liam had burned fast, and now it simmered back to life, a lovely living thing that ran lightly along every nerve. She sighed, and he cupped the back of her head, pulling her onto his lap.

Now, more than before, they mirrored the pose enjoyed by Madame Juliet and her fellow, but everything else was different. Sun instead of shadow, a swaying carriage instead of a steady floor. And even though all of London walked just beyond the window, Cora felt alone. Not alone. Alone with Liam , which, it seemed, was an entirely different thing, a living thing that changed with each breath. When alone, one knew well the steady cadence of each ticking second. But alone with Liam, each second became a surprise, each touch a revelation.

When the coach rolled to a stop, it was too soon. Also not soon enough because clearly Liam did not consider the bench upon which they sat the perfect setting for their new first time together. And she no longer wished to wait. Impatient, yes. Entirely so.

As soon as the coach stopped, Liam threw open the door and swung her into his arms. Carrying her cradled like a babe, he marched them into the townhouse. She clung and laughed and buried her face in his shoulder. He growled, and she stuck her tongue out at him. He scowled, and she wondered how things could ever have been wrong between them.

"Cora? Is that you?"

Liam stopped, his foot on the very top step, their bedchamber door in sight.

Cora froze, too.

"Cora? Lord Norton?" the voice inquired from below.

Cora closed her eyes. "That's not my mother, is it?"

Liam glanced over his shoulder and down the stairs. "Yes. Yes, I'm afraid it is."

"Put me down."

He jumped to obey her, almost tossing her to the floor.

"Oh heaven's most offending angels, I look a mess." Her gown was crooked, and the exposed skin at her neck and shoulders and chest red, well kissed and licked and—Cora groaned.

Footsteps on the stairs. "Cora," her mother said. "It is you. What are you doing here? And with Lord Norton?" She'd half held out hope that the voice belonged to someone else, but there was that familiar face, the dark hair like Cora's, the slender frame with rounded shoulders, always stooped. Her mother. No denying it any longer, no holding out hope.

Cora pasted a bright grin on her face. "Mother, what are you doing here?"

Her mother stopped halfway up the stairs, the curiosity bleeding from her expression, leaving her pale and… slightly annoyed. She unpinched her lips to say, "Am I not welcome in my daughter's house?" Her gaze flew to Liam. "Am I not welcome?"

"You are, of course, Mrs. Eastwood." Liam bowed. "At any time."

"Yes, Mama, of course." Cora stepped closer, now poised on the stairs between Liam at the top and her mother midway up. "But why are you here when… I am not? And you did not send word to—"

"Who can send word to the flighty Lady Norton?" Her mother laughed, a brittle sound. "I've had no idea which grand estate you've been at from one day to the next."

"She has a point," Liam mumbled.

"Is something wrong with the townhouse, Mama?" Cora asked.

"Your father is home. And he won't leave. And the Yorkshire house is under renovation. I could not possibly stay there. And the two of you are clearly not using this residence. And you've not yet invited me to Norton Hall and—" Her mother's chin wobbled, and a plea swam in her watery eyes. When she rubbed her upper arm over and over, ducking her head to hide a falling tear, Cora broke.

How many times had she seen her mother brought low by their father? She'd never had many options for escape before, but now she had this home. And Cora should provide her mother a place to run when she needed it. It was a daughter's duty.

"It's fine, Mother. You can stay, of course you can stay." She opened her arms, her mother fell into them with a few shuffling steps, and they ascended the stairs together.

They passed Liam at the top, looking like a statue whose polite grin had been carved a tad too wide with a few too many teeth showing. He appeared ready to toss her mother down the stairs in order to get to the bedroom as quickly as possible.

She could not blame him.

But her father… she could not deny her mother sanctuary under such circumstances, no matter how inconvenient for herself. And Liam.

Cora led her mother to the smaller bedchamber in the rather modest townhouse, and Liam strode toward his room. Their room. They'd not shared it during their first week married before leaving for Norton Hall. Cora had slept in the other chamber, but now… now they would.

"Oh my." Cora's mother chuckled and backtracked down the hall. "You don't know. But how could you? I'm rather afraid I set myself up in the viscount's chamber."

Liam swung around right outside the door. A growl gathered in the slant of his lips, but he suppressed it. "Pardon me, Mrs. Eastwood… could you repeat that?"

Cora's mother slid between Liam and the door. "My trunk is in here. You see, the bed in the other room is much too small. And the view is, well, there is none. And you were not using this room. But now that you've returned, it certainly makes more sense for me to remain here."

"And how's that?" Liam asked.

"Because this bed is so much bigger, and Cora will need to sleep with me, of course."

Liam's and Cora's mouths dropped open simultaneously.

Cora inched closer to her mother. "Mama, you must know I will be sharing a bed with my husband."

"What? Whyever for?" She shook her head. "You are much too delicate and sensible for that. Surely you two do not share a chamber."

"Can't say we do, actually." Liam collapsed against a wall, rubbing his palms down his face.

"Of course not. I'm sure you have an appointed weekly time for marital activities, and…" Her mother had finally noticed Liam's stance of defeat. She tilted her head, her mouth screwed in confusion. "But perhaps there are other reasons you prefer your chamber to the other?"

Liam looked up slowly, rolling off the wall. "Cora, I'm having another impulsive moment."

"Right now?" she asked, glancing between him and her mother. "Can you control it?" No knowing what he would do when impulse drove him. That she was quickly learning.

"What in heavens name are the two of you talking about?" her mother demanded.

"A trip," Liam said, striding toward Cora.

"Where?" Cora barely got the words out when Liam ducked as he passed her, slung her over one shoulder, and made for the stairs.

"I must return to Norton Hall for… estate matters. And I need my wife to attend me. It was lovely seeing you again, Mrs. Eastwood." He lifted the arm not wrapped around her legs, just under her bum, and waved. "Do enjoy the townhouse."

"But Liam," Cora said, a bit dizzy from so suddenly being tossed upside down across a hard shoulder, "I thought—"

"No thinking. This is an impulse."

He jolted down the stairs, and she wrapped her arms around his middle, clinging and squealing.

"Highly unusual," her mother huffed from above. But she did not run after them, and when Liam ran outside and yelled at the coachman to harness the horses again and not stop until they reached Norton Hall, she'd begun to wonder… would she ever get to see the arse her face hung right in front of naked?

She grinned. Couldn't help it. Because clearly she would if her impulsive husband had anything to do with it. She'd been fighting him for so long, it felt unexpectedly freeing to let go, and let him do with her as he pleased.