Prologue
April 1815
George Comerford wrapped his hand around the front of Caroline Spenser's throat, the possessiveness of the gesture sending delicious heat through her body as he pushed her front against the library wall. "Now," he murmured in her ear, one hand at the fall of his breeches. He fumbled a little as he freed himself, and Caroline hoisted her dress further out of the way. They had perhaps ten minutes before they risked being discovered, and, as always, that risk of discovery added an edge to her pleasure. Frantic, hot, beyond the point of no return.
This was how she preferred to conduct her liaisons: with breathless urgency. She had never been one to submit to a man making love to her—there was nothing of love in what she did. Gentleman had one thing and one thing alone to offer, and it was entirely unconnected to the heart.
The thing George Comerford had to offer pressed against the flesh of her buttocks, parting her cheeks and sliding between and through to enter her from behind. Already slick, she groaned as he pushed, and he cursed. The hand that wasn't on her throat came to splay on her stomach, holding her in place against him, and she found she liked the possessiveness. This was the first time he had asserted his dominance in quite that way, and she was more than happy to yield to the commands of his body.
Two days ago, she had not so much as met George Comerford; when they left for London once more in twelve days, there was an unspoken agreement that whatever this was would come to an end. While she was there at Worthington Hall, however, she hoped they would continue to do this as frequently as possible.
He hissed another curse in her ear and tightened his hold on her throat. She arched her back, tipping her head back until it rested on his shoulder, and gave herself over to him.