Page 49 of To Winter at Wildsyde

“Come along, then,” he said, moving forward once more as he drew her back the way they’d come

Matilda dared a glance at him, wondering if he was angry now, but she could not read his expression, certainly not from his profile alone. He did not appear angry, but there was tension singing through him. She could feel it, like the last note of an opera that made shivers run down your spine.

A muffled noise outside caught their attention, and then came a sudden shriek of laughter, followed by a very masculine chuckle and the door handle rattled and burst open. They were too far from the exit to leave before whoever it was discovered them. Before Matilda could react, Montagu had taken hold of her and thrust her back towards the window, yanking the curtains shut behind them. Happily, there was a slight recess, but it was not sufficient for them both to fit comfortably. He pushed her further in, her skirts frothing around his legs, until she could go no further, but it was barely enough. Matilda was instantly aware of the freezing glass before her and the wall of solid Montagu at her back. Panicked, she swayed as her knees hit the low windowsill, off balance, and he steadied her before she fell against the glass, one arm snaking around her waist. They both froze.

Matilda hardly dared breathe, though her heart was thundering as if she’d run a mile. She only hoped that whoever had sought the darkened room for their tête-à-tête would be gone soon. She listened, praying to hear again the opening and closing of a door, but it had fallen strangely silent.

“What are they doing?” she whispered, too aware of the heat of the hard masculine body on one side, and the icy December night beyond the glass on the other. A feminine moan answered her question with far too much clarity. She glanced up over her shoulder in disbelief to see his eyes close with something that looked like pain.

“Oh, damnation,” he murmured.

“Is that… are they…?” she began in outrage, the words dying in her throat as the man spoke.

“Oh, my darling, I thought I’d run mad. Lift your skirts for me, I have to have you, now, now, oh, God, oh, yes….”

Matilda’s eyes grew round, her breath catching and cheeks flaming as things became clearer still.

There followed a lot of muffled sighs and moans and murmured love words and then the rhythmic thud of flesh upon flesh as the cries became louder.

Montagu was rigid with tension, which surprised her. She’d thought he might find this amusing, being a man and having nothing to lose; not to mention finally having his hands on her.

“Christ. This is intolerable.”

Matilda glanced again up at Montagu’s murmured curse, realising that he was not at all happy with the situation. She could not fathom why, but that amused her.

“You mean this wasn’t what you had in mind? I suppose you only wanted to debauch me yourself, not to sully my ears with proof of other people’s lust?” she suggested, keeping her voice low, though she suspected a brass band could pass through the room and the amorous couple behind them would not bat an eyelid.

“As I remember, you refused me, and I honoured your wishes.” He sounded a little terse now. Matilda watched as he glowered, staring steadfastly out the window at the night beyond.

“Oh, George, yes, yes…oh, George!”

Matilda bit her lip but was not up to the task, and a giggle escaped her.

Montagu’s hand covered her mouth, his head lowering to speak at her ear. “Hush,” he said, though it was more like a growl. “Do you want them to hear us?”

The trouble was the situation was so ridiculous that Matilda could not contain herself. She knew, in the light of day and in a rational mood, this would be an utterly appalling state of affairs. The likelihood of discovery alone was horrific. To be caught here with Montagu was her worst nightmare, or, if she were not discovered… her most deliciously wicked dream. Perhaps it was the strong arm lashed around her middle, holding her tight against him, the heat of his body blazing through her gown, or the press of his palm against her lips that made her lose her mind. It was just as likely to be that as her reaction to the cries of the delighted lady behind her which were becoming increasingly demanding and louder.

“Oh, yes, like that, harder, harder, oh, George…”

“Do you like that? Do you want more?”

“Yes, yes!”

Moans and harsh noises punctuated their fractured conversation as the laughter bubbled up inside Matilda, and though she fought to hold it in her body shook with silent mirth.

“For the love of God, stop that. Keep still,” Montagu ground out, his breath hot and urgent at her ear. A thrill ran over her, awareness of how close he was, of the heat of him blazing through her dress, of the dizzying wickedness of the whole situation.

“Oh, Jenny, you feel so good, so hot, so wet.”

Matilda covered Montagu’s hand with her own, as if that would help contain her hilarity, but she was shaking now, dissolving with laughter and with something bright, glittering, and quite out of control.

“Stop it,” Montagu hissed, a desperate note to his voice but Matilda could not stop, it was too outrageous. “Miss Hunt,” he muttered against her ear, his tone increasingly fraught. “I’m trying to behave like a gentleman, but there is only so much a man can take. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

It was too much. Matilda’s head fell back against his chest and she leaned into him as tears streamed down her face. She heard Montagu’s sharp intake of breath and, too late, realised what he’d been trying to tell her. She felt the hard press of his arousal against her behind, and the laughter died in her throat as she gasped. She kept very still as heat swept over her and she dropped the hand that had covered his until it grasped the arm that circled her middle.

The couple on the other side of the curtain were increasingly enthusiastic and ever more explicit, feeling the need to describe how everything felt and what exactly they wanted to do next. With Montagu’s body, hot and hard and obviously willing to show her what all the fuss was about, Matilda was burning with a combination of fierce embarrassment and the urgent desire to let him. Her skin was alive with sensation and she shivered as his hand moved from her mouth, sliding down her throat to rest at the base of her neck.

“Your heart is beating very fast,” he observed, and with what remained of her brain she noted that he was breathless.