Chapter Five

Oh God. The touch of her fingers stroking his shaft through his breeches was enough to drive him insane more sooner than later.

Benedict couldn't have enough of this woman, and he didn't understand why this was happening. After that afternoon in his parlor, he'd purposefully stayed away from her hoping the inexplicable desire and attraction between them would cool.

It had not, and when he'd seen her with the pistol his son had shot himself with, he'd lost his mind. Anger, fear, and that ever-present lust had slammed into him in a powerful wave that swept him along on its tide. Terrified that something would happen to her from the damned pistol he couldn't bear to part with even though it wasn't loaded, he'd wanted to teach her a lesson, and the only way he knew how was to kiss the hell out of her.

Which heightened his own need.

What was more, the widow met him kiss for kiss; she was fearless in the pursuit of pleasure, and that enhanced his own enjoyment. It was both a nightmare and a fantasy, for as much as this woman who was still much a stranger challenged him, he couldn't help but feel as if this might be a betrayal of his wife.

Even though he'd taken women to his bed between now and when he'd come out of mourning. Everything was a morass of confusion, but each time he peered into the cool pools of her eyes and saw the blatant need and longing there, it stoked matching feelings within him. He couldn't find his way out of the fog of his thoughts. Perhaps he didn't want to. The longer he kissed her, the more irritation mixed with the raw, inexplicable desire he had for her as well as the ever-present grief. To say nothing of the want of companionship, of inherently knowing she might help calm the storm inside or at least give him a respite from it.

"Marjorie, damn it all, I'm supposed to be leading this coupling." The woman was far too adventurous for her own good. So much so that he was having difficulty remembering he was in a shitty mood and merely wanted to relieve a physical ache.

"Then you should do a better job of it, Your Lordship. Unless I mistake my guess, you are still quite distracted." She squeezed his engorged shaft through the breeches to apparently make her point.

Why had fate placed her in his path? He had no idea, but he wouldn't waste the opportunity, and there was only so much a man could take before he broke. With a curse beneath his breath, Benedict claimed her lips in a series of kisses he hoped would sear him into her consciousness for a long time indeed. With surprise, he had to acknowledge to himself that she was as sweet as scandal and as spicy as sin, and what was more, he wanted her in no uncertain terms, damn the mental agony it would surely cause him. The connection they shared, that invisible thread had strengthened between them since the moment he'd hauled her arse out of the wishing well tightened. No longer could he withstand the waves of need that battered him.

When she made tiny sounds of surrender or encouragement at the back of her throat, Benedict was lost. Just as she looped her arms about his shoulders, he wrenched away, his breath labored, his heart hammering behind his ribcage. "Does this dress have a special significance to you?" he asked as he hooked the fingers of one hand into the bodice.

Her kiss-swollen lips turned temporarily downward in a frown. "It does not. And in fact, I've worn it for three days since you haven't seen fit to call on my cousin for necessary fresh clothing and other things." One of her blonde eyebrows rose in challenge.

"Ah. Well played, Mrs. Stowe. I shall rectify that immediately, then." Once he added his second hand, he ripped the dress asunder. The satisfying sound of fabric rending accompanied his violent shove of the ruined garment from her shoulders. After tugging it down her body, he reached for the petticoat, but she laid a staying hand on his arm.

"Refrain from tearing up the undergarments. Such things are expensive and the fabric fine. I would like to keep them intact lest I have absolutely nothing else to wear." How she managed to twine apprehension and excitement together in her voice was beyond him, but it drove him closer to the point of no return with alarming quickness.

One corner of his lips twitched with a grin. "How very practical of you, but I will grant the request." Never had he assisted a woman out of her clothing so quickly. When she stood before him in nothing except her stockings and half-boots with her hair tumbling about her shoulders and back, he paused, merely to study her with admiration. Not slim and lithe like a young woman and not matronly like so many women her age, Marjorie's form was possessed of nicely rounded curves with freckles, wrinkles, a few scars, and all the other imperfections that marked the passage of time. "Exquisite."

She snorted and tossed her head, but she gave him a slight smile. "Who is the one speaking gammon now?" But she didn't try to cover her private parts. Instead, she edged closer to him, reached for his cravat. "Let me help undress you."

"That will take too long." And any time delayed from burying his prick deep into her body was time wasted. So saying, Benedict made quick work of undressing himself.

Once the task was finished, she gasped and laid a palm on his chest. That gentle touch seemingly burned through his skin. "I wondered if you swim or sunbathed in the nude, and all of this gold skin is a testament to the fact you do."

Her intelligence merely enhanced the undeniable need for her. "Why shouldn't I? There are never visitors here or at the lakes." Without further talk, he took her once more into his embrace, and kissed her so forcefully they crashed against the wall with her snugly trapped between that and him.

And damn if she didn't feel good—right—in his arms, as if she alone could prove the balm he'd needed for quite some time.

Or at least in this moment.

Benedict kissed her, drank from her again and again, dragged his lips along the silky side of her throat while she clung to his shoulders and rubbed her form along his. Too far gone to give thought to what he was doing, he palmed one of her luscious breasts with one in hand while taking the nipple of the other into his mouth.

"Oh, yes." A shuddering sigh escaped her. She arched her back, putting herself more securely into his care. "I have missed this so much. Touching myself just doesn't feel like having a man's mouth on me." Her words were lost to a moan as he pleasured those pebbled tips with tongue and teeth and fingers.

Every word of that sentence hurtled him closer to the edge of explosion. This is utter madness. Yet he couldn't stop caressing her. "I need more of you," he whispered against the crook of her shoulder as he slid a hand down her side, reveling over the silky glide of her skin beneath his palm. There was so much he wanted to do to her—with her.

"I haven't tried to beg off yet," she responded in an equally soft and raspy voice.

"No, you have not, from that first meeting." It was inexplicable, but then, there were worse things. He growled and kissed her again, shared breath with her, wanted to show his domination in this moment to assuage his previous ire. Dear God, her body was a dream, and he was too far gone in lust to stop or go slowly. Thank the heavens she wasn't an untried debutante. When Benedict clutched the rounded curves of her buttocks and gave them both a decent squeeze, a surprised squeal came from her. "There is always something new to learn."

"Apparently so." Not to be outdone, she trailed her lips beneath the underside of his jaw, licking and nipping as she went. "You are so much more satisfying to explore than my husband ever was. I fear this coupling simply won't be enough."

That wasn't enough to bring him teetering on the brink. Desperately, he needed to join her. "Tell me you want me, Marjorie, for I won't have you crying foul that I took you against your will." His damned prick pulsed with pain-tipped pleasure. He'd explode soon and embarrass himself if she declined.

But then, perhaps he didn't deserve any of this.

"Have I not already given you all the permission you could want?" She looked up at him with passion-drugged eyes and kiss-swollen lips, and he knew . The same need etched upon her features fired through his blood; the same odd connection he felt was the same thing she did, and they were both bound by it. "I want you, Syn. Right now, in this moment, regardless of the fact we only met three days ago, and I take high exception to your temper."

Though she had no idea what drove him or why, her remark was fair. "You may regret that." Since she was of an average height, it would be too awkward to try and pick her up to lever against the wall, so he did the next best thing. After encouraging her left leg upward so that she rested it on his hip and took her weight on the good ankle, he held her thigh while letting the tip of his hardened shaft brush against her center that was more than ready to receive him. The other hand he cupped about her nape in order to make her meet his gaze. "This isn't exactly proper."

"No, it is not, but then after a certain stage of life, no one needs that any longer." She looped her arms around his shoulders. "I lived the whole of my life being proper to no avail. My husband's eyes still wandered, and he still visited brothels without ever caring if he satisfied me in bed." Nothing but truth reflected in her blue, blue eyes. "It's time for something different, and I fully believe I can find that with you." Her fingers at his nape encouraged him with slight pressure, and she sought his lips, lightly nipping the bottom one.

That little gesture as well as her words nearly sent him over. "May God strike me dead for wanting this so much." With one flex of his hips, he penetrated her body, buried his shaft deep in her warmth, easily sliding through her passage thanks to the play they'd already indulged in. "Bloody hell," he whispered against her lips. "You feel so good." And damn if she didn't give him one hell of a welcome, made him nearly forget all the bad he'd survived in his life.

"It's… oh mercy, you are so much larger than my last lover." She wriggled her hips to better accommodate his girth, and that movement almost became his ruination. "Being a widow is the best fun. I don't know why I didn't decide to act wicked before."

Was there nothing that she said that wouldn't shock him? Marjorie was so delightfully different than his wife. Not better or worse, only different, and there was a certain comfort in that. "This will go quick, for I'm woefully out of practice." Too bad there was simply no possibility of them being together for a lifetime; he didn't need the distraction or the responsibility, or God forbid, the attachment that he couldn't survive. This was a one-off deed to rid her from his system so he could fully concentrate on figuring out when he would make the final steps to join his family.

Then there were no more words, for he couldn't spare the energy. He dug his fingers into the soft flesh of her thigh, rested his other hand on the wall near her head, and as need raced down his spine and tingled through his stones, he pulled out for the heady rush that thrusting into her honeyed heat brought again. The rest of his sanity fled before the wave of pleasure smacking into him.

Over and over, he stroked into her body, taking, claiming, fusing, showing her that he was the master here and she had no right to insert herself into his rooms or his life. Yet by the simple act of rescuing her from that well, of bringing her into his home, of daring to touch her in inappropriate ways, they had forged a connection he feared would tether him to this world. The deeper he went, the more frantic and intense his thrusts became, and the more his thoughts were scattered to the winds.

"This is… wonderful." Her eyes shuttered. Twin spots of high color stained her cheeks. The blonde waterfall of her hair fell further over her shoulders. She burrowed her fingernails into his shoulders, and he welcomed the prick of pain, for it kept him as focused as he could be while losing himself in her bliss. To give her credit, Marjorie met him stroke for stroke as best she could in that position, but when she dug her heel into his arse in an apparent attempt to bring him closer, his hold on control snapped.

Benedict pushed with ever more fervor. The need to claim her became greater than everything else. Knowing he was the first man who'd made her reach release had him feeling far too smug and entirely too cock-sure, but at least she'd not forget him. "Tell me you're close. If you aren't, I'll go down on you since I know you will come from that attention." His words were raw, ragged, propelled into being by emotions he refused to acknowledge for they were too early in infancy, and he'd only just met her. Anything else was pure insanity.

"Almost there but needing additional stimulation." She restlessly tossed her head. Her inner muscles fluttered around his cock, ushering in the beginning of the end, and oddly enough, he didn't want this frantic coupling to cease.

"I know what you want." Nearly gone, Benedict clenched his jaw, held back the urge to finish in order to shove a hand between their bodies. When he found the slippery, swollen button at her center, he rubbed his fingers over it with varying degrees of friction. It was all too easy and familiar since he'd already introduced himself to her in that way before.

"You are a god at this." Marjorie's eyes rolled back in her head. She bucked her hips, which buried him ever deeper, and while she clutched mindlessly at his shoulders, he hissed out a warning. "I… I… Oh, Syn, yes!"

The cry surprised him, and he hoped it wouldn't bring his valet or anyone else into the suite. Then it didn't matter, for he was captivated by the moment, by her, by the very fact they were doing this as veritable strangers.

As she tumbled violently into that release, he renewed his hold on her and gave himself over to claiming her. His strokes were frantic and hard, and all too soon hot sensation raced through his stones and shaft. Both wanting the episode to end and not, he pumped for all he was worth, and when her body stiffened and she clutched at him while opening her mouth to cry out again, he grinned and claimed her mouth, taking her cry into himself.

A responsive woman was the most attractive kind.

Release crashed over him, through him, roared along every nerve ending like a voracious beast—undoubtedly changing him in ways he didn't want to contemplate. As much as he wished to fool himself that this was a one-off experience, he knew deep in his soul they would come together more than just this once. Again and again, he pumped into her contracting passage even as his prick pulsed and jumped and he wanted to lose himself in that waiting madness. Then he broke; how could he not? For long seconds, he spent in spectacular fashion; it had been so long, and once his body had ceased the mad, wild torment, he held Marjorie close, keeping her safe between himself and the wall.

Holding onto her for the reassurance he sought as well.

That touch grounded him back to reality. Reminded him that in the visceral feel of her chest heaving against his, reveling in the warmth of her breath skating over his cheek that he was indeed alive, and that there must be a point to the purpose… if he would just open himself to those possibilities.

"Damn." Had this been a mistake? Though he knew there was no turning back from this point, he oddly craved the path to resolution; at least it would be a challenge. He'd irrevocably either done the stupidest thing in his life or the smartest, and where he'd go with her from here was still unknown.

Perhaps it didn't matter.

As his heartbeat returned to a normal pace and his breathing evened, he pulled slightly back from her to peer into her face. A red flush had overtaken her chest and cheeks, and the satiation reflected in her eyes was more than enough gratitude.

"That was quite… something." Because he could, he dropped a fleeting kiss to her lips.

"It was, and to be honest, I've never felt so alive." She blew out a breath and slowly began to untangle her limbs from his.

"I suppose that means you'll always err on the side of scandal?" While waiting for her reply, he released his hold on her thigh and let her leg slide gently down his.

A wince of pain lined her face as her foot went back to the floor. "Of course. Is there any other way to live?"

Live . Such a cruel word and connotation.

Cold panic welled in his chest to chase away the euphoria that coitus brought on. "I…" Taking a couple of steps away from her, Benedict shook his head. "I need to go." He couldn't remain here, couldn't let her close, both for her peace of mind and his, couldn't chance losing another person. But the second he tried to turn tail and run—no matter that he had not a stitch on—she put a hand on his arm to stay his flight.

"Stop, Syn. I won't have you running off to God knows where for days again." A hard edge entered her gaze. "I demand you act like a gentleman—or at the very least a human—and talk to me as if I matter. There was enough of the other way with my husband, and I won't tolerate the disrespect from you."

The slight command in her tone made him straighten his spine. Then he nodded. "Fair enough." His admiration for her rose. "However, I'm not certain I can talk to you like a human, because in that I have failed horrendously."

For a few moments, she remained quiet as she plucked her discarded shift from the floor and then donned it. "At least tell me why you reacted so badly when you saw me with the pistol."

"I suppose you deserve that explanation." In that, he'd been an arse. As he retreated to find his breeches, he glanced at her, and even though her body was partially covered by the lawn shift, she was no less potent than when she'd been fully clothed. "I apologize for the beastly behavior."

Marjorie nodded. "You are learning, and that is encouraging."

Why was it that the best of women pushed and prodded men into becoming better? He pondered that as he drew on his breeches. When his mouth went dry, he forced down a hard swallow. "That pistol represents a time in my life that I can never forgive myself for."

"Why do you keep it, then?" As they talked, she retrieved the carved wooden box from the floor. Though the lid had come off its hinges, it would still be of use as a storage vessel.

"Because I want to keep reminding myself of my failure lest history repeat itself." Pain and agony filled his chest, not only to remember that horrible day but to tell her, to let her see how vulnerable he truly was.

Would she prove disappointed?

Her eyes were bright as she gazed at him from across the room. Then she bent to retrieve the blue satin fabric and returned it to the box. "Tell me. Get on with it, have it out in the open so it will no longer have power over you."

Sound advice. "Uh…" Shoving a hand through his hair, he frowned as she picked up the pistol and then placed it on the satin in the box. "Five years ago, my eight-year-old son told me he was going out—alone—to his favorite lake to fish. I didn't think anything about it, for he knew the area as well as I did, and he was quite responsible for a lad his age."

"No doubt you were occupied with responsibilities around the estate?" The bag of lead balls was returned to the box.

"Yes. It was a particularly busy time, and I was distracted." His heart squeezed. "In any event, for some reason, the boy had snuck the pistol out of the house. I have no idea why he did so; I can only speculate he wanted to experiment or do play acting with it."

"Oh, dear. I can guess where this story is headed." Marjorie replaced the remainder of the contents in the box, settled the lid on top as best she could, then returned the box to the shelf where she'd found it.

"My son had always been curious about the pistol; it was a leftover from the war, given to me with a commendation, never used." In some distraction, Benedict drew on his fine lawn shirt. He drifted to one of the windows and peered out, unseeing, onto the rear lawn. "When my son didn't return home at the arranged time, I went out searching for him, and that is when…" Pain surged through his chest. Tears prickled the backs of his eyelids. Everything faded except the memories of that day. "Apparently, he'd played with the pistol and accidental shot himself in the chest." The words were ragged with emotion.

"I am so sorry for your loss," Marjorie whispered. She came near and laid a hand on his arm, that brought both awareness and comfort in an odd mix.

"My boy bled out there on the shores of the lake, and I had been ignorant that he'd been in peril." Dear God, the telling of the story was a hundred times worse than living it, especially to a relative stranger. What would she think of him? "My wife was inconsolable when I brought Henry's body back to the house. She wailed and collapsed to the floor, blamed me for not hiding the pistol or locking it away."

"It wasn't your fault, Benedict."

"Perhaps it was." He shook his head. "I never forgave myself for that." A few swallows helped to stave off the urge to cry. It was something he'd not truly allowed himself to do since that time, for men needed to remain strong and stoic. "I, uh… Well, I was already listless after Henry's death, and my marriage suffered for that, I think. For a couple of years, at least, it just wasn't the same between my wife and I."

Marjorie made a sound of sympathy, and she lightly squeezed his arm in support. "Did you and she not want to have more children? Obviously, no one could replace Henry, but you are quite high up in English society. You would need an heir."

Another wave of pain smacked into him, and he gasped from it. "We had two other sons after Henry, but both of them died from various causes before the age of four," he finally managed to force out while he thought he might die of the guilt and self-loathing that battered his insides. "I couldn't do that to her again… couldn't put myself through that potential loss."

"Understandable." When she attempted to turn him about to meet her gaze, he resisted. With a slight huff, she nodded. "I feel there is more to this story. What are you not telling me?"

A bitter laugh escaped his tight throat. "So much more, but I don't wish to go into it at this time. What I gave you was enough." He swallowed down tears, tamped down the emotions welling. No good would come of losing himself to them. There was no going back to that time. "When I saw you with that pistol, I temporarily went insane. That pistol kills; weapons kill. They are the bane of our world."

"No, Syn." She dropped her hand from his arm, and he mourned that lost connection but refused to say anything lest he appear weak. "Henry wielded the pistol; men at war do the same. By themselves, those things are nothing except iron, wood, and ivory. They can't do anything by themselves."

A flash of anger flared in his chest. He rounded on her as his temper once more went out of control. "Then you are telling me that my son meant to kill himself that day? That he made the conscious decision to end his life?" His voice rose with each accusation.

"Of course not." With rounded eyes full of trepidation and confusion, Marjorie shook her head. "I am saying to give yourself grace. It wasn't your fault, and it wasn't Henry's fault. It was an unfortunate accident that happened because children are naturally curious. Chances are strong that even if you had been with him at the lake that day, he would have done the same thing. It probably happened so fast no one could have reacted."

The logic was sound, but he retreated into the irrational because it was familiar. "I should have put the pistol somewhere he couldn't access it."

"It is ridiculous to berate yourself after the fact." She frowned, turned away from him in order to retrieve her petticoat. "Yes, you have every right to feel grief, and yes, you are probably marinating in guilt, but at some point, you must realize that you can't honor your son by living in the past, losing yourself to it at the cost of ignoring everything else." In apparent agitation, she pulled on the garment and yanked at the ties to keep it at her waist.

"That is not for you to say!" Resting his hands on the windowsill, Benedict stared out the window, ignoring how the errant summer breeze came into the room to ruffle through the hair on his chest. "You know nothing of it, have never lost a child, don't know what it feels like to be left absolutely bereft because of it."

"Don't I?" Fabric rustled. No doubt she picked her stays off the floor, for her dress had been rendered completely useless. "Since you are hell bent on being a prick, let me tell you this, Lord St. Synedon." The heavy tread of her feet on the hardwood as she marched to the door served as testament to her ire. "I suffered two miscarriages—one before my own son was conceived and one two years following his birth. And if you're stuck in your damned ivory tower thinking you are the only one in this world that has known grief or think either of those losses didn't affect me, you are more of an idiot than I thought."

The fury in her voice smacked into him like sharp-edged darts. "Then what I have experienced is consigned to the pedestrian?"

"Of course not! I am only saying if you would talk about your loss, others will understand because we have all suffered it." A huff of annoyance escaped her. "Man wasn't meant to be alone, Benedict. We all need companionship, friendship, that understanding that only other humans can give. Think about that the next time you set out to push someone away."

"I don't…"

"Bah!" She scoffed. "I have no use for the English insistence on adhering to the rule of not showing emotion. It's antiquated and quite frankly, ridiculous. At least in America, we have it out with our problems, air the issues so they can be dealt with, and we can resume the business of living." Then she modulated her tone. "At the end of the day, we are only given a short life. I, for one, don't plan on wasting the remainder of mine."

Then she left the bedchamber by way of the corridor door, and she slammed that panel after her with a resolution that echoed in the sudden quiet of the room.

He bowed his head, and spent the next few seconds struggling with his emotions until he'd gained mastery of them again. For the first time, he considered that his wife's death and her previous pulling away from him prior to that event might have been at least some of his fault because he'd couldn't let himself grieve with her.

Dear God, I have made a mess of my life. Even more reason to end it as soon as he saw fit, his current intriguing houseguest notwithstanding.