Her Secret Lover (Aphrodite's Club 2)

Somewhere beyond the languid sense of pleasure she knew he was still driving deep inside her, and then he gave a shout as he, too, found his peak. For a moment his weight was heavy on her, his mouth against her neck, his breath hard and hot, and then he eased himself from her and, turning her on her side, wrapped his arm over her and lay pressed against her back. She felt his face nuzzling her hair, and his hand reached up and cupped her breast.

He hadn’t noticed she was a virgin.

Not that Antoinette wanted him to, but she’d heard enough whispered conversations and half-caught confidences between married friends and servants that it could be painful, that first time. Thinking about it, she wondered now whether he had breached her maidenhead when she was seated upon him, and that was why she’d felt no discomfort.

His fingers rolled her nipple, tugging at it, and his open mouth moved over her cheek. She turned her head, and he kissed her. After a moment she was aware of his body shifting, his member rising hard against the globes of her bottom. To her surprise she felt her own flesh begin to tingle and ache, and the place between her legs, although a little sore, melted once more.

She should tell him no. She should get up and dress and leave before things could get any more complicated. But he was already turning her over, slipping his body over hers and into hers, and Antoinette welcomed him with an eagerness she couldn’t disguise.

Her enemy, the highwayman, the man sent by Appleby to take away her one chance of freedom, was now her lover. And if that was an odd and dangerous twist, then it didn’t feel like it. As he drove deep inside her, Antoinette knew it felt absolutely perfect.

Chapter 16

“Miss!”

Antoinette had crept upstairs to her bedchamber, thinking to take solitary sanctuary there, but as she closed the door, her relief was short-lived. Mary’s shocked cry made her jump. She turned with an involuntary shiver, goose bumps rising on her wet skin, her dark hair a wild, bedraggled mess.

Mary’s dark eyes were enormous. “You’re completely drenched, miss! Whatever happened to you?”

Fortunately, Antoinette had prepared her story on the way home. “I was out walking when the storm came. I tried to shelter but…well, you can see. I waited for ages for it to stop, but when it didn’t I ran for it.”

She tried a self-deprecating laugh but broke off in the middle to give another shiver. Mary began to work on buttons and hooks and eyes, muttering about unnamed others who’d caught chills in weather such as this and their ensuing long, slow, and painful deaths. “That’s what Mrs. Wonicot says at any rate,” she ended, as if that was the final word on the matter.

“I have always been blessed with good health,” Antoinette assured her, and sneezed.

Mary stripped her of her dress. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this was ruined,” she said reprovingly. “Just like the other one.”

“Like the other one?”

“The other dress that was ruined, miss. Torn in the…the accident in the coach on your way here. Two dresses ruined seems very careless.”

“Careless” was not the word for it, but Antoinette couldn’t be bothered arguing.

Mary began work on petticoats and other undergarments, soon stripping Antoinette to her frozen white skin. Gratefully, Antoinette accepted the quilt Mary drew from the bed, wrapping it around hersel

f and perching on a chair in front of the fire.

“I suppose His Lordship buys you lots of pretty things, miss.”

Antoinette opened her mouth and closed it again.

“A ruined dress would mean nothing to you.”

She ignored Mary’s envy, holding out her hands to the flames, but she felt stiff and awkward, as if the truth was written in big black letters across her white face.

“Where were you walking?” Mary was sorting the clothing into sodden piles, oddly intent.

“In the woods. I stepped off the path. The trees were so thick, so close, I was lost. It took me a while to find my way back.”

“You shouldn’t have gone into the woods.” Mary spoke sharply, but when Antoinette looked around at her in surprise, she forced a smile, softening her tone. “They do say as the ghost of Miss Priscilla Langley roams those woods. She was something of a witch, even though she was the only daughter of Sir John Langley.”

Mrs. Wonicot’s Sir John.

“Who were the Langleys? Did they live here for a long time?”

“They were the lords of Wexmoor Manor for hundreds and hundreds of years.”

“Did Sir John own Wexmoor Manor before Lord Appleby took over?”