She moved her hips, rubbing herself against the wide ridge of his erection.
He yanked the curtains closed, started working on the fasteners of his trousers.
“What about my reputation?” she asked demurely.
Searching out the slit in her drawers, he found her ripe and juicy with desire. He gripped his cock, running his bulging crown along her slick folds. She jerked in surprise; this was a new position for them. One that he thought his little termagant would take to like a duck to water. Notching himself to her opening, he pulled her down on him, impaling her in a swift stroke.
She moaned, her pussy fitting him like a wet, tight glove.
“We’ll make this quick. Ride me, angel,” he ordered.
As predicted, she was more than up for the task.
24
Wick’s residenceturned out to be a graceful house situated on a leafy street close to Russell Square. The arched windows sparkled, the porticoed entryway adding to the place’s grandeur. As Bea entered, she saw that the interior was equally refined. The antechamber featured a tiered chandelier and polished mahogany staircase, veined Italian marble gleaming beneath her shoes. A landscape painting graced one wall, and a rosewood console held an immaculate arrangement of hothouse blooms.
Wick was looking at her, gauging her reaction. The furrow between his brows revealed that her opinion of his home mattered to him. She let her approval show in her admiring smile, and his handsome features relaxed. He took her hand, kissing the gloved knuckles briefly. His heat penetrated the soft kid, causing a pleasant swirl in her blood, a quiver of the well-used muscles between her thighs.
Goodness, the man was potent. He’d brought her to climax twice in the carriage, yet a simple kiss on the hand brought her lust up to a simmer again. As if he gleaned the direction of her thoughts, his eyes got that languid, heavy-lidded look that made her want to have her way with him here and now, on the gleaming marble tiles.
She summoned up a polite smile as Wick introduced the members of his household staff, who were lined up to greet them. A sudden stampede of footsteps overhead interrupted him. Shouts and whoops of joy erupted as three boys appeared at the top of the stairwell, racing down and shoving at each other in their eagerness to get to Wick first.
“Uncle Wick, you’re back!”
“Oof—get out of my way. I want to say hello to Uncle Wick.”
“You get out of the way, numskull. I was here first!”
Bea couldn’t tell who had said what for the dark-haired trio was as tangled as a tumbleweed, a collection of arms, jabbing elbows, and kicking feet. They were all jabbering at once, trying to outshout one another in an attempt to be heard.
“Now, lads, mind your manners,” Wick began.
His admonition only served to raise the volume as the boys tried to talk to him while simultaneously arguing with each other.
“Enough, lads.”
The boys quieted at the sound of the booming male voice that came from the top of the stairs. A brawny dark-haired man was descending, a slender brunette dressed in a buttercup yellow gown by his side. Bea knew that the man must be Wick’s brother, although there was little in the way of family resemblance. As Richard Murray approached, she saw that his features were more rugged than refined, his dark eyes rather somber. Unlike Wick, who exuded a natural charisma that drew people to him wherever he went, the older Murray had the look of a man who would be more comfortable sporting outdoors than doing the pretty in drawing rooms.
Indeed, his lady bore more of a resemblance to Wick with her pretty caramel-colored eyes and vivacious features. She moved with a natural energy and grace that would serve her well on a ballroom floor. Her air of lively mischief made for an appealing contrast to her husband’s stoic gravity.
Despite Wick’s reassurances, Bea knew she had to be prepared for any reaction to her scar. Her last foray into polite society had taught her just how much thetonjudged by appearances. Her pulse beat a rapid tattoo as she realized that she ought to have freshened up before meeting his family. In addition to her damaged cheek, she’d engaged in vigorous lovemaking in the carriage; what if it showed?
Stop panicking. It’s too late. Take a breath…
She braced for the lady’s greeting.
“You must be Lady Beatrice,” Wick’s sister-in-law exclaimed. “It’s jolly good to meet you! Wick never brings anyone around to meet us, and you’re every bit as dashing as he described in his letter. He also mentioned that you’re an ace shot; is that true? I’ve been taking archery lessons, and you’re welcome to practice with me, although fair warning…I’ve been accounted an excellent shot myself,” she ended with a raffish little grin.
Bea blinked, not sure how to respond.
“Before Lady Beatrice decides whether she’d like to participate in your games, lass, perhaps she’d like to know who ‘we’ are.”
Although Wick’s brother’s tone was chiding, amusement warmed his earth-brown eyes as he regarded his lady. Turning to Bea, he inclined his head. In the unaffected elegance of that gesture, she began to see the similarity between the brothers.
“Richard Murray, Viscount Carlisle, at your service,” he said. “This modest, demure lady is my wife Violet, and these are our boys: Ewan, Duncan, and Wickham.”
At the mention of their names, the lads hastily bowed. Their gentlemanly manners bore the stamp of their father. Catching one of them—Duncan—surreptitiously stick his tongue out at his youngest brother, Bea felt her lips quiver; their mama obviously had an influence as well.
