Chapter Nine

H er thoughts whirled between anticipation of his hands on her and his declaration.

He was overwhelmed by her competence? Belle had had odes written and songs sung to her beauty. She knew ’twas a key ingredient at her success as a courtesan. Intelligence and malleability were equally important. She’d played every role imaginable for men, from kneeling at their feet to having them prostrate themselves before her. Every costume, every undergarment, every hairstyle she could imagine had been put to use.

No one knew better than she that competency and confidence were essential to survival as a courtesan. Knowing one was smart enough to make any man feel like a king by anticipating his needs and fulfilling his dirtiest desires.

Of all those attributes, only this annoying mess of a lordling chose her capableness to value. She should not be flattered. After all, his ineptitude at life was a low bar from which to measure. But she could not help the vain spurt of pleasure flickering in her chest.

He’d succeeded at remembering and implementing the necessary components of an apology. The offer of a foot rub as contrition was unexpected, and irresistible. She slid her feet out of her slippers under the dining table. Heat bloomed between her legs at the thought of his hands on her. With any other man, she’d offer sex—nay, take it. But pleasure came too easily to Luke and responsibility too slowly. That was a horrible combination in a lover, and she had to keep watch over him for another fortnight.

She forced herself to linger over supper while she attempted to talk herself out of a bad decision and tried not to stare at his hands. Every inch of her garments rubbed against suddenly sensitive skin. At long last, she nodded to the servants and led the way to the back parlor with him trailing behind.

“Let’s see... I usually perform these on a bed,” he mused, looking around the room from the doorway.

She arched a brow. “You have not been, nor will you be, invited onto my bed. We shall have to make do.”

One side of his mouth tilted up in a half smile. “Fair enough. If you sit in the armchair, I can sit on the footstool. Does that suit?”

“Having you sit at my feet and look up to me? Certainly.” She settled into the armchair. “The only thing that might make this better is sherry, but alas, your lack of control means I cannot have that.”

“Exactly why I am here to serve you.” He held a hand out.

If he continued saying things like that, she’d never talk her inner devil out of that terrible decision it had been contemplating. After a momentary internal debate on whether to remove her slipper, she declined. He could do all the work.

And he did, grasping her ankle in one hand, and the back of her slipper in the other to slide it carefully off her foot. His hands were pale against her warmer tones, his fingers long and elegant, his touch firm but gentle.

“May I remove your stocking? These work best on bare skin.”

She swallowed, knowing she should not encourage that intimacy but quite certain she wanted this massage. She nodded once.

His fingers skimmed up under her skirt. She breathed a sigh of relief that out of sheer habit from her days of entertaining, she’d continued using silk stockings with lace, and beribboned garters.

With an expert flick, her garter was unfastened.

He watched her face as he rolled down her silk stocking to tuck it into her empty slipper.

She was careful to avoid any sign of the rioting in her stomach from his gentle touches. His warm hand encircled her naked ankle, and she stifled a gasp. She hated to think what he’d do if he knew how he affected her. His gaze seemed... eager, as though he was looking for approval. She forced her spine to relax against the chair as though unaffected.

“Do you have any bath oils?” he asked.

She blinked. “Not here.”

“Where? If I may, I’d like to fetch one to reduce friction.”

Ignoring the thump of her heart at the provocative word, she arched a brow. “Try not to make a mess like you did in the kitchen, Clodpate. They are on the shelf to the left of the fireplace in my bedroom.”

He placed her foot on the footstool as he stood, grabbing a throw to drape over it for warmth, and rushed off.

Belle was left with “reduce friction” whirling around in her head, the heat of his fingers still tangible on her skin making his thoughtful covering unnecessary.

She gave herself a mental shake. No matter how long since her last lover, she was not so gauche that a simple foot massage from someone she had no interest in should arouse her.

She did not want him or the complexities he came with. Of course, he was pleasant to look at, even the prior night when he was out of sorts. But he was an earl’s heir from what he and the widow had said. She was a posting inn on his life route. And he was immature at best, lazy at worst.

That doesn’t mean he might not be an excellent short-term lover.

No, she told herself. She always got in trouble when she listened to her inner devil. Admittedly, a man who took the time to give serving wenches foot rubs and covered her with a throw for warmth was also likely to ensure a woman’s pleasure, but no. He’d already looked to her for direction. He needed to find his own path, and complicating their brief sojourn would only delay that.

Luke returned, a bottle in hand. Setting it down on a low table next to the footstool, he lifted her foot and slid himself under it, the throw sliding up her leg to bare her to his gaze.

She recognized it as the scent she wore most days. The image of him sniffing the bottles and recognizing it made her body heat.

“You have beautiful feet, Isabella.” His fingers wandered over her toes, her arch, her ankle.

She nodded her thanks, unable to speak for the tingles gliding up from every caress. So much for her internal monologue. Her body was ignoring her and very much interested in him and where else those digits might forage.

He poured a dollop of oil into his palm and raised it to his nose, inhaling her signature rose fragrance. Isabella could have sworn he sighed. Luke rubbed his hands to warm the oil, creating a slicking sound. It roused her to images of his fingers on her most sensitive flesh creating a similar sound. Him. Over her. His cock sliding in and out her with her natural lubricant replacing the oil. She bit her lip and shifted in the chair, trying to dispel those images.

His hands went around the back of her foot, fingers up along her ankle, palms cupping her heel, and thumbs at her arch. His thumbs dug in hard and pushed up along her sole.

“Mmm...” Belle dropped her head back and moaned, louder and longer than she had in more time than she could remember. Goodness, that might indeed be better than sex, just as he had said at supper. She giggled.

He stopped and her gaze flew to his. “Are you ticklish?”

She shook her head, giggling more at his confusion.

“Women have never found these quite so funny,” he grumbled.

She snickered once more before getting herself under control. “I beg your—well, never mind that, but I now understand why some of your lady friends liked this as much as sex.”

He grinned. “Ah. I am glad it pleases you, with only one stroke.”

Belle swallowed. His word choice led her straight back into arousal. Wanting nothing more than to be stroked in whatever way he chose, she forced her expression to serenity, not wanting him to see her physical reaction. How ironic that her acting was needed to disguise excitement, when she’d only needed to pretend pleasure in the past.

He ran his thumbs over her arch at all angles for several blissful minutes, then tilted her toes out to press along the side of her foot, curling up around her ankle bone. Next, he did something pinchy to where her heel narrowed to her ankle that made her eyes roll up in her head.

Another involuntary moan leaked out, and she sighed. Her whole body prickled with awareness and sensation. Her heart pounded in her chest, and her fingers itched to touch skin—hers or his. They weren’t particular. Thankfully, her stays hid the pointed tips of her swollen breasts. She had to resist the desire to squirm in her seat again to seek friction for her swollen nub against the chair.

He switched feet, placing her foot down without her slipper and murmuring something about the oil ruining it. Gently lifting her other leg, he removed her slipper and slid his fingers up to unfasten and unroll her other stocking.

This time the tingling went right to her core, and she did squirm once. When he glanced up, she stilled and willed herself to relax against the chairback again.

He placed her foot in his lap.

When he poured more oil and paused to admire her other foot, she chewed on the inside of her cheek to avoid lifting her skirts and telling him exactly where and how to rub her to better effect.

Pressing her lips together, she closed her eyes. A twitch against the sole of her foot had them flying open. His thumb was against her, but she swore she’d felt fabric.

If that was his cock, she might lose all control, something that had never happened. Lud, he was vexing. And enticing. Sighing, she relaxed into the unusual delight of being the center of someone’s attention, rather than the other way around. The movements of his hands sent heat and desire rolling over her like waves, advancing and receding on the shore of her quim.

As Luke lowered her second foot to the floor, Belle blinked. Unable to hold his gaze, she glanced away, hoping her cheeks did not look as warm as they felt.

When he did not rise immediately, she pushed the chair back a few inches and swept a hand down to grab her slippers with her stockings tucked in them. Standing, she controlled her panting enough to say, “The women were right. You are quite the expert in that. An unexpected pleas- skill . You have exonerated yourself; your apology is accepted. Now I find myself quite fatigued. Please go change into whatever you desire to sleep in and meet me in my room.”

“I am still to sleep on the floor, then?”

“Yes. I have absolved you, but I think the lure of the spirits remains strong enough that a few more nights of oversight are warranted.”

He bowed his head and turned for the stairs.

She remained in the room, unable to decide if she should go change for bed or stay here and relieve her tension by taking herself over the edge of ecstasy. It would only take a few minutes, given how over-stimulated she was from that glorious foot rub.

Deciding it was best to change without him present, even with a screen to step behind, she raced up and shucked her clothing. Reaching for the slinky crimson nightrail, she sighed at its glide over her sensitized flesh. She could hardly wait to chain him in his pallet and slip beneath the covers. Once he was asleep, she’d finish this.

Damn Bessie for putting her in this hostess role, making it impossible to use him for her recreation then never see him again. This was the first time she’d considered any liaison, even a night of intimacy, with a man outside of a negotiated contract in... ever. She wasn’t certain of the rules, but she couldn’t simply kick him out on the morrow if he was terrible in bed. Bessie would terminate their arrangement, in which case she might never have a family.

A knock came.

“You may enter.”

He stepped in and she gripped the bedpost for support. He’d removed his shirt.

“Don’t you have a nightshirt of some kind?”

“I sleep in my smallclothes when I’m sober enough to remove my shirt and trousers.” His tone was wry.

“Ah. Right, then. ’Tis not like I haven’t seen a bare chest or four,” she told herself as much as him. But damnation, she did not need to see this one when she was already in a state.

He stepped to the pallet and laid on it, extending his wrist.

“Did you want to remove your trousers then?”

He raised his brows. “If you do not mind. I have a limited amount of clothing here.”

She tossed the blanket over him, declining to acknowledge the long rigid lump under his trousers that would make sleep difficult, with or without multiple layers of clothing. The foot rub had affected him as well, yet here he was, respecting her rules.

After his trousers appeared from under the bedding and were tossed aside, she buckled the cuff around his wrist, reminding him, “I am a light sleeper, so whilst I know you can unfasten the binding with your other hand, I expect you not to wake me with roaming tonight.”

Finally, she slid into bed and listened for his breathing to change into sleep.

A half hour passed. She heard thumps against the floor and the swish of covers as he tried various positions. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the slick of his oil-covered hands, saw the club outlined by his trousers, recalled the line of fur down his stomach. Gulping, she waited, wishing she could act on the evidence of both of their desires. But he’d been so respectful, from the blanket to keeping his trousers on, she refused to reward that by pushing intimacy on a captive audience who had had little say in being here. Gah, morals were frustrating.

She lay rigid, not daring to touch her damp swollen folds even once for fear of being unable to stop when he was not yet asleep.

Clenching her fists against the bed, she heard the slicking again. Slowly at first, then faster. When a stifled grunt came from the floor, she realized she wasn’t imagining it. So much for respecting her rules. The arsehole was polishing his damned knob right there on her bedroom floor!

Ready to leap out of bed, she rethought. Slipping out as quietly as possible, she took a candle and flint and rounded the bed. Placing the candle on the chest of drawers, she lit it and pounced, flinging the bedclothes off Luke.

Sure enough, he lay there gaping at her, head off the pillow, cock in one hand, the other still by his shoulder in the cuff, undergarments around his thighs. His abdominal muscles were in sharp relief from his efforts, bisected by a T of chestnut hair running between his nipples then down. She took a moment to admire him, making sure she gave nothing away in her expression.

“What did I say about waking me?”

His eyes were hot as they perused her top to bottom. Relaxing back against the pillow, he gave a languid tug on his cock with a smirk. “Technically, you said not to wake you with roaming. I could not sleep with this—” He gestured downward with his head as though daring her to look again. “That left me to resolve the situation.”

“This is not acceptable.” She cocked a hip, placing a hand on it to glare at him. In fact, nothing about this night was acceptable. He was not going to attain his peak when she could not enjoy hers. It was her room and her house, damn it. Perhaps she could indulge with him, though...

“Come now, Belle,” he purred, using the name she’d warned him he’d have to earn the right to. “You cannot tell me a gentleman has never engaged in self-pleasure in this room. Or do you do all the work all the time?”

That doused her arousal as nothing else could. Of course, the young lord thought it was acceptable to do what he liked in a courtesan’s bedroom, without asking her leave. She glared, her lips tight when she replied, “Never— never has a gentleman engaged in such an act without ensuring my pleasure first, or without my consent. Now button it up.”

“Please, Belle? Put me out of my misery?”

She gasped.

“Er, I meant allow me to put myself out of my misery? If you had any idea how long it’s been since I’ve been this hard, this interested...” He trailed off and looked away, embarrassed.

She glanced down. When his cock pulsed in his grip and his hand slid up and down again, she glared at him again, a muscle clenching along her jaw.

He shrugged. “Sorry. You were looking; it was automatic.”

“Put it away. You have not earned privacy. Until you do, you live with the restrictions I choose. And pleasuring yourself on my floor is one of them.”

He tucked himself into his smallclothes with a sigh. “I hope you can sleep. I doubt I will. But damn, that felt good. Thank you, Isabella.”

The cad had the audacity to smile.

Her sexual frustration-tinged anger led her to snap open a drawer, grab another cuff and slap it around his second wrist. The straps from the first that kept him tethered to the bed had space for her to attach the second cuff. Now both his hands were forced to remain well above his waist, but he could still sleep on his back or one side. He’d have to make do.

Stomping back around the bed, she snuffed the candle and slid beneath the covers. As soon as she closed her eyes, her body betrayed her, conjuring his rod of iron against his belly. Knowing what it looked like without covering only fanned the flames flickering up and down her spine. The same oiled hand that had worked magic on her feet fisted his cock, sliding up and down. She rolled to her side and punched her pillow.

He sighed and shifted.

She circled her legs against the sheets, feeling her damp folds rub against each other. The silk of her nightrail teased her tightly furled nipples.

An insidious thought wormed its way into her head. Her house, her rules. Just because he couldn’t take himself over didn’t mean she couldn’t. And she could do it much quieter.

Rolling onto her stomach, she cupped a breast in one hand, squeezing the hard point. The other slid between her legs, dragging silk up one handful at a time. Finally, she could touch her core. She fluttered her fingers against her swollen lips first, trying to wait a few more minutes in hopes Luke fell asleep.

After a long minute of torturing herself with feathery touches, he’d been silent long enough she deemed it safe to proceed. Threading three fingers between her lips, she slid them along her hot hard flesh, dipping the middle one into the pool of wetness at her opening.

She pressed her lips together to muffle a moan and retracted the dampened finger to rub circles around her raised nub. Thrusting two fingers into her wet channel, she used her thumb to squeeze and roll that now-damp hard kernel. She daren’t piston her fingers, not wanting a slicking sound to give her away, but she could not stop the tiny jerking surges of her hips.

A vision of his stomach muscles and that narrow trail of hair leading to his cock flashed in her mind. A flush of heat ran over her from head to toe. Her stomach muscles tightened and her hips lost their rhythm. Her imagination recalled his cock pulsing and his hand sliding along it.

Panting quietly, she pinched her nipple and her thumb squashed her sensitive flesh. Her inner walls convulsed around her fingers, a rush of hot liquid drenching her hand. She bit her pillow to stop from keening as her nipple and clitoris throbbed against her hold on them.

Wishing it were him bathing her in hot liquid, she arched her back to press into the sheets, wiggling her thumb to extend the storm of ecstasy raging through her. Sparks of pleasure zipped through her limbs, fading slowly to embers as her hips relaxed against the bed. She flinched with sensitivity as she extracted her hand from underneath her.

Sighing in relief, she drifted to sleep.