Page 50 of Scars of a Passionate Revenge
“Take me, Benedict,” she whispered. “I belong to you now.”
“Oh Alice,” he moaned, and he pushed his manhood inside her, moving gently at first, then his pace began to quicken.
She began to pant, as the pleasure began to intensify.
He took her hands and placed them above her head. She felt the power of his body as he moved above her, every thrusting bringing them closer to the climax of their desire.
He let out a guttural moan and pushed himself deeply inside her.
At the feeling of his climax, she began to feel the vibration of her own, crashing through her like a tidal wave.
She let out a cry as her desire peaked. “Oh Benedict, how I love you!”
When she awoke, she felt sticky with sweat and unspent desire. At the memory of the dream, she began to weep. She knew that she would never feel his touch again, and that she would never again feel the joy that she had felt that night in his arms, as they lay together in the darkness of the woods.
Chapter 22
Dorothea flew down the stairs, trying to suppress her rage. She would have quite cheerfully thrown Benedict out into the street. In fact, that is exactly what she would have done, had she been the one to find him collapsed in the drawing room.
But of course, Smith had got their first. Impeccably behaved, perfectly proper Smith, who would not dream of allowing a guest in their house to be treated with anything but perfect civility, hospitality, and kindness.
And that was why Benedict Fletcher, son of the infamous Daniel Fletcher, was now lying in bed in one of the guest bedrooms, drifting in and out of consciousness, and the doctor was on his way. The doctor whose visit no doubt they would have to pay for!
Dorothea flung open the door to her private parlor, rushed into the room and slammed the door behind her. God have mercy on anyone who disturbed her now! She threw herself into a chair and tried to gather her thoughts.
At least the doctor would not find anything wrong. She knew that much for certain. He had not found anything wrong with the baron for all these months, after all. Her plan had been going so well, until the wretched Benedict had turned up. She had recognized him, of course, when he first appeared in the ballroom all those months ago.
At first, she had been prepared to expose him for who he really was, and to allow the rumors about his father to emerge. But once she had realized that he was serious in the attentions he was paying to Alice, she had decided to let things lie, to wait a while and see what happened.
Alice! That dratted girl. When she had met the baron, she had known that he had a daughter, of course, but she had not expected to dislike her so much. She was so stubborn, and yet somehow so insipid. So when it looked like Benedict might propose to Alice, Dorothea decided to keep quiet. He would take her off their hands, at long last, and perhaps the pair of them would both disappear off into the sunset and never bother them again.
She had not quite thought through what would happen if the baron recognized him, but she had thought, in all honesty, that her other plan would have come fully to fruition by now, and that would no longer be a cause for concern.
But it had all been too good to be true. Now he was back, and wanting to see the baron. She could not allow this to happen!
But everyone was safely in their rooms now. The danger was over, at least until the morning.
Dorothea rang the bell for her maid and instructed her to prepare her chamber.
“I have had a very long day,” she declared, rubbing her eyes, and stretching her arms behind her head. “I confess that I am exhausted, and I need peace. I will retire very shortly. You may tell the cook not to bother about dinner.”
Marie curtseyed and scurried from the room, anxious to ensure that everything was perfect for her mistress.
Dorothea allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Despite the panic she had felt earlier on today, she thought that perhaps everything might turn out alright in the end. She had been working on her plan for many months now, and she was not about to let Benedict Fletcher, the son of a servant, ruin everything.
***
Upstairs, the baron was sitting in bed, trying to read. He had been asleep for some of the afternoon, but now that he was awake, he was feeling rather restless.
He looked around the room, and grand as it was, he could not help but feel a little fed up with the same four walls that he had been surrounded by for so long. He wriggled his toes under the covers, almost as if he were testing them for strength.
Everything felt as it should, so he swung his legs around so that he was sitting on the side of the bed.
So far so good,he thought. He looked out of the window at the gardens beyond. He was very proud of his estate; he had worked hard for many years to ensure its financial security, and now, as he grew older, he wished that he was able to enjoy it a little more. But Dorothea did nag on at him to rest, and he did not like to go against her, because it caused so much trouble and unpleasantness.
But really, he did feel so much better, and it seemed a shame to waste such a fine afternoon when he could be outside enjoying the fresh air. It would not be all that long before it started to get dark, but perhaps there was time for a walk before dinner.
He looked across at his nightstand, where a full cup of tea sat on a saucer. It was cold now, and he reached over to pick it up, then dumped the contents into the soil of a house plant on a small table nearby. He did not want to offend Dorothea by refusing him tea, but he really did not enjoy it when she made it for him, and he had been disposing of it like this for a while now, while secretly begging his own valet to bring him coffee instead, which he vastly preferred.
