Mrs. St. John sighed. “You have to understand that it took years for Clara to die—years in which Godric could do no more than stand idle and watch. Perhaps his dressing as the Ghost is his way of doing something good after so long being unable to do anything at all.”
“He does do good in St. Giles.” Megs frowned as she fingered the tassel on one of the settee cushions. “But, ma’am, whatever good he does others must be balanced by the evil he does himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“He may help people in St. Giles, but I think he does it at the expense of himself.” She yanked overhard on the tassel and the thing came off in her hand. She stared at it, her lips trembling. “It can’t be good for a man such as Godric—a sensitive, moral man—to deal in violence so often. It’s as if he’s chipping away at his own soul.”
“Then you must find a way to stop him,” Mrs. St. John said quietly.
Megs nodded, though she had no idea how to do that. She’d made a pact with him—a pact that forced him to wear the Ghost’s disguise. How could she have everything she wanted and save Godric as well?
The door to Godric’s room opened behind her.
“We are done, my lady.” The doctor was an odd, bent fellow with an Italian—or maybe French?—name. Isabel Makepeace had said that he was a refugee of some type and could be trusted not to talk about Godric’s injury.
Megs stood. “Will his arm heal cleanly?”
“I have done all that I can. The rest is in the good Lord’s hands.” The doctor made a very foreign-looking moue and shrugged elaborately. “Mr. St. John will need bed rest for at least a week, preferably more. A simple diet of fish or chicken, fine, soft bread, clear broth, and wine will suffice, I think. A few vegetables such as turnips or carrots and the like. No onions or garlic, naturally, nor any overspiced foods.”
“Of course.” Megs nodded before looking up anxiously. “May I see him?”
“If you wish, my lady, but please make your visit a short—”
She was already past the doctor, not waiting for him to finish his sentence. Godric lay in the big bed, his left arm atop the covers. Two flat wooden boards had been strapped on either side of his forearm so that he could not move his hand independently of his arm.
She tiptoed to his bed and stared down at him. His face still shone with sweat, his short hair plastered to his head. He’d not shaved and his beard was dark against the pallor of his face.
“Megs.” He didn’t open his eyes, but his right hand moved, reaching for hers.
“Oh, Godric,” she murmured, tears filling her eyes as she placed her hand in his.
He tugged on her hand. “Come lay beside me for a while.”
She resisted even as he pulled her closer. “The doctor said you mustn’t be disturbed.”
“Damn that French quack.” A corner of his mouth twitched wearily. “You don’t disturb me, Meggie mine. Besides, I’ll rest easier with you beside me.”
Carefully she crept onto the bed, fully clothed, and lay beside him. He shifted until her head was on his right shoulder, his arm wrapped securely around her, and then he sighed.
In a few minutes he was asleep.
And in a minute more so was she.
TWO WEEKS LATER, Godric peered bemusedly over his half-moon spectacles as Her Grace trotted into his bedroom with a curled puppy hanging from her mouth. The pug glanced at him warily but seemed to dismiss him—rather insultingly—as no threat before she disappeared into the open door of his dressing room. After a pause of five minutes or so, she trotted out again, sans offspring.
Godric raised a brow as the pug bustled out of his room again. This didn’t bode well.
He shrugged and went back to the political and philosophical pamphlets that Moulder had brought him. A week of enforced bed rest followed by a week more when all the females of his household seemed to have conspired to keep him homebound was making him damnably bored. True, each of his sisters, stepmother, and wife in turn had made a point of spending time with him, reading aloud or simply chatting. Even Great-Aunt Elvina had deigned to sit with him and had only disparaged him—halfheartedly—twice. He’d tempted Megs with a walk in Spring Gardens—one of the many public gardens in London. But not even the promise of gravel walks and exotic blooms had made her waver in her determination to keep him inside.
He hadn’t fulfilled either of his parts of the bargain with Megs in those two weeks either. At first the pain from his broken wrist had been too debilitating for any physical exercise. Now he was nearly well enough to resume his Ghostly duties, he thought, and certainly able to bed her tonight—purely as his matrimonial duty, of course.
Godric frowned down at the political pamphlet that he’d read twice now without remembering a word. A gentleman should not let self-delusion control him. He wanted to bed his wife, true, but it wasn’t entirely because of duty.
Or even partially.
Her Grace trotted purposely back into the room, a different puppy held in her jaws. This one was a glossy chocolate, and Godric wondered exactly who her paramour was. He could’ve sworn that Great-Aunt Elvina had said Her Grace had been bred to another fawn pug.
The bitch disappeared into his dressing room and Megs appeared in his doorway. She wore a rather frivolous pink and yellow confection that he’d not noticed on her before.
“There are puppies in my dressing room,” Godric said, lowering the pamphlet to his desktop.
Megs sighed gustily but seemed unsurprised. “I was afraid of that. We keep putting Her Grace and her puppies in Great-Aunt Elvina’s room, but she insists on moving them elsewhere. Last week Mrs. Crumb found them in the linen cupboard and was not at all pleased.”
Her Grace emerged from the dressing room, detoured around Megs, and vanished into the outer hallway.
“I can understand Mrs. Crumb’s consternation,” Godric said gravely. “She seems a very orderly woman, and puppies in the clean linens is the antithesis of orderly.”
“Mmm,” Megs murmured distractedly, glancing into the hallway again. Was she looking for the pug?
Godric felt a pang at the thought of her leaving him again. “Is that a new frock?”
“Yes.” Megs’s cheeks warmed prettily. She looked down at her skirts, smoothing one hand over them. “We’ve received our order of new gowns from the modiste. Do you like it? I wasn’t sure about the yellow. It so often makes one look jaundiced.”
“Not you,” he replied truthfully.
The spring colors made the peach of her cheeks glow against the dark mass of her hair. A lock was working itself free of her coiffure, slowly tumbling down her elegant neck, and oddly the sight made him want to pull the pins from her hair, tug the mass down, spread it with his fingers, and bury his face in the glossy waves.
He casually flipped the skirt of his coat over his lap. “You’re beautiful.”
“Oh,” she said softly, glancing up and catching his intent gaze. “Oh, thank you.”
Her Grace came into the room with her last puppy and headed directly to the dressing room.
Godric smiled. “You should shut the door to my bedroom so that she doesn’t move them again.”
Megs looked uncertainly at the bedroom door. “I suppose I should leave you to rest.”
“I’ve rested quite enough these last weeks,” he said smoothly. “I could use the company. That is”—he made himself look bravely forlorn—“if you don’t mind sitting with an invalid.”
He may’ve been laying it on too thick. She gave him an odd glance before shutting the outer door. “I’ll get a chair from my room.”
“No need. You can sit on my bed.”
She looked at the bed, her brows drawn together with dawning suspicion.
“In fact,” he said, rising from the chair, “I might join you for a nap.”
She transferred her suspicious look to him. “A nap?”
“Hmm.” He sauntered toward her, careful not to make any sudden moves. “When one lies abed in the middle
of the day and sleeps. Surely you’ve heard of it?”
“I’m not sure you’re interested in sleep,” she muttered.
“Perhaps not.” He reached up with his good hand and gently worked loose a hairpin. The escaping lock of hair immediately slithered down her back. “Do you have any other ideas?”
“Godric,” she whispered.
“Hmm?” Two more pins fell to the floor.
“You haven’t recovered sufficiently.” Her brows were knit in worry.
His gaze darted to hers and he smiled gently. “Then you’ll have to do most of the work, won’t you?”
Her sweet lips parted soundlessly, her eyes rounding.
He couldn’t help but bend his head to hers, covering her mouth with his, tasting again the wild strawberry sweetness of her tongue. Something seemed to settle in his chest, relaxing from an anxiety he hadn’t even known he’d felt.
Her hands rose, fluttering by his shoulders, but before they could alight, he broke away, circling to her back, drawing the rest of her pins from her hair. The entire dark mass came tumbling down, a glorious tangle, and he stroked his fingers through it, leaning down to inhale the scent of orange blossoms.
“Godric?” She stood stock-still, save for a fine tremble running through her shoulders.
“My love?” He lifted her hair in his hand, watching as the sunlight from the bedroom windows filtered through the locks.
“What …” There was an odd catch in her voice. “What kind of work do you want me to do?”
He smiled as he brought her hair to his lips. “You can help me undress, for one.”
“Oh! Of course.”
She turned and he let the locks slide through his fingers. He still wore the boards on his left wrist, which had necessitated both his shirt and coat being slit up the left sleeves. He stood still as Megs held the coat so he could slip his right hand from it before she eased the garment over his burdened left arm. She had an adorable frown between her brows and her lips were parted as she concentrated, the tip of her tongue curled up and touching her upper teeth.
The sight was too tempting and as she began unbuttoning his waistcoat, he bent and caught her lower lip in a teasing bite.
She blinked, her eyes widening as he straightened. “That’s … that’s very distracting.”
“I apologize.”
She snorted under her breath, her cheeks brightening again as she took his waistcoat off. His neck cloth was next, easily tossed to a chair, and then he watched as she worked at the buttons of his shirt. The room was silent, the only sound the faint snuffling of the puppies in the other room and their own breaths. He was aware that he was breathing deeply, that he was already hard and pulsing, but he was in no hurry. He could spend hours thus, simply watching the constant flicker of changing emotions across her face. She was so vibrant, his Megs, so alive with hope and love and happiness. If she left him—when she left him—he didn’t know how he would return to his old life.
It would be like living without sunlight.
He pushed the thought aside because he wanted to concentrate on this moment, remember it when he dwelt only in darkness again.
Godric lifted his arms, letting her draw off his shirt over his head, feeling the brush of fine linen against his abdomen, the finer brush of her curious fingers. The shirt fell forgotten to the floor and then both of her hands were on him, stroking up over his ribs, brushing through the hair on his chest.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered, and his lips quirked in amusement.
He wasn’t anything like beautiful, but if she wanted to call him so, he would let her.
Then her fingertips were on his nipples, circling, and the smile died on his lips. She bent forward and pressed her mouth to one, flattening her tongue against his flesh before licking him like a cat does cream. He couldn’t help the groan that burst from his mouth.
He looked down and met wide brown eyes, watching him even as she kissed him softly. “Do you like that?”
Couldn’t she tell? He nodded jerkily and she hummed to herself before moving to the other side, tonguing him even as she thumbed the wet nub she’d left.
He threw back his head at the sensation, his eyelids half lowering in pleasure. But she moved then, sinking to her knees to remove his stockings and shoes before unbuttoning the placket of his breeches. The position, the nearness of her innocent lips to his randy cock, made him swallow drily. She must have sensed his stillness, for she glanced up curiously at him, pausing a moment when she met his eyes. She froze, looking at him, her hands directly over his hard flesh; then she ducked her head and fumbled the placket open, stripping him of his breeches and smallclothes. His cock bobbed obscenely before her and he held his breath as she seemed to lean closer.
But she rose swiftly and he gave her an ironic glance before climbing awkwardly into the bed. He sat back against the tall, carved headboard and watched as she disrobed. It was perforce a slow process, but somehow the more erotic for that. First came off the gauzy fichu that had been wrapped around her shoulders and tucked into the low bodice of her gown. She sat and removed her slippers and then rolled down her stockings. He might’ve seen her entirely nude, but the sight of her pale, slender ankles, the swells of her bosom as she leaned forward made him catch his breath.
He palmed his cock, watching.
She stood, not looking at him, and began undoing the bodice of her gown. It was a simple day dress, so she was able to take it off herself, the skirts suddenly collapsing about her ankles. She untied her petticoats and stepped free, in just her stays and chemise now. The chemise was very fine and he could make out the shadowy curves of her legs and hips as she turned to pick up the skirts, the dark triangle cradled between her thighs as she straightened.
He groaned under his breath, passing his palm over the head of his cock to gather the liquid seeping there before he stroked firmly down.
She glanced up at him then and stilled, her eyes seemingly caught by his hand slowly gliding up his cock.
His flesh jerked under his fingers.
She blinked and ducked her head, studying her own hands as she began unlacing her stays. But he could see her slyly peeking now and again as she worked.
He bent his far knee and angled himself so that she could see better and was rewarded by her breath hitching softly. His hand made a slicking sound as he watched her slowly open her stays. She looked up again and drew the whole thing over her head, leaving her in the chemise, wrinkles pressed into the nearly transparent fabric from the stays. The top was tightened with a simple ribbon and she plucked the bow undone, gradually drawing it loose. He licked his lips, growling softly when he saw the smile she tried to hide. She was teasing him, enticing him with the slow unveiling of her body.
But then she bent and took off the chemise, throwing it aside, standing like a wild nymph startled by the hunter. Her breasts were full but proudly high, the tips flushed a deep cherry. Her creamy belly was soft, flowing into the sweet curves of her hips. He branded the image into his brain.
“Come here,” he said, his voice degraded into a gravelly growl.
She stepped forward, her lips curved mysteriously, cheeks flushed, but chin tilted confidently. She crawled onto the bed beside him, and then sat back on her knees.
“Here,” he said, indicating his lap with his chin, lowering his bent leg.
She looked uncertain but straddled him, her soft thighs brushing against both his legs and the knuckles of his hand. He let go of himself and brought his damp fingers to her cheek. He should wipe them off on the sheets, they still held the liquid from his body, but some part of him relished the idea of marking her with his scent.
He curved his hand around her neck and brought her lips to his. She opened sweetly for him, accepting his tongue into her mouth as he licked into her, slanting his head to draw her closer. He could feel the tantalizing whisper of her nipples against his chest, the wetness of her cunny as she settled on his thighs just behind his cock. He nearly rai
sed his left hand to grip her hip before remembering and cursing his infirmity.
In the end he had to break the kiss instead. “Slide forward.”
She looked uncertain and he realized that her lover may never have taken her like this—they’d not had much time together.
He should not have felt glad at that thought.
She rose on her knees above him, looking down, and their fingers tangled on his cock. He watched and felt as she lowered herself, slowly sheathing herself on him, her soft pink folds parting and accepting him within herself. The fit was tight and good, and he had to resist the urge to buck up into her, to end this too soon.
She licked her lips, her eyes dark, and looked at him inquiringly.
He let his hand fall, answering the unspoken question. “Do as you wish.”
Her eyes narrowed speculatively at his words and she cautiously rose. His cock slid deliciously partway from her body. She moved against him slowly like this for several minutes as if discovering and judging each new angle. It was sweet.
Sweetly torturing.
Finally he broke, fisting his good hand in the coverlet as she ground down against him once more, not fast enough, not hard enough. “More.”
She glanced at his face and her lips curved in a secret smile as old as Eve’s before she leaned down, the tips of her breasts brushing his chest, her hands braced on his shoulders. “Like this?”
And she rode him, like a goddess triumphant, her face shining, her cunny gripping him fast and wet. He stared at her, even as his muscles tensed, even as he felt his lips draw back in a grimace of sexual bliss. She was too controlled, too assessing, and he was nearing his edge.
He caught her hand, bringing it to where they joined, pressing her fingers to her softness as her hips shuddered and lost their rhythm. “Touch yourself.”
He’d made it worse for himself; he knew it the moment her fingers curled into her pretty cunny. Her lips parted moistly, her head thrown back as she began to stroke herself, and it took everything he had to keep from spilling. To watch her pleasure herself as she rode his cock and not end this too soon.
“That’s it, darling,” he whispered low, coaching her, wanting to see her bring herself to fulfillment. “It’s sweet, isn’t it? Touching yourself, letting me watch. Do you like it? Do you enjoy putting on a show for me? Parting your pretty lips, letting me see how moist you’ve become, fucking yourself on me?”