Page 12 of Daring the Forbidden Earl
Heeding his own thoughts, he flipped the letter over and broke the wax seal upon the back. As soon as he felt that give, he knew he could not turn back. The damage was done, so he figured he might as well find out what sort of correspondence she was receiving.
With somewhat shaky hands, he unfurled the letter and began to read. As his eyes flitted from sentence to sentence, he could feel his eyebrows raising in shock, for it was not so much a letter as an instruction manual.
To my illicit reader,
What tales I have to tell you. Be sure you are entirely alone before you read on, for the following may shock and titillate beyond your wildest imaginings.
Society deems us to be timid creatures, lacking in the sexual appetite that the men in our world are lauded for. Well, my dear reader, I feel it my duty to inform you that our appetites can be just as vast and adventurous as a man’s. In sexual prowess and expertise, we ladies become the ones who wield the power, and I shall teach you how.
I urge you to whisper sweet nothings close to your beloved’s ear. Let him feel the rush of breath against his skin and the graze of your lips against his earlobe until you feel his flesh turn fiery under the gentle, caressing touch of your fingertips across his hard chest. Remind him of his masculinity. Flatter him, and then make him yours.
At dinner, one might even trace one’s fingertips across his inner thigh. Why devour your dessert, when these endeavors will make you the dessert that he is desperate to devour?
Once he is malleable in your hands, and eager for your touch, we must tease him until he is begging for a taste of you. It all rests in the seemingly simple art of the kiss. For the way you are kissed, and kiss your paramour, is an indication of how you will make love. Will it be slow and sensual? Passionate and earth-shattering? We do not want it to be quick and frantic, dear ladies. Though there is a time and place for that—usually against the wall, down a dark and clandestine hallway.
As such, we must think of the kiss in the same fashion as a scandalous dance. Move your lips with his in a slow rhythm, guiding with your bottom lip. Be sure to hold his face, or caress his chest, or put your arms about his neck, and match his pace. Then, my passion-seeking Amazonians, coax his unsuspecting mouth open and slide your tongue inside.
But remember, there is so much more we ladies can do with our mouths and our caresses, to bring our men to their knees. Although, with that in mind, one of these acts might require you to be on your knees, but we shall come to that in time.
Thrill and intoxicate your lover by taking his manhood in hand and gripping him firmly, but not too tightly. You can always ask him to show you what he prefers, though he may be coy at first. Do not be alarmed by what emerges when he reaches his peak of ecstasy, for it is easily wiped away. And then, you must ask him to give you your pleasure. Demand it. It is our right to know bliss.
Guide his hand, his mouth, his tongue to you, if he is shy, but you must also take the time to experiment with your pleasure in private, for no one can know better what a woman enjoys than herself.
I will leave you with these first endeavors and titillate you further in my next correspondence. Be bold, my goddesses. Find your bliss. I wish you well in this pursuit. Until next time…
Dumbfounded, Mark read the letter again and again, wondering if his eyes were deceiving him, or if he was still in a slumbering state and this was merely a bizarre dream. But the scandalous words remained upon the page, highlighting acts that Mark knew all too well in explicit detail.
“What is the meaning of this?” He had to resist scrunching the letter into a ball and tossing it into the fireplace, in the hope it might douse the overwhelming rush of desire and jealousy that coursed through his veins.
Instead, he folded the letter back up and slid it into the lapel of his waistcoat. He stood sharply, and paused for a moment, turning his back to the drawing room door in case Chalke came in and noticed the slight bulging at the front of his trousers. And yet, he could take little enjoyment from the stirring in his loins. Not with images of Johanna upon her knees, giving pleasure to some other man, writhing in his mind.
She will disgrace herself if this is discovered. I must put a stop to it.
He could not admit his envy, though it burned furiously in his chest. She was a widow, with the opportunity to do as she pleased, as long as she was discreet. But this letter did not seem remotely discreet. Perhaps he was using it as an excuse, or perhaps he really did fear for her reputation—at least, for the reputation of the young woman he had once known. Whatever the case was, he knew he could not rest until he had spoken to her.
“Chalke!” Mark shouted, the sordid letter singeing a hole through his chest. “I am going to take a walk!”
The manservant stepped out into the entrance hall, as Mark came out of the drawing room. “Very good, My Lord.”
“I feel I must clear this miasma from my head,” Mark added, more to himself than anyone else.
Barely acknowledging his manservant, Mark pulled open the door and marched out into the warm morning air. Worked up into such a frenzy, he knew he had to nip this in the bud, before his jealousy took root inside him.
But what would he say when he saw Johanna? He supposed he would have to cross that bridge when he came to it. He would not walk away from that bridge instead, as he had done seven years ago.
I may hate the things you have done, but I will not see you ruined.
Chapter Seven
That afternoon, oblivious to Mark’s turmoil, Johanna busied herself at Roberts Orphanage, in the borough of Saint Pancras. She had spent most of her time here over the last four days, in an attempt to rid herself of the bitter taste that the ball had left behind. There was nothing so humbling as being around sweet children who had no parents, and wanted nothing more than to live decent lives, with some hope in their futures.
Being here served as a stark reminder that Johanna’s life was one of privilege, and that a hateful squabble with Mark was nothing compared to the suffering that these children had endured in their short lives.
He would benefit from spending an afternoon here. He could certainly use some humbling, the arrogant wretch.
“Mrs. Roberts, where would you like me to put these?” Johanna knocked on the door of the matriarch’s office, to find her writing in a ledger. Johanna could only imagine the true work that went into keeping an establishment like this functioning smoothly. Even with charitable donations, every penny had to count.
Mrs. Roberts looked up. “Are they the books for the children?”
