Charlotte's Control, page 21
He needed no further direction. Having stepped forward to follow the settee, he tempered his force but increased the speed.
She set her teeth as his thrusts grazed her internal front wall, throwing logs on the already-leaping flames of her desire. She keened as the pleasure spiraled through her.
His sac slapped her most sensitive flesh and they both moaned in sync with each impact. She had no idea how he was refraining from exploding, but she could not worry about it. She was too busy chasing her own ecstasy, as every muscle tightened and stretched toward the sensations only he could wring from her.
He reached around to cup her breast, thumbing her nipple, and she jerked at the lightning bolt shooting from her tip to her core.
He leaned in to nibble on the side of her neck.
“Ah, ah, William!” The contrast of gentle and rough sent her into an unstoppable slide.
In another moment of role reversal, she heard, “Mistress, yes. Come with me.”
She obeyed. Her muscles clamped down on him and she shook under him, surrounded by him. Her breasts grazed the brocade of the settee, and her hands dug into the wood. Each piston slapped her hardened nub and sent a fresh pulse of heat through her, as though his cock touched her fingers, toes, ears, and everything in between. Sagging in his arms, she rode the wave until it ebbed.
His hips jerked hard, and the pulsing of his cock inside her prolonged her ride.
Vaguely she felt him reposition them both. As they lay, her on him now, prone on the settee, it was clear that for the short term, William needed her.
She might be simply an outlet for the moment, but she was a much-needed—and much-satisfied—outlet. She grinned against his chest.
* * * *
It was a sign of her urgency that Belle had forgotten a disguise. She burst through the back door in full courtesan regalia. A scarlet gown—such a cliché, Charlotte smirked—makeup, hair up in an elaborate coiffure, musky rose scent wafting.
“Good morning, Belle. This is an unexpected but lovely surprise. Tea?” Charlotte motioned for a servant to bring another place setting and teacup and saucer.
“I may need brandy. You should have brandy.” She collapsed into William’s—and her usual—chair.
Charlotte’s brows rose. “Always so dramatic, Belle.”
Gathering herself, her friend sat up straight and took two deep breaths. Leaning forward, she took Charlotte’s hand and sighed again.
“Right. Now you are frightening me. Whatever is the matter?”
“You have not yet heard the news. Right, then.” She eyed the newspaper across the room on the desk.
“You know I like to have my breakfast in peace before facing the newspaper, correspondence, and the like.”
“When did you last see William?”
Charlotte tilted her head and looked at her. “Two days ago, why?”
“Have you heard from him since?”
“No. He had something urgent he needed to handle for the family that was complicated, and there was a late meeting of his acquaintances after Lords last night. He planned to come tonight. Why, Belle?”
“His father passed.” Belle sat back, grim-faced.
“What? No. When? How? He is barely fifty! No.” Charlotte was not quite sure what question to ask first.
Oh, William. She wanted to hold him and protect him from the mantle of responsibility that weighed so heavily on him. Just as she knew he wanted to do for his mother and sister.
“Explain, please.” She needed to hear more.
Belle gestured toward the desk. “There is not much information in the newspaper. A formal note of his death, due to ‘a heart condition,’ which we all know was whisky-infused, and William’s new title.”
“Oh, puppy,” Charlotte murmured, her heart hurting for her young lover’s increased burdens. Then Isabella’s last words registered, and her own heart shattered.
She could not help him any longer. He needed heirs sooner rather than later. They were out of time.
Chapter Twenty-Six
William stood in the front pew of the church. His mother stood beside him, his sister on her other side. Percy and his family were beyond Emily.
I am out of time.
There would be no more joint decisions, no more sharing the burden with Percy and his mother. Of course, he’d always be able to ask them for their advice, they’d always support him, and they’d prepared him well. And really, he’d been managing it all for months.
He could not even regret his last conversation with his father. His father was out of time to fix himself and his relationship with his family. He never hugged his wife or daughter or son one last time to tell them he loved them—and perhaps even that he was sorry. No, William was too angry still to mourn his father.
He mourned his freedom. And, he feared, his Mistress.
The decisions, the fate of his family and all the families who depended on the earldom for their living, indeed the weight of the earldom, sat on him like a heavy cloak. He bowed his head, only to have his mother poke him and whisper, “Head up, please, Lord Harrington.”
He snapped straight.
Right, then. Full steam ahead and all that. No time for grieving. He knew she mourned, though, and her sorrow caused him pain, even if he did not understand her grief.
Her reminder of his new title was unnecessary. He felt the magnitude of it as a millstone and dreaded the fight he knew he’d face with Charlotte. As he strained under the burdens his sudden ascendency, the one he worried about the least would be the one that remained uppermost in her thoughts: the requirement of heirs.
To him, children were an abstract part of his future. He had enough to juggle at the moment. The worry of it all made him itch, his shoulders tightening. His skin felt too tight, and he struggled to focus on the vicar’s words. His thoughts spiraled, thinking of the cost of the funeral, the roofs that needed repair on his lands, the village children who could benefit from more books for their school. And above all, he worried that his Mistress would not allow him to turn himself over to her, to love her as he wished.
His mother appeared outwardly serene, her only tell the handkerchief she twisted between her hands. Was losing his father more or less painful to her than watching him throw their happiness away with each drink he tossed back? At least she no longer had to bear the responsibility of finding the funds for her family and beyond, or managing the estates with limited ability to influence change.
No, those are all mine to worry about now. Then he would cycle back through the chain of emotions.
It was not enough that he had found out three days ago about his father’s unsalvageable loss. He’d been about to write his stewards and housekeepers at the family holdings to have them each release several servants when his mother had entered the library white-faced with the news of his father’s collapse. Of course, it had happened at his father’s club.
She had not yet raised the obvious solution to their problems. In the time-honored tradition of the aristocracy, the quickest way to steer them back to solvency was to marry for money. As long as that lady could also provide the necessary heirs. If he had not met Charlotte, he might have considered it. Now, however, his heart was fully engaged, and he would never settle for second best.
He sighed. He had wanted to tell Charlotte in person, but there had not been a moment he could call his own. Then he’d received a formal note from her addressed to the Earl of Harrington, which arrived with a separate note in the same handwriting addressed to his mother.
He needed to hold Charlotte, even if he could not play, could not serve his Mistress, could not read Latin with her or discuss a news article. He craved her in his arms, her honey curls against his neck and chin, her arms slipping under his coat to rest closer to the warmth of his skin. That little sniff she took, thinking he did not realize she was smelling him, and the resulting smile which bloomed each time, that he could feel against his chest. He needed Charlotte, the love of his life, more than his Mistress.
After the service, the family filed out of the pew first, following the coffin, as the rest of the mourners and supporters stood. He spied South and Folly at the far end of a pew, South appearing gray but sober, Folly in an ill-fitting jacket. They nodded to him as he passed. As he led his mother farther up the aisle, he caught honey curls and sable eyes. Charlotte!
She looked immeasurably sad, her mouth grim and her eyes big pools of cocoa in her pale face. He was sure he looked much the same, actually. As he approached, still holding her gaze, she tore her gaze away, plucking at her gown before turning her head completely.
No!
His hands fisted where they hung clasped in front of him. She was his last vestige of freedom—and if he could convince her, his wife. His shoulders hunched another inch, and his head bowed, weighed down by the chains of his life.
Tears pricked at his eyes. Tightening his hand on his mother’s where it lay on his arm, he bit the inside of his cheek to avoid embarrassing himself.
He straightened, a new determination rising in him. He had dragged the family out of debt once, he would do it again. He had won other arguments with Charlotte, and he’d find a way to win this as well. He just had to strategize. If he could handle the title of earl, he could handle this.
* * * *
William pored over the accounts. The loss of that shipment was a setback, but nowhere what it would have been had he not been investing. And that investing had happened with the help of his Mistress. To say she had a knack for it would be putting it mildly.
He hated having to let staff go, but he had forced himself to finish the letters to his stewards, offering good letters of character and severance pay, despite the family’s circumstances. It did not seem fair to punish other people for his father’s bad judgment. Although they might have been selling off jewelry and other family heirlooms if not for Charlotte. She had introduced him to her man of business, but more, she had talked through her strategy of mixing industries and her thorough research into anything before investing in it. She was more comfortable with simple business ventures: a hair product shop, a few imported goods, shipping. For the last, she had joined a group of investors who funded a shipping company with several ships and had spread their outlay across those ships. The company had to find other sponsors to share in each ship, but everyone had less risk, albeit possibly less reward. He wished he could hand over that side of managing their finances to her, even without marriage. He could picture her at the other desk in the room, where his mother worked now, as they acted together to share the duties and have more time for themselves.
Now, he frowned over the ledgers, trying to find ways to recoup their losses, as well as estimate how long it would be before he could bring the country estate back to full staff. He knew his mother would like to go there when it got warm, although the longer he delayed selecting a wife, the longer his mother would stay in London to prod him.
He loved her dearly, but there were occasions when he wished for a more traditional mother, one who would have already retired to the dower house in the country and let him catch his breath before badgering him about marriage and heirs.
Sitting back, he envisioned working, the patter of young feet in the hall, a boy with honey curls bursting in to hide between his feet under the desk, before his fairer-haired sister chased inside looking for him, followed by—Mistress.
Propping his elbows on the wood, he buried his head in his hands. Sadly, children with their coloring were improbable if not impossible. He wanted to weep for the loss. She would excel at motherhood, just as she had at everything else.
Without lifting his head, he stared at the paperwork scattered across the desk, his skin itching again. Being an earl felt like a life sentence in prison. Hellfire, it was a life sentence, but it should not feel like this. Every document he read seemed to require an opinion, every letter a decision, every tenant guidance. It was exhausting. Finding a wife or fending off his mother’s prodding was another burden.
These past months as he had unofficially performed much of this role, his outlet had been Charlotte. With her, he could relax. No decisions were needed after the first one, to bow his head and submit to her will. His brain was quiet, his soul was at peace. More, his heart was happy. He trusted her and adored her.
How could he convince her of that? He needed to find a way to be with her, despite the issue of heirs. However, she would not let him in. He’d tried for the past two nights, and he could not find time to formulate different ways to woo her when dozens of mouths depended on his ability to provide their food and livelihood.
Scribbling off a note to Charlotte’s—and now his—business manager, he set it aside to be delivered, and refocused.
* * * *
William slumped on the pub bench, South and Folly watching him across the table. They hadn’t spent time together in weeks. Both men looked rather grim, almost as grim as he did, as he shared the news about the ruined ship’s cargo.
Folly shook his head. “’Tis horrid, like one last slap from the grave, if I may say so.” His friends both knew William had lost respect for his father once he saw the state of the family’s estate and how hard his mother had to work to get him through Oxford. Only memories of his very early childhood saved him from hating the man. His sister did not have those but neither had she been forced to deal with the repercussions of his abandonment of his responsibilities.
South swung a hand with a glass and a cheroot in it. “Well at least ’tis the last. Hear, hear.” He raised the glass and they all toasted.
William was sure that anyone listening would have thought them—him, especially—the coldest of men, but he could not give a fig. They did not know what he had had to deal with, nor did they understand what he faced going forward.
He sighed. “He’s undone over a year of work. I am just thankful I had gained enough ground that we aren’t begging on the street.”
“Yes, well done, chap. I confess I must have missed that class at university, I’ve had nowhere near the returns on my investments that you have.” South made a quick air toast before sipping his ale again.
“Perhaps you drank more of them away?” Folly murmured, and got an elbow in his ribs.
William smiled, although the curve of his lips was tinged with sadness. “’Twasn’t Oxford, South. ’Twas Charlotte, Lady Peterborough to you. The lady you doltishly addressed as a wench in her own home.”
South rolled his eyes. “I apologized for that, old chap. Are you ever going to let me forget it?”
Folly jumped in, getting back to the import of William’s statement. “You are saying that Lady Peterborough helped you invest?” His voice was incredulous.
“Yes, actually. Why is that so hard to believe?”
“Are you sure they weren’t her husband’s investments?”
William frowned at his friend. “Her husband died three years ago, Folly. The steam locomotive had not been invented then, as one example. Yes, I am quite sure.”
“Right, sorry, Will. Hmm…”
South tossed his arm around William again.
William watched his friend’s beer. The height of sloshing liquid told him it was still only his second or third, a remarkable feat for this time of evening. The funeral must have sparked sobriety.
“You know, we haven’t seen you here much these past months. You’ve been at the ever-so-lovely Lady Peterborough’s.” South and Folly toasted his overly careful reference and snickered. “Why are you not there now?”
William shook his head, lips turning down. “She won’t see me. As far as I can tell she is not even home.”
“Wait, do you mean that she found you inheriting an earldom awful enough that she hied herself off somewhere?” South snickered, while Folly raised his brows.
“What, was her first marriage to an earl so horrible it put her off for life? Or is she wealthy enough to want to keep a string of young men to play with, but never wed?” Folly added.
“Watch it!” William sat up. “I’ll not have you speak of her like that. Do you really think I’d be someone’s plaything?”
Folly shrugged, muttering almost to himself, “If the sex was good…”
South roared with laughter, swinging his drink dangerously again.
William shook his head at them. And his Mistress called him a puppy? She would have their attitudes straightened out in no time, not that he wanted them anywhere near her. “Ugh. You two. Seriously, I should like nothing better than to continue to court her, even to wed her. But she’ll have none of it. I’m open to ideas to get her back.”
“Why did she turn you away?”
“Heirs.”
“Riiiggghhht. She was with Peterborough for almost a decade.” South prided himself on knowing details of Ton gossip. “And whilst heirs are a vague, future concern when you have all the time in the world, they become much more real when you gain the title. Credit goes to the lady for being honorable. Not all ladies—or gents for that matter—would willingly step back from someone they liked.”
“No one could ever doubt her character.” William’s lips twisted.
Folly shrugged. “Tree climbing was the extent of my knowledge for how to win a lady.”
South’s glass swung again, albeit a little less wildly. “There are plenty of fish in the sea, Will. The lovely countess aside, marriage does seem like the expedient solution. Heirs and blunt, what?”
William glowered. They were supposed to help him win Charlotte back, not agree with his mother. He’d have to find his own way.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Despite their romance being at an end, Charlotte considered both William and Ruth friends. She attended the previous earl’s funeral service to support both of them. Avoiding William as best she could so as not to encourage him, she skirted the procession offering condolences outside the chapel. She would offer her sympathies to Ruth later, one widow to another, in both written form and even later in person.
Ruth caught her gaze, though. Charlotte nodded solemnly to the countess.
