Outrageous Confessions of Lady Deborah Read online

  The box opened. Deborah’s hair brushed his shoulder as she leaned over to get a closer look and their eyes clashed. Their breath hitched. There was no mistaking it, though they both instantly dropped their gazes to the box. Desire, clear and sharp.

  ‘Are they what we were expecting?’ Deborah asked. ‘Miniature carvings, you said. Ivory set with precious stones. Unusual, you said.’

  ‘So I was told.’

  ‘By your sources,’ she agreed with a quick smile. ‘May I see?’

  The box was inlaid with velvet. Elliot removed the covering layer of cloth. There were ten figures, set in two rows of five. Deborah picked one out, frowning, turning it over in her hand. A diamond caught the light. Only then did Elliot realise what they had stolen. Deborah’s eyes widened as she examined the detailed, highly skilled carving. A woman. Naked. Astride a naked man. ‘Good grief,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I was told they were idols,’ Elliot said, fascinated by the way her fingers caressed the ivory, tracing the outlines of the figures, trying desperately not to think of those same fingers touching him so intimately.

  ‘I think this one has been broken at some point. See, the woman is not quite fixed.’ She pulled gently, and the ivory carvings separated. ‘Oh!’ The male figure lay on his back in the palm of her hand, quite undamaged and extremely true to nature. She traced the exaggerated length of manhood which had joined the couple with her fingertip and shivered. The expression on the figure’s face was not lascivious, but rather ecstatic. The woman, too, now she looked at it.

  She picked it up from where it had fallen on the cushion between them and slotted the two back together again. The movement was sleek. She hadn’t meant to look at Elliot, but she couldn’t stop herself; when she did, her belly clenched at the way his eyes blazed down at her. ‘Are they all like this?’

  ‘Variations on a theme,’ Elliot said in a voice that sounded strangled.

  ‘Let me see.’

  He handed her the box. She ran her fingers over the carvings, an orgy of copulating couples, all created with the same attention to detail as the first. She selected first one, then another, turning them over in her palm, detaching them and then sliding each together, obviously fascinated. Though some of the positions portrayed, in Elliot’s opinion, did not merit the challenge of their execution, none was new to him. In fact, the set was actually relatively tame compared to some he had seen.

  Deborah, however, seemed to find almost every variation novel. Her face was rapt. He wished she would look at him like that. He wanted her to touch him, not some ivory carving. He wanted to slide inside her, certain that they would fit together even more perfectly than the little Japanese idols.

  Slotting a female back into position beneath her lover, Deborah shivered again. None of Bella Donna’s couplings had the sensual quality portrayed here. Bella’s pleasure was to dominate, subjugate, control. But these figures looked as if they were in a state of bliss. ‘Do you think—are they all possible?’ she asked doubtfully.

  Elliot hesitated, taken aback by the innocence of her question. ‘Certainly they’re all possible. Whether they are all worth the effort is another question.’ Deborah stared at him wide-eyed. She seemed more intrigued than shocked. Did she have any idea what an invitation her interest was? ‘The set was obviously made as a marriage gift,’ Elliot explained.

  ‘I wish someone had given me such a gift,’ Deborah said. ‘Have you tried—oh God, don’t answer that, I can’t believe…’

  ‘Yes, I have. All of them.’ Elliot took the ivory from her and put it back in the box, making no attempt to hide the wicked curve to his smile. ‘And before you ask, no, I didn’t particularly enjoy them all.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Elliot pulled her closer. ‘But I’d be willing to try them again,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘just to satisfy your curiosity, you understand. If you wanted me to.’ He nibbled on the lobe of her ear, then kissed his way down the column of her neck to the collar of her shirt.

  Deborah’s heart was racing, a mixture of excitement and fear. Could she? She had broken into a house in the middle of the night. She had assisted in a safebreaking and, what’s more, she’d managed to shut that damned dog up. She was in an unlocked boathouse in the middle of nowhere with a man she had been fantasising about since first he fell out of the night and landed on top of her. Could she?

  ‘Deborah?’

  She laughed and threw her arms around his neck. ‘Just kiss me, Elliot.’

  He pulled her to him and did just that. His lips were like a feather abrading her skin. He pulled her closer and she sighed, letting the tip of her tongue touch his, drinking in the heat, the scent, the reassuringly solid maleness of him. He sank backwards on to the cushioned bench, taking her with him. She lay over him now, her breasts crushed to his chest, the hard length of his erection pressed into the soft flesh of her belly. So hard. So different. Everything about him was so different.

  His kiss deepened. She pressed herself into the unyielding strength of his body and kissed him back, relishing the tightening of his hands on her waist, the way his lips clung to hers, his tongue plundered her mouth, relishing the way he was so very male, the way he made her feel so very female. Their kisses were lush, like ripe fruit. Then deeper kisses, edged with desperation.

  Elliot pulled her astride him. ‘I want to see you,’ he said raggedly, running his hand down her arms, tugging at her coat. ‘Curves. Skin. So lovely. I want to see.’

  Her coat was cast overboard. Elliot’s followed. Then his waistcoat. His eyes were hungry on her as he pulled her shirt free of her breeches, his fingers dealing efficiently with the buttons, pulling it over her head, his eyes blazing as he looked, drinking in her naked flesh. The way he looked was unbelievably rousing. His eyes feasted on her, gloried in her, as if he could never have enough of her. It was incredibly empowering, overcoming any trace of embarrassment.

  ‘So much better than dreams,’ he said, flattening his palm over her breasts, down the curve of her waist. ‘So much better than in your hallway in the dark.’ His mouth curved into a sensual smile that made all her muscles clench. ‘So very, very lovely.’

  He fastened his mouth to her nipple and sucked deep. Jolting heat, like a streak of light connected straight to the fire in her belly, to the tension knotting there, and lower. Elliot growled as she writhed, holding her still, his lips suckling, licking, teasing more and more heat from first one nipple, then the other, until she was in a frenzy of need and want.

  Deborah tugged ineffectively at his shirt. Impatiently, he pulled it over his head and cast it aside. She touched him, warm skin, rough hair on his chest arrowing down to the dip of his stomach. His muscles flexed as he breathed, his breathing became shallower, faster, as she touched him, as he touched her, his eyes fierce on hers.

  ‘I want you.’

  She did not doubt him. Could not. And she wanted him, too, painfully, achingly, in a quite alien, wholly adult way she could not have imagined. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’

  He pulled her to him with a ruthless kiss, rolling her under him, blazing a trail of kisses down to her breasts, then more kisses, licking, rousing kisses, nipping, plucking kisses, until she was so hot she could not bear it, and more kisses, until they were no longer enough.

  When he unbuttoned the fall of her breeches, slipping his hand inside, stroking down her belly, she cried out. Down he stroked, to the soft flesh at the top of her thigh, over the curls at the apex, then the other thigh. She moaned again and dug her nails into his back, arching up for him. She was tense, tight, knotted, but she could feel the knot fraying under his insistent caresses, his mouth, his fingers, the scent of him and the weight of him. He shifted slightly, lifted his head from her breast, muffling her instinctive cry of protest with his mouth, a deep plunging kiss, shadowed by the stroking, slipping, sliding plunge of his fingers into the damp, hot flesh of her sex.

  The knot inside her tightened. It was not the first time, for she had of necessit
y learned how to take solitary pleasure, but it had never been like this. This was not just a release. This was no panacea. This was different. Wildly different. A slow climb, the pleasure in the climb itself, so pleasurable that she did not want to reach her destination. Not yet. She clenched and tried to hold on. Not yet. But Elliot’s tongue plundered her mouth as his fingers thrust, and stroked and slid. She was slipping.

  ‘Let go,’ he said, his voice guttural in her ear, his touch purposeful, stroking harder, faster, until she thought she would die of anticipation, until she could hold on no more and let go, muffling her cries in his shoulder, shaking with the force of her climax, clinging, panting, shocked beyond measure.

  Elliot held her fast, a surge of blood making the ache between his legs almost unbearable. Abandonment.

  Ecstasy. Just exactly as he had imagined, only more. He kissed her hair. She clung to him, burrowing against him, her cheek pressed into his chest. Then her lips on his skin. Then she slipped her hand into the tight space between them and touched him through his breeches. A tentative touch, but enough to make the blood surge. She fumbled with the buttons which fastened his breeches. He yanked them free, wriggled clear of them, kneeling on the floor of the barge beside her to do so.

  Deborah pushed herself upright. Elliot was much bigger than what she had seen of Jeremy. And so hard. Jeremy had never been so—he had always had to—but Elliot’s erection seemed to have a life of its own, jutting up, thick and curved. She wanted to touch him, but she was afraid to. When she’d touched Jeremy…

  She didn’t want to remember. Desperately, Deborah tried to push back the memories, but they were gaining strength now and her courage was wilting as surely as Jeremy’s manhood. This was different. Elliot was different, she told herself, but still she couldn’t make her hand move towards him. The very fact that she wanted to touch him so much made failure too terrifying to contemplate. Her confidence, the fizz of her climax, the wild excitement of the night fled, leaving her utterly deflated. Deborah edged away, huddling into the corner of the barge. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just can’t.’

  The suddenness of her retreat left Elliot stunned. ‘Can’t?’ he repeated, trying to make sense of the word, trying to understand how the flagrant goddess with her pale hair tumbling over full breasts, the nipples rosy, pink as her sex, could be so quickly transformed into this timid creature. ‘Did I hurt you? Have I frightened you? I didn’t mean…’

  ‘No, it’s me. I shouldn’t have—I thought I could, but I can’t. I’m so sorry, Elliot.’

  He was aching with need. She was so hot. So wet. So ready for him. What had he done to deserve that tight white face, the obvious fear in those big eyes? Realising that he was still blatantly hard and pointlessly naked, Elliot scrabbled for his clothes, quickly pulling on his shirt and breeches, handing Deborah hers before sitting down to pull on his boots.

  Beside him, Deborah was shaking, struggling into her waistcoat. ‘Here, let me,’ Elliot said, fastening the buttons. A tear plopped on to his hand. ‘Can’t you tell me?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I thought you wanted to.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Deborah sniffed, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt.

  ‘Will you tell me why?’

  ‘I can’t.’ Deborah drew a shaky breath. ‘I thought I could—but I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have—I should have stopped you, but you made me feel—and then I thought—but I shouldn’t have. We should go, before the horses take a chill.’ She pushed him aside to drag on her boots, stumbling out of the boat.

  ‘Damn and blast the horses to hell!’ Elliot exclaimed, catching her by the shoulders. ‘What the hell went on in that marriage of yours to do this to you? Look at you, you’re shaking.’

  ‘You’re angry. You’re right to be angry. It’s my fault. I’m sorry.’ It had always been her fault. What a fool she was to think that this time would be any different. Another tear slipped down her cheek. Deborah blinked frantically. A storm of emotions was gathering in her breast that she didn’t want Elliot to see. She didn’t want them to overwhelm her, not like this, so she did the only thing she knew how. She blanked out everything. She pictured herself as a stone, hard and glittering and untouchable. It was difficult, much more difficult than she remembered, but she’d had years and years of practice. ‘We should go.’

  ‘Is that it? You’re not even going to explain?’

  ‘I can’t. I’m sorry.’ Deborah forced open the boathouse door.

  ‘Dammit, stop saying you’re sorry.’ Elliot stormed out after her. She already had her greatcoat on and was untying her horse. Her face was set. Elliot watched her, fighting a desire to shake the truth out of her, or kiss the truth out of her, or just kiss her. What was going on in that mind of hers? ‘Deborah…’

  ‘I just want to go home. Please don’t ask me to explain because I can’t. It was a mistake. Please, Elliot, just let me go home.’

  He had no option but to mount his horse and follow her. They rode in silence all the way back to London. By the time he bid her goodnight, her stony face and determined silence had provoked his temper and roused his pride. He bid her a curt goodbye.

  Chapter Seven

  Deborah took up her pen early the next morning because she didn’t want to think about last night, and because she couldn’t stop thinking about last night. She had to finish her book. She eyed the blank page with a weary eye, having dragged herself from her bed, exhausted by dreams of running and falling, falling and running. She had to finish it. Her book meant freedom and freedom meant—she would think about that later.

  She worked frantically after that, driven by the vision of liberty. She wrote, laughing as she recalled the dog, transformed in her story to a sleeker, more vicious version of itself. She wrote on the next day, too, and when tiredness made her head ache, her wrist throb, her fingers too numb to keep the quill upright, still she carried on, until she came to what Mr Freyworth called the aftermath and her pen skittered to a halt.

  She could not believe it had been her, that abandoned creature in the boathouse. The soaring, falling-apart feeling of her climax still had the power to make her shiver with delight. Bella’s climaxes were gloating, triumphal, a powerful metaphor for victory, but that’s all they were. Bella might be technically proficient, but she took her pleasure rather clinically. For the first time in their shared history, Deborah felt she had the upper hand.

  Elliot would smile at that piece of convoluted logic. Guilt and longing made her close her eyes. For just a moment, Deborah allowed herself the indulgence of conjuring him. The taste of him. The feel of him. The scent of him. The sheer, undeniable maleness of him. The way he looked at her, touched her. For a while, in the boathouse, she had been happy in her own skin, glad to be Deborah, because Elliot desired her. And then she had spoilt it. Most likely ruined it.

  How could she have expected anything else, with seven years’ worth of failure stacked up against her? But she had. She had believed it would be different, until she allowed Jeremy back into her head. Jeremy had shaped her far too well and, until she broke the mould he had made for her, it would never be different, she realised with a sickening flash of insight. He was dead, but he haunted her still.

  Until now, the idea of being emotionally frozen had been an attractive one. Without feelings she could not be hurt. Why was she being so contrary? she wondered, chewing on the end of her quill, because, despite the fact that she knew it would have been disastrous, she couldn’t help wishing that she had made love to Elliot.

  Made love! What the devil did she know about that! Nothing—nor was she ever likely to. But she knew enough now to imagine, didn’t she? And if she could imagine, then Bella could experience, couldn’t she? Deborah took up her pen with renewed determination.

  * * *

  Less than a week later, she delivered the revised manuscript to Mr Freyworth’s office and staggered home, numb with tiredness. She went straight to bed, but sleep would not come. She ha
d hoped that allowing Bella to spread her emotional wings would be

  cathartic. Instead, it seemed to have effected some sort of internal rebellion. The past, which had been kept at bay for two long years, was escaping through the gate which her writing had unwittingly opened. Memories crowded her mind, a host of stalking animals, vying miserably for her attention.

  Deborah paced the floor of her darkened bedchamber, the curtains drawn against the afternoon light, her hair in tangled hanks where she had repeatedly twisted it around her fingers. This should be the first day of her freedom, yet Jeremy’s ghost was gathering strength, his taunts pounding out a horribly familiar rhythm in her head.

  She had misled him. She had ruined him. She was cold. She was so repulsive that she unmanned him. She was not even a woman, but a barren piece of marble. No wonder he took to the tables in search of comfort. No wonder his friends shunned him. He should never have married her. He had never loved her. He despised her. She had ruined his life. He should never have married her. Never have married her. Never.

  Deborah threw herself on to the bed and buried her head under the pillow, screwing her eyes tight shut, but Jeremy wouldn’t leave her alone. ‘It wasn’t my fault,’ she said aloud, swallowing a sob, but her voice lacked conviction. She curled up into a ball, wrapping her arms tight around her chest, willing the voice to leave her be. She tried to blank her mind. She tried to rock herself to sleep, buried deep under the blankets, but unconsciousness retreated even further. Scenes, long-forgotten scenes, replayed themselves. Snippets of their life together flickered through her mind’s eye like the pages of a hellish scrapbook.