Page 50 of To Winter at Wildsyde

“So is yours,” she countered, being well aware of it pounding against her back.

He trailed his fingers back and forth over her skin, close to her collarbone, each pass raising goosebumps and moving lower, towards the swell of her breasts. Some faint, threadbare shred of self-preservation remained, though, and Matilda recognised the danger she was in. She wanted this man, wanted him badly, but to have him meant he would have won, she would have surrendered all her hopes and dreams for nothing more than desire. Desire would fade, this need he had to possess her would pass when he grew tired of her, and she would be cast aside.

Montagu had ducked his head to nuzzle at her neck, the warmth of his breath and the faintest brush of his lips touching her skin.

“No.”

He stilled and Matilda shook her head to reinforce the command.

“Please.”

The word seemed to have been dragged from him, raw and tinged with desperation.

Matilda shook her head again, uncertain the right words would leave her mouth if she tried to speak. She didn’t want him to stop, she wanted to lean back into him, to press herself harder against him, and it was a moment before she realised thought had become deed.

Montagu made a harsh sound, his hands falling to her hips and holding her against him, his arousal blatant now, pressed against her softness.

“That was cruel,” he muttered, and nipped at her ear.

Matilda cried out, the little sting of pain from his teeth rocketing unexpectedly to more intimate places and blooming into pleasure.

“George? What was that?”

They both froze, appalled, and Matilda cursed herself for being such a reckless fool, yet even now on the brink of discovery, her body was alive with need, with awareness, with wanting him.

“It’s nothing, Jenny. Something outside, no doubt, forget about it.”

“Do you really…Oh. Oh… oh, yes.”

The crude sounds became louder and increasingly urgent, suggesting the crisis was at hand and there was nothing to do but endure it. Matilda strove to keep the lewd images that the couple’s illustrative love talk created from her mind, but it was impossible. Thank God Montagu had more strength of character and honour than she might have imagined for, if his hands had strayed now, she did not think she had the will to stop him. Instead he was utterly still, breathing hard, his forehead resting against her shoulder.

Finally, interminably, with mingled shouts of ecstasy, it was done. There was the sound of clothing being adjusted, a murmured conversation about when the two lovers could meet again, and finally the room fell silent. A bare second after the door closed, Montagu threw open the curtain with a savage sweep of his hand and stepped away from her.

Matilda was suddenly frozen, shivering with cold and enervated desire. Deprived of his heat and strength she felt weak and put her hand to the wall, steadying herself. Montagu strode to the door they’d entered by and cracked it open, watching for a long, silent moment. He stepped away and turned back to her.

“Go,” he said, his voice cool.

Matilda moved forward, her legs as shaky and uncertain as those of a newborn colt. She paused as she reached the door, lifting her gaze to his and sucking in a breath at the glitter in his eyes, their dark centres backlit with a thin sliver of silver.

“Go. Now.” The words were clipped. “Or don’t go at all.”

Matilda fled.

Chapter 19

Dear Minerva,

I hope you enjoyed last night’s ball. You looked lovely in that yellow gown. What a crying shame that Mr de Beauvoir could not have seen you. He’d be smitten at a glance, surely.

Do you remember the conversation we had recently, about him and about M another gentleman that you believed had captured my attention? Oh, Minerva, do come and visit me. I am in urgent need of a confidante. I think I have done something quite remarkably stupid.

― Excerpt of a letter from Miss Matilda Hunt to Miss Minerva Butler.

20th December 1814. Wildsyde Castle, Scotland.

Ruth sat at the kitchen table, her brow knitted into a frown. The servants had become used to her presence there and didn’t bat an eyelid at the fact she was doing something as menial as polishing the silver. The few remaining English staff thought her eccentric at best, but the Scottish staff seemed to look on her with approval and would even give an encouraging word, now they knew they’d not be turned out for their cheek. She enjoyed the banter and busyness of the kitchens and was not averse to sampling the delicious treats which emerged as a matter of course now. Mrs MacLeod’s confidence was growing daily, as was her staff, as she allowed more into her sanctuary to be trained under her eagle eye.

Ruth knew the grand dinner she had planned for Christmas Day would be a triumph. If only there was anyone to eat it with her.