In the Spinster's Bed Read online

  Infidelity is expected among the ton. And I want this. I want this so much.

  Belle closed her eyes as William’s mouth touched hers. His lips were firm and dry. Gentle. His arms cradled her.

  She felt as if she’d finally come home.

  She sighed, letting herself relax into him. His erection pressed insistently against her belly.

  It had been twenty years since he’d loved her—twenty years of drought—but her body remembered him as if it had been just yesterday. Her woman’s part throbbed, hot and wet and anxious to welcome him back.

  Remember what happened last time.

  Yes, but she was older now, surely too old for such . . . problems.

  A breath of worry whispered through her. Sometimes older women conceive.

  The worry was followed by a wash of sorrow. Yes. Sometimes. Not often. And not me.

  She’d been nine when she’d heard her parents arguing late at night. They probably thought she was asleep and wouldn’t understand their words if she did hear them.

  She hadn’t understood until she was seventeen and with William.

  “I wanted a son. It was your duty to give me a son.” The sharp sound of her father’s hand slapping her mother’s face still reverberated in her ears. “I’ve plowed you for fifteen bloody years, and all you’ve managed to give me is one useless girl.”

  “I tried. You know I tried.” Her mother’s voice had wavered with defiance and fear. “But I’m too old to have children now.”

  “Yes, blast it, you’re too old to give me my son, but you’re not too old to give me relief.”

  She’d pulled her blankets over her head and then pressed her hands to her ears so she’d not hear the grunting and moans and other odd noises that came from her parents’ room.

  Her mother had been only thirty-five. Two years younger than I am now.

  Silly! I shouldn’t be sad I can’t conceive. I should be happy. I am happy.

  Oh! William’s lips moved from her forehead to her cheek. Why am I thinking about the past when the present is so wonderful?

  Mmm. Was he going to kiss the sensitive spot just below her ear? She tilted her head to encourage him.

  “Why have you taken to hiding your hair under a cap, Belle?” His words whispered over her skin as his fingers found her pins and plucked them out. “You’ve made yourself look like a sour old spinster.”

  “I am an old spinster.” And perhaps she was sour, too. She’d admit she didn’t have much joy in her life.

  Ahh. But it was a joy to feel her hair tumble down her back and then William’s fingers comb through it. Was this how Poppy felt when someone stroked her?

  Belle certainly felt like purring and rubbing herself against William’s hard body.

  “You’re younger than I am.” His tongue traced the rim of her ear.

  “B-by only a y-year.”

  Oh, Lord. His fingers had moved to the neck of her dress, opening it slowly, button by button. She felt the room’s cool air touch her skin.

  She should stop him. Her hands moved . . .

  . . . to grasp his shoulders for support. His mouth had found the pulse at the base of her throat, turning her knees to water.

  She might have moaned.

  “God, Belle. You’re so lovely.”

  She wasn’t. She was a thirty-seven-year-old spinster, all wrinkled and dry.

  No, not dry. Not now. Now she was wet, very, very wet and eager.

  William started to push her dress off her shoulders.

  The first time they’d come together, the time he’d happened upon her in the folly when she’d been reading that scandalous novel, they’d been so desperate for each other, they hadn’t bothered to remove their clothing. She felt that same desperation now. She wanted him to—

  Poppy sneezed.

  I shouldn’t do this.

  Nonsense. I’m an adult. I want it. Need it—

  It wasn’t right.

  If she was sinning, she’d beg forgiveness later. Right now, she felt so hot, she could be in hell already—and only William could save her.

  Blast it, he’d left her dress partway down her arms. She felt a bit trapped.

  “William.” She wiggled slightly, unsuccessfully trying to get her sleeves to slide lower. “You haven’t finished.”

  His lips pulled into a slow, seductive smile, his eyes dark and heavy with desire. “Very true. In fact, I’m just beginning.”

  “Oh. Oh!”

  His clever mouth played on her breasts, brushing over them where they mounded above her stays. He had learned a few tricks over the years. He must be a far more accomplished lover than he’d been as a boy.

  How many women—

  Don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter.

  His thumbs drew slow circles on her shoulders, keeping her still as his tongue slipped below the edge of her stays to touch a nipple.

  “Oh!”

  She squirmed against him.

  Bloody dress. Bloody stays.

  Bloody man. Doesn’t he know he’s driving me mad?

  “William.” Her voice was high and thin. “Please.”

  If she couldn’t move her arms, she’d move her hips. She pressed and rubbed—

  He made a strangled sound, an odd cross between a moan and a growl, and jerked her dress all the way down.

  “I think I heard something tear.” Not that she cared. He could rend the thing in two if he wished.

  William grunted. “I’ll buy you a new one.” He made short work of her stays, dropping them onto the floor. “One that’s easier to remove and doesn’t have such a god-awful high neck.”

  He can’t buy me a dress. I’m not his whore.

  He pulled off her shift in one quick movement and then stopped to look at her. His eyes touched her everywhere.

  Hot embarrassment flooded her. Didn’t he see the wrinkles, the dimpled, sagging skin? Her body wasn’t seventeen any longer. She raised her hands—

  He stopped her. “No, Belle. Don’t hide your beauty.”

  And then his fingers moved over her almost reverently, from her breasts to her belly to the curls at the top of her thighs. His touch was like the rays of the sun, warming her, melting her frozen soul. She smiled.

  “William. I’ve missed you.”

  “And I’ve missed you, Belle. But I’m here now.” He cupped her private place. “And will soon be here.” He slipped the tip of one finger just inside her and groaned. “Zeus, you are so wet and ready for me. I’d forgotten how wonderful you are.”

  More wonderful than his other women? Than his wife?

  She closed her eyes briefly. It didn’t matter. She put her hand on his hard length, barely contained in his breeches. He would fill her emptiness. He would thrust and thrust, and she would come apart.

  For a while, she would not be alone.

  “Careful. I don’t want to spill my seed yet.”

  Sometimes seed took root.

  But not in me. Not again. Never again. It’s too late.

  “Merrow!”

  She glanced over to see Poppy glaring at her. The cat’s tail twitched from side to side.

  Had William noticed?

  No. He was too busy ripping off his shirt.

  She bit her lip as she saw what the cloth had hidden. His chest was so much broader, his stomach and arms far more muscled than she remembered.

  And then his hands were at his fall, his fingers flying over the buttons, opening it and pushing his breeches down. He kicked them away and stood naked, his splendid cock long and thick and heavy, pointing at her. He held out his arms.

  “Come, Belle.” His voice was thick, too. “We’ve waited long enough.”

  “Yes, we have.”

  She was just about to move toward him when she heard Poppy hiss. The sound distracted her.

  William is married.

  Mrs. Conklin did a brisk business in married men. She’d explained it all to Belle when Belle had arrived from Dornham needing a place to s
tay. It was the reason she couldn’t put Belle up for more than a few days.

  Mrs. Conklin was a whore. She would be the first to admit it. Welcoming men between her sheets was how she paid her bills. But she had one firm rule: Before she entertained a new customer, she assured herself that his wife didn’t object. Loves Bridge was a small village. It wouldn’t be comfortable for her if the women shunned her. And she wasn’t about to offend a fellow female.

  But this is different. William’s wife is in London. And I’m not asking him for money. I’m giving myself to him freely.

  “Don’t tell me you are shy suddenly?”

  I’m not a whore . . . am I?

  “Shall I come to you, then?” He stepped closer.

  William is married. He’s made vows before God.

  She put up her hands to stop him. “No.”

  “No?” He paused, clearly confused. “What do you mean, ‘No’?”

  “I can’t do this.”

  His eyes widened, and then his brows slammed down into a scowl. “Are you playing some sort of game?”

  “It’s not a game.” She wrapped her arms around herself to cover her nakedness—and to keep from reaching for William. “You’re married. It wouldn’t be right.”

  He took a deep breath. She watched his wonderful chest expand. “You’ve known I was married from the beginning.”

  She nodded. “Yes.” She felt sick. “I, er, forgot.”

  “Forgot?!”

  “Don’t shout.”

  He took another breath and then another. He was angry. Very angry.

  Fear fluttered in her chest.

  William won’t hurt me.

  You haven’t spent more than a few minutes with William in twenty years. You don’t know if he’ll hurt you or not.

  No, that was her head talking. Her heart knew she was safe. She’d lived with her father. She recognized violence. She was in no danger here.

  “I could make you want me.”

  She already wanted him.

  But she couldn’t give in to her desire. It wouldn’t be right. William was married.

  She shook her head.

  His nostrils flared. White lines etched around his tight lips. “You fucking tease.”

  She flinched. “You need to go. Now.”

  He stared at her, anger and frustration clear in the taut lines of his body. Then, without another word, he jerked on his clothes and left.

  She listened to his feet stomp down the stairs and then the back door slam. The harsh sound released the tight hold she’d had on her control, and she collapsed onto the floor.

  “Merrow.” Poppy rubbed against her.

  “Oh, Poppy.” She gathered the cat close and buried her face in her fur.

  Chapter Four

  May 1, 1797—The duke has got William back in at Oxford. William left a week ago, and I have not been able to stop crying. I am so miserable even my courses are affected. They are several days—or perhaps a week—late.

  —from Belle Frost’s diary

  January 1817

  “Try again, Walter.” William smiled as encouragingly as he could.

  Walter Hutting, the twelve- (or perhaps it was thirteen) year-old son of the Loves Bridge vicar, heaved a great sigh, fidgeted on the pianoforte’s bench, and then started from the beginning of his assigned piece.

  He mangled the very first note.

  William cringed—discreetly, he hoped—and wondered yet again how Luntley had managed to survive ten years as the Loves Bridge music teacher with both his hearing and his sanity intact. Of all the man’s students, William had yet to find a single one who showed even a glimmer of talent.

  “That’s a whole note, Walter. You can’t play it as if it was a quarter note. Slow down.”

  Walter sighed again and slowed down—a little. Clearly he wanted this lesson over as quickly as possible.

  As did William, but the vicar had engaged him to spend forty-five minutes with the boy. They must be getting close to that.

  He checked his watch and swallowed his own sigh. What had seemed like half an hour had been only ten minutes.

  He’d thought Luntley would have been back by now, but apparently the man’s mother was taking longer to recover than expected.

  “That’s better, Walter. Now, can you put some feeling into it?”

  Walter looked at him as if he’d suddenly sprouted a second head. Indeed, what had he been thinking?

  “Yes. Well. Carry on. Once more all the way through.”

  The boy returned to torturing the helpless instrument.

  Not that he wanted to go back to London. Hortense hadn’t changed. Her exploits—each more outrageous than the one before—were still on everyone’s lips, including his family’s. Wilkinson had handed him a letter just two days earlier from his brother Albert, telling him that their father was so displeased with Hortense’s unbecoming behavior, it was affecting his health.

  “Shall I play my next piece, Mr. Wattles?”

  “Yes, Walter, why don’t you?” It was a fairly simple tune. Perhaps the boy had mastered it.

  He had not.

  William heard a step and glanced over to see Walter’s oldest sister hurry by. Was she covering her ears? Walter’s playing was bad, but surely his sister—

  No, she was merely putting on her bonnet. Perhaps she was off to the lending library to see Belle. Miss Hutting fancied herself a budding novelist and often asked Belle to critique her work.

  Belle.

  Oh, God.

  Belle was the problem, of course, the real reason he didn’t want to go back to London—and the reason he didn’t want to stay in Loves Bridge. The thought of leaving her tore his gut to shreds, yet seeing her daily, hearing her voice, hearing people talk about her—it was driving him mad.

  He shifted on his seat. It had been seven months since that disaster in her bedroom. He’d realized as soon as his damn cock had shrunk back to normal proportions that she’d been right—it would have been dishonorable of him to have had sexual congress with her while he was married to Hortense. Belle was not a whore whose profession was attending to men’s needs. She was a respectable woman. A confirmed spinster—

  Now there was a waste of passion. She was nearing forty, but her lovely body had hardly changed over the years, except perhaps to fill out a bit in the most delightful way. Her hips were a little wider, her breasts fuller. In fact, she was even more alluring now than she’d been as a girl. When he’d seen her—

  He should not be entertaining thoughts of Belle naked, especially in the vicarage.

  He would not have seen Belle naked if she’d managed to apprehend earlier that she didn’t want to have relations with a married man. He’d had a very uncomfortable time of it until he’d gotten back to his room and taken matters in hand, as it were.

  “Do you want me to play it again?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The piece. Do you want me to play it again?” Walter grinned. “Though I’m guessing you don’t, since you were fidgeting and groaning the way Papa does when Mama forces him to listen to me play. I keep hoping he’ll let me quit.”

  That would probably be doing the world a service, but he couldn’t very well say that.

  “You merely need more practice. So, yes, do play the piece again.” And this time he would endeavor to listen.

  Thirty painful minutes later, Walter played his last note and William was finally free—until next time.

  “Very good, Walter.”

  Walter pulled a face, which William decided to ignore. He stood, gathering his things. “I shall see you next week, then. Do be sure to practice.”

  Walter sighed heavily. “Mama will see to that”—he grinned—“unless I can sneak out after Latin. By the end of the day she’s usually too tired to kick up a fuss over music lessons.”

  “You would get better if you practiced more, you know.”

  Walter shrugged. Clearly mastering the pianoforte was not high on his list of hoped-for achievem
ents.

  William was just reaching for the door latch to let himself out when Mrs. Hutting appeared at his elbow.

  “Would you care for a cup of tea, Mr. Wattles?”

  Damnation, the woman must have been lying in wait for him. This could not be good.

  “No, thank you, Mrs. Hutting. I really must be on my way.”

  “I see. Well, I just wanted to discuss Walter’s progress—”

  Couldn’t she hear Walter’s progress or, rather, lack of progress for herself?

  “—and see if you might be able to teach Prudence as well.”

  Thank God she wasn’t asking him to try to force some musical skills into Walter’s older brother, Henry. “How old is Prudence?”

  “Ten. And she’s quite bookish.”

  “Ah.” If he were truly a music teacher, he’d say yes. More students meant more money.

  No amount of money was worth taking on another reluctant student, however.

  “I don’t know, Mrs. Hutting. Perhaps we should wait until Mr. Luntley returns. I am only managing things for him in his absence, you know.”

  Mrs. Hutting frowned. “Yes, of course. But he’s been gone since June, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid his mother is not recovering as quickly as he’d hoped.”

  “That is unfortunate. The poor man. Is there no other family member who can take over his duties? It seems unfair that everything should fall to him.”

  “Mr. Wilkinson gave me to understand that Mr. Luntley is an only child.”

  Mrs. Hutting frowned, as if she thought it had been extremely shortsighted of Mrs. Luntley to produce only a single offspring. Perhaps she did think it, because she herself had given birth to ten. But she was too good to say so, or to allow that she found Mrs. Luntley’s illness very inconvenient. She sighed.

  “We can only pray his mother recovers soon.”

  “Yes, indeed.” William bowed. “Good day, Mrs. Hutting.”

  He took a deep breath once the vicarage door was safely closed behind him. Ah! The air was crisp and clean, so different from London’s dirty fog. But cold. He turned up the collar on his coat. It would be dark shortly. Perhaps he should stop by the lending library to see if—

  Oh, no. He’d managed to hang on to his sanity only by avoiding Belle’s company as much as he possibly could. It was not even dusk. And even if it were the middle of the night, this was Loves Bridge, not London. She would be perfectly safe. In fact, she was probably with Miss Hutting, if Miss Hutting had indeed been off to seek Belle’s literary insights when she’d left the vicarage.