getting herself into trouble, a fact that Gerard planned to use to his advantage. He opened a drawer on the bedside table and dropped the key inside before removing a bottle of lubricant and tossing aside the dress.
He didn’t demand that she call him sir, it just slipped out every once in a while from habit. It didn’t displease him. Not in the least. If fate hadn’t been such a cruel bitch, Clarisse would have been his possession just like everything else at Belford.
He jerked down his pants and underwear and opened the bottle of lubricant. He approached her, rubbing the silky liquid onto his raging erection as he did so. She wouldn’t be prepared for this quick of an entry, but he was, and that was all that counted.
He slid her panties over her ass and let them fall down her ankles. He squeezed a buttock, grunting in arousal. She was firm and taut, although not as fleshy as he’d like for what he had planned. Still, she’d do. He drove his cock into her, making her squeal.
Yes, she’d do very nicely.
He pushed his cock into her pussy, grabbed her slender hips, and began slamming into her with unapologetic greed. At first, her moans might have been from discomfort, but they quickly segued to the sounds of a woman who was enjoying being fucked. Her pussy was tight and muscular. Even if she hadn’t agreed to pass information to him about private matters regarding Francesca, he might have chosen her for a regular bedmate during this particular stay at Belford. Clarisse would do almost anything he demanded of her sexually.
Which reminded him . . .
She was growing hot and juicy, moaning as he took her harder. He grabbed her buttocks and spanked one of them, watching his cock plunging in and out of her pussy all the while. She mewled at the spanking, so he landed several more, his cock jerking in excitement in her tight channel at the smacking sound and the rising color on the smooth cheeks.
He gritted his teeth in restraint and slowly drew his erection out of her, his cock falling and bobbing in the air before him. God, he was horny. If only he could get last night out of his head. It plagued him, those memories of what he’d seen . . . of what he
It would have been better for Francesca’s health if she’d accepted Gerard. Much better. She was a fool to seek solace and protection from a man who was not destined to be on this earth for much longer.
That surveillance video certainly plagued his cock as well, Gerard thought, grimacing as he stroked his rigid erection. He was uncomfortable from sustained arousal, but also very pleased. He enjoyed discovering something that made him this stiff and virile.
He stepped out of his pants and underwear, pausing to remove his belt, looping it in one hand. Clarisse remained bent over the bed, but she looked anxiously over her shoulder. She made an arousing picture, her cheeks starting to flush from excitement, her bottom slightly pink, her outer sex visible between her spread thighs, the tissues slick and flushed. She saw the belt. His cock jumped in the air when her eyes widened in trepidation. Their sexual relationship had only begun the day before Francesca arrived at Belford, when he’d heard Clarisse would be the one to serve her. He’d never done anything like this to her before. He chuckled and smoothed the leather over her ass.
“Now I propose we make things between us a little more interesting,” he said silkily. “I’ve recently come to recognize how thrilling the belt can be.”
He didn’t wait for her permission before he landed the leather strap and she fell forward, crying out sharply and catching herself with her hands.
Francesca recalled the labyrinth trail she’d taken on the night of the ball in order to find Mrs. Hanson. It seemed she’d gone a backward route. All she need have done was take the door off the dining room, which led to a staging area for serving, and then some stairs that went to the kitchens. Once she was sure Ian hadn’t followed her, she paused on the stairs, gathering herself and drying a few tears while she listened to the sounds of pots clanging and sporadic conversation in the distance.
Mrs. Hanson gave her a warm greeting and gladly agreed to fulfill her request for a sandwich to go, after Francesca explained she was going out to the gardener’s cottage to sketch. Work would help to focus her . . . ground her.
The housekeeper far surpassed her expectations, packing her a sack filled with an enormous chicken salad sandwich, fruit, two scones, a carton of milk, homemade oatmeal cookies, and a thermos of coffee and cream. Not wanting to run into Ian while she was feeling so frayed, she asked Mrs. Hanson to pass a message to Anne that she planned to work through lunch.
She kept repeating that conversation with Anne in her head as she sat at the picture window in the cottage and sketched later that morning. She realized she was willfully resisting what Ian’s grandmother had said. If she accepted Anne’s logic, she wouldn’t only have to sacrifice her anger at Ian for leaving. She’d have to own her helplessness in dealing with his pain.
She’d have to admit there was nothing she could tangibly do to ease Ian’s suffering but allow him to continue on this path.
That, she realized, was not an easy thing to allow.
Perhaps her anxious thoughts were the reason she was so dissatisfied with her preliminary sketches of Belford. What she outlined on the page shared little in common with the house she’d come to know, conveying a cold, austere, dead shell versus the warmth and proud tradition she was beginning to respect and love.
She ripped out the page from her sketchbook and crumpled it up in a fit of frustration. Impulsively, she grabbed her coat, then her sketchbook and pencils and headed out the front door of the cottage.
Ian stood on the threshold of the cottage entrance, tensing in wariness when he received no answer to his call. He scanned the room rapidly, taking in the dying fire and the crumpled sketch lying not far from the chair Francesca had scooted next to the window.
“Francesca?” he called again, his alarm rising. He sensed the cottage was empty, but perhaps she was just avoiding him, angry as she’d been earlier. He stalked through the kitchen and then down the hallway, peering into the empty bathroom. He’d prefer she was there, hiding from him. At least that would mean she was safe and unharmed.
The bedroom, too, was empty.
“Ian?”
His eyes sprang wide, relief coursing through him at the sound of her breathless voice. He began to walk out to meet her, but paused on the threshold of the bedroom when he saw her coming down the hallway.
“Where were you?” he demanded, backing into the room so that she could enter. The hall was dim, while the bedroom was sunlit. He peered at her face anxiously, searching for signs of distress. She carried her sketchbook under her arm and fisted a pencil in her gloved hand. Her nose and cheeks were pink from cold, but she appeared to be perfectly fine.
“I went into the woods a way to sketch Belford through the trees. I wasn’t far. I could hear you shouting.”
“You shouldn’t have wandered off like that. I didn’t know where you were.”
“Obviously, the way you were yelling,” she said. He was so relieved that she was all right—not abducted or wounded or worse—that it took him a moment to notice her small smile. He blinked, sure he was mistaken at what he saw. He hadn’t seen that particular, familiar expression of fond amusement for a long, long time.
He exhaled slowly. “Grandmother told me you sent word through Mrs. Hanson that you’d be out here. I’d prefer to know when you go out. In fact, I’d prefer that you weren’t out in the grounds alone at all,” he said, still
