Gemma squealed before clapping a hand across her mouth to gag herself. The blow stung but the pain was brief and overwhelmed by the desire it brought out of her. Another slap and a muffled squeal. She squirmed, kicking her feet as another blow landed. This time his hand lingered, resting on one buttock, gently stroking as though to heal the hurt. She moaned softly at his touch, pressing her hips downwards, savoring the warm pleasure that came from crushing her womanhood against the hard bulge directly beneath her. She looked back over her shoulder and saw that his face was tight with passion and controlled desire. Barely controlled. His hand shook from the effort of maintaining that control. A monumental effort that made Gemma feel a sense of pride. It was her body that caused such a need for control in him.
His hand lifted and after a moment, Gemma flinched. But no blow fell, it was nothing but a tease and she giggled uncontrollably. She lifted her hips from his lap, offering herself for the next spank, and then squeaked when it landed unexpectedly.
“You told me that you had learned without a man how to invoke pleasure in yourself,” he said in a voice husky with his own desire.
“I did,” she replied.
“Show me,” he said.
Not understanding at first, Gemma turned over so that her stinging, and no doubt slightly reddened buttocks lay against his lap and she was gazing up at him. Biting her lip, she took his hand and pressed it to the back of hers. Then she lowered that hand to the most intimate part of herself. She began to move her fingers, to stroke and caress, and, finally, to delve. He did not touch her but his hand remained resting atop her busy fingers and felt her movements, knew what she did. With his other hand, he touched her face, feeling her hot, panting breath against his fingers. Then he touched her throat, and she guessed that he was feeling for her pulse. Gemma parted her legs, forgetting where they were and or why. She braced her feet against the arms of the chaise as she drove herself to the heights of pleasure, watched by Nathan’s sensitive fingers.
Finally, an explosion within her caused her to squeeze her thighs, and eyes shut tight, she convulsed, seeing in her minds’ eye Nathan, naked and atop her. She saw the powerful thrust of his hips and her own legs rising above him, locking together as he drove himself into her. The image made her lurch upwards, catching his head and pulling him to her, kissing him frantically, moaning and whispering his name. When it was done, she collapsed, muscles like water. She removed her hand and then gave a small squeak as his remained, cupping her womanhood.
“Ah, so that is how it is done,” he said wryly.
Gemma laughed aloud.
CHAPTERTWENTY-SEVEN
Gemma wanted to accompany Nathan to his appointments in York, not wanting to be apart from him. He refused, citing her safety as his prime concern. She could understand his reasoning. The fewer people who saw her in York, the less the chance that word would reach her cousins. Assuming they were not already searching for her within the ancient city. It was a logical place for her to run to, after all.
She contented herself with exploring the house. It was spacious and with rooms suitable for all purposes. Bedchambers, rooms for bathing, rooms for entertaining, for reading or music. One room was largely empty of furniture except for a single, rather battered-looking armchair. The print on its upholstery was barely visible, so faded was it, as were the colors. Beside it was a large table covered with tools and pieces of wood.
A room prepared for him to whittle and carve in. I wonder if every residence he has comes with such a room.
The room occupied the eaves of the building with three tall windows reaching from the bare wood of the floor, to the sloping roof. Sunlight spilled in, though Nathan would not have been aware of it. Gemma wondered at the chosen location of the room until she sat in the chair. She was immediately warmed by the sun flooding in through the tall windows and realized why Nathan had chosen it.
Perhaps he will teach me to carve and I may share this room with him…
She stopped that train of thought and stood abruptly. She was thinking in terms of remaining in Nathan’s company. Even of living with him. Such thoughts must be driven out. They brought a sense of warmth and comfort to her, easing the worry that was a constant, unwelcome guest in her mind. Being comfortable in this house or anywhere that Nathan resided was not an option for her.
I must leave. I must run. Get as far away from my cousins and from Nathan as I possibly can. If I don’t, it will simply bring scandal and pain to him.
Gemma almost ran from the room, which was so personal and specific to him even though he had never set foot in it. It brought a sense of him that was so palpable that she felt that she would see him if she turned around. See him standing by the window, savoring the feel of the sun on his handsome, strong face. Watch the lines of his body, the elegance, and contained, controlled power.
Tearing the door open, she ran along the hallway. It was uncarpeted and her ankle-length traveling boots clattered against the bare wood. Windows on one side looked out on a quadrangle around which the house was built. A birch tree grew in the middle of it, surrounded by grass and flowerbeds with two wrought iron benches positioned to either side. To either side of the private garden, the house did not go above a single story, allowing light to enter.
The side of the quadrangle directly opposite the windows that Gemma fled past, rose highest of all, topping the frontage of the house by two stories. She blindly rounded a corner and began to descend a staircase, almost colliding with a maid carrying armfuls of linen. That produced a squeak of surprise from the maid and a hasty apology from Gemma before she hurried on.
At the landing of the next floor, she ran into Marshall. He stopped abruptly, raising his head and looking at Gemma. His position on the stairs was directly in her path and he made no sign of stepping aside.
“Excuse me, please, Marshall,” Gemma said.
His eyes narrowed and he smoothed his mustache with the thumb and forefinger of one hand.
“Your pardon, Miss, but I do not believe I have been informed of the precise nature of your status here,” he said.
Gemma frowned. “I am…” she began before faltering.
What is my status? A friend of the Duke? His lover? Hardly, I do not know if the intimacies we have shared qualify me to call myself his lover.
“Your rooms are on this floor, Miss. I have had your luggage taken there. Perhaps, you would care to be shown to your rooms?”
He gestured with one arm towards the floor from which she had just descended, one below the top floor with its wood carving room.
I cannot simply run out of the house without a bonnet on my head or a change of clothes. That is what I did to get away from the Stamfords and it placed me in this predicament.
“Of course, thank you, Marshall,” Gemma said with as much grace as she could muster.
