Claiming His Ward: Sweet & Sexy Read online

  Jack became aware of his quickening breath, that his hips were swaying. His erection had become full and pressed against the confines of his trousers. The thought of her was enough to summon his bestial desires. He closed his eyes and tried to will the visions away, but they came flooding back. The sunlight on her hair. Waltzing in the gardens fresh grass. The smell of spring flowers on her neck. The smooth, porcelain skin where it creased over her collar bone and plummeted to the swell of her breasts. Her light, airy laugh. That breathtaking, coy smile he knew so well. Jack unbuttoned his trousers, letting his hard member free. He traveled to his bed for a more comfortable seat—somewhere he could spread out. He wrapped his fist around his erection with a tight grip. His Elsie, alone in her chambers. She was so innocent. So innocent. No matter how firm his grip, being inside her virgin folds would be the pinnacle of bliss. She would fasten onto him — around him — like only her youthful body could. She would be his. No one else’s; only his.

  He breathed out a long, desperate groan. His palm pulled up the length of his shaft, and his hips thrust up, forcing his hand back down to the base of his cock. Confusion muddled his brain. A tender sentiment in the recesses of his mind told him to stop — for the sake of his long gone partner — for the sake of the innocent girl who trusted in his protection. His desire overwhelmed him. He needed to release it now before it broke him. His hand slid up his length, nestling under the head. His jaw quivered open and he bared his teeth. Another thrust of his hips, and his hand was back against his balls. The way she had looked at him downstairs—he could have sworn… He grunted out a tortured breath. He would tell her. He would tell Elsie of his feelings that—with no barrier between them—he could no longer hold his raging hunger from her. No. He was a better man than that, and she deserved more than he could offer. He had a sister in the country; Elsie could go live with her; she would be safe there. Safe from him.

  His fingers gripped the coverlet. He tightened his grasp around his manhood. She must have been undressing now. Perhaps Margie was helping her out of her corset. Double fingers losing each strand. Elsie would be sighing in relief as the pressure relaxed around her ribs and breasts. They were infernal things—contorting the true beauty of a woman’s body. Her feminine form would be let free. Oh, God, he could see her beauty. The full rounds of hips, her luscious derriere, her full breasts. Jack’s palm and hips worked in unison to a rhythm he knew well, rocking up and down in slow, methodical strokes. She would be alone as she laid her petticoat aside. Her chemise would fall to the floor. Her knickers would be all that covered her—her breasts free—the moonlight falling over her curves. Alone, locked away in her room, she would remove the last of the barriers between them.

  Jack laid back on his pillows, his eyes closed. One hand wrapped around his erection, the other cupping and tugging on his balls, he envisioned what her young breasts would be. Plump and alluring. The curve of her abdomen and her hips. Her cream white thighs. The untouched folds between her legs. Every muscle in his body flexed. She was beautiful. She smiled for him and beckoned. She enchanted him. She allured and enthralled him. His lips pulled back in a snarl, the tempo of his rhythm quickened. He faltered between holding his breath and gasping for air. Jack allowed his desire to flow through him unchecked. Heat spread from between his legs and up into his core. He arched his back and thrust his hips into the air, picturing the moonlight flooding over her naked body. Did she ever touch herself? She did in his dreams. His breath caught in his chest. Elsie’s fingers smoothing down her stomach to her sex. She explored her folds, her lips quivering in response. Did she dream of him as he dreamt of her? He cried out, unrestrained, a cry she doubtless heard from her own chambers.

  He held his manhood as his orgasm subsided, struggling to regain control of his body and his traitorous thoughts. Yes, he would have to tell her. She couldn’t stay. Not with him like this—barely hanging on.

  She let the tears fall for only a moment. It was not Jack’s fault. He was a man in a difficult position. She would have to accustom herself to the emptiness of the house. She could not expect him to spend long hours alone with her. She could not expect to retain what used to be. Elsie stood and straightened her skirts. She carried the oil lamp to a book shelf and fingered the well worn spines. Every volume was a cherished prize. No sooner than one was finished, and Jack would come home the very next day with another under his arm. Collections of short stories. The Iliad; the Odyssey. Dante. New authors with novels of crime and passion. They were all novels she had read to him. Every single spine in that book case had been worn by her fingers. There, in his chair by the parlor stove, he sat for those long hours she yearned for. At first, it was he who read to her, his clear and confident voice hypnotizing the small child she was. When she grew and learned her letters well, she would sit in his lap, curled against his big chest so he could follow as she read, and he would help her as she stumbled over three and four syllable words. Or, she would perch on his knee, and he would lean back, observing her with pride as she turned each page. They would laugh at an author’s cleverness. She could feel him tense underneath her as a bullet was fired or a mount stampeded. She would leap to her feet and pace the parlor as the action mounted—as the suspense heightened. She would read with a hand gesticulating in the air and pause for effect—looking to him to catch his expression of rapt attention.

  They were simpler days. She wanted those days back. She wanted to read to him as she paced the floor—him resting his eyes and promising not to fall asleep. Her retrieving his house slippers when he began to snore. She wanted him to interrupt her—to tell her skip back and reread a witty turn of phrase—and watch his lips curl in a contented smile. This was a good house, a happy house. So much joy had come to her from the man also cruelly adept at bringing tears. That was a recent development. No, it was not his fault. He was being all to her that a godfather and protector could be. He had done so much more. It was not his fault that she wanted more from him—that the one thing she truly desired from him was the one thing which was beyond her bounds to ask. A chasm had opened between them since she had come of age and only opened further with the years. As it should be. As was proper. She was becoming a woman and it was expected she would leave his home.

  Elsie observed the darkening night out the parlor window. It was getting late, and the household had endured a long day. Margie would soon be up to her chambers to help her undress for the night. The days she was forced by modern fashion to cinch on a corset were always a curse. She hadn’t a prayer of removing today’s attire alone. Elsie dipped and removed her shoes, not wishing to add stepping in heels to the treachery of lifting her layered skirts up the steep stairwell. She padded up the stairs, taking care to peer into the hall to check for closed doors. Jack had locked himself away for the night. Her naked footfalls were muted by the soft runner cast down the length of the hall. Her chest seized as she passed Jack’s heavy wood door which acted only a momentary barrier between them. The more solid blockades could not be locked with a key. Perhaps, if she could have access to his chambers—could she break down what kept them from one another?

  Elsie knew little of what happened between a man and a woman. Only the vague innuendo of the novels, the occasional slip of tongue from an older man, or the incredulous musing of a widow. What happened in the marriage bed was a mystery that was closely guarded from the likes of inquisitive teenage ears. But, it was basic human instinct. Her body had not gone without self-exploration over the years. That instinct drove her to believe the feelings which rose in her chest when Jack drew near or when their eyes met or when his hand touched hers — that it had to do with this mysterious bond between a man and a woman. It was a bond she explored with herself in the darkness of her chambers. It was a bond that she yearned for. As late, the sensations in her body had changed from a flush in her cheeks to a flutter in her chest to a warmth between her legs. They were sensations she desired more and more of. They were sensations Jack elicited from her more and more f
requently. They were cravings driving her to seek him out, to draw him nearer, to feel the touch of his hand. Perhaps, he felt it too. Perhaps, that is why he stayed away. No. Jack was every inch a man, and she was barely out of girlhood. He toiled for his income; she mended the collars on his shirt. He read Ovid in the original Latin; she read the newspapers. He was solid and confident; she blushed like a schoolgirl with just a wink from him.

  Margie entered the room on her heels. “Getting ready for bed, Miss?”

  “Yes, Margie, thank you.”

  It had become a ritual, and they settled into their positions with ease. Elsie turned and wrapped her fingers around an upright of her four poster bed. Margie rounded to Elsie’s back, and the knots and fittings of her dress came undone with practiced ease. Elsie closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to drift. If a woman had a husband, did she need a maid to undress her? Was Jack the kind of man who would take joy in helping his wife…unclothe? Jack’s hands on her—performing this task—exposing her body. The familiar heat pooled over her. Slight tugs pulled her body as Margie loosened the fabric. Elsie let her arms fall and with them came the dress. She stepped out of the copious folds of fabric and prepared for the next step. She returned her grip to the post and held on tight. At least, the loosing of a corset was much more bearable than the tightening. Almost pleasurable, really. Margie unwound the tight bonds, and Elsie breathed in deep, filling her deprived lungs. If she were married, if she no longer had to display herself for appraisal, would a husband care if she went without? Jack always commented on of a woman’s dress. He said that he liked the curves of a woman’s body and didn’t know why they would want to cover and contort such a beautiful thing. He didn’t say those kind of things anymore. Perhaps, if it were Jack, she could go without.

  Her rib cage expanded, and she felt fully at ease for the first time since the corset was cinched down early this morning. “Thank you, Margie. I think I will handle my own undressing from here. Have a good evening. Relax. You’ve had a long day.”

  Margie curtsied and closed the door behind her, leaving Elsie alone once again. It was not true that she felt fully at ease. A deep-seated turmoil of agitation had settled into her soul. Elsie began to pluck at the laces holding the front of her petticoat tight. Her agitation was no longer that the chasm between herself and Jack had widened. She had always felt in the years gone by that there was a bridge spanning the distance which could be crossed—there had always been a way back to him and to that happiness they had known. They had their moments. Jack could be unguarded and affectionate. Elsie had been able at times to fall back on her girlish nature and wrap her arms around his neck. He would beam at her, his arms around her waist. The events of the day—what happened this evening—had created a schism. No bridge remained. Nothing would be the same between her and Jack. Her childhood was forever gone. This is what it felt to be a woman. Unsatisfied desires. A future she could not pick for herself. A man she could not have.

  Her chemise and knickers joined the growing pile of undergarments. She paused for a moment, completely naked in the privacy of her room. She had only in scarce moments had a glimpse of Jacks body. A shirt collar unbuttoned, revealing the hard line of collarbone and chest beneath. The upturned shirt sleeve bunched high above his elbow as he toiled with her in the garden. The sinewy muscle of his forearms as he upturned the dirt for her. She found herself dwelling on his skin. The way it fit tightly over vein and muscle. It was a part of Jack she wanted to see more of. Shedding her clothes did nothing to dispel the heat. She fancied running down the hall, stark naked, and throwing herself into Jack’s arms. That would surely bring things to a head.

  Instead, she moved to her wardrobe and pulled out her sleeping gown. The silky smoothness swept over her skin, and she smiled as she remembered the flush that came over Jack’s face. The fine garment had been a present to her for her nineteenth birthday. Margie had brought a bow-tied parcel into her room in the morning, an all-knowing, silent smile on her lips. It was beautiful. The morning sun made the white silk shine. It was the finest garment she owned. She had vaulted into Jack’s arms and kissed his cheek. The man’s cheeks shone brightly with the red flare of joy and embarrassment. It was only with a morning full of prying that he admitted to paying for the garment. She was a woman, he had said. She deserved fine things. That morning was the very first moment of her life that Elsie truly felt a woman and not a girl. That morning was the first time Jack could not meet her eye. Yes, perhaps he felt it too.

  Jack’s shame flared through his body. Five yards. That was the distance between his chambers and hers. The thought of his ward so near was becoming a temptation he could not resist. In a moment like this — locked behind closed doors — he could not keep his lust in check as his thoughts roamed over her. Nor could he divert his thoughts to anything else. His work, his investments, his upcoming visit to his son in Bristol—none of it could hold his attention. Only she. How long before the beast within him would no longer be content with self pleasure? Their current situation was no position for a gentleman to subject a lady to. He was a brute to want her to stay. He was something far worse if he did not take measures to keep himself from her.

  Jack put his wardrobe back together from his half-dressed disarray. He re-buttoned his shirt by the light of a single oil lamp. He was in a state torn between bestial desires and chivalric duty. He knew what the gentleman in him must do, but the demands of the beast cried out. His mind raced to keep up with the opposing arguments and draws of each. She could not stay in the home of a bachelor. Henry Doleman would court her now, but if time elapsed and she did not marry—they would draw their own conclusions and the suitors would shun her acquaintance. He could not resign her to such a life. But he hated how they looked at her, how they spoke to her. As if he weren’t there. As if he didn’t know. As if his desires weren’t deeper and more passionate than theirs could grasp. They wanted to take her from him. The beast within him howled for a mate—to make her his own—to fight all others off. Damn the whispers. Damn their society. She was his.

  His head pounded, and his body was weighed down with fatigue. Elsie was not his. She was his to protect and to give away. She was not his to have. He had to make his resolution clear. He had to do it now. Every evening he spent alone in this dark room with her so near weakened his resolve. Even in the sweltering summer heat, his bed felt cold. He did not trust himself even one more night.

  Shoeless, his suspenders hanging down his thighs, his undershirt exposed and untucked underneath a disheveled dress shirt, Jack opened the heavy wood door of his chambers. The hall was dark and abandoned. Moonlight streamed in from a window down the corridor, casting eerie shadows on grey walls. He took one hesitant step after the other toward Elsie’s chamber. Selfishness warred with gallantry. Sending her away was the honorable measure, but his life would be empty. The love and desire he had harbored for years would be placed beyond his reach by his own hands. His own actions would damn him.

  All too soon, his knuckles hovered over the wooden surface of her door. His base desires thwarted his first attempt—his craving to have her beautiful femininity close to him every day. She was there, just beyond. Did she wear the gown he gave her? Its thin silk would cascade over her body, wavering in rivulets with the slightest breeze. Her nipples, her pubic hair, would be all but naked. The garment would cover her, and yet it would show him everything. She would be stunning. The moonlight would fall over her, illuminating the mounds and valleys of her feminine body. He closed his eyes and in his recollections, he could feel her hand on his arm as he guided her through the sunlit park. He touched her back to guide her, placed a hand on her shoulder, kissed her hair. He could open this door now—she would not have locked him out—he could have her. He could take her. His fist jerked back from the door. He pursed his lips and shook the thoughts from his head. He took a deep breath, bolstering his resolution.

  His hand slowly crept back to the door, but he was held back by his heart. It cried for
him to keep her close. He never had to touch her again as long as he could sit in the parlor at night, letting the cares of the day melt away as she sang for him. Her sweet voice nurtured his soul. He would never let his lips touch her brow again if she would sit across from him at breakfast, her bright morning cheer lifting his spirits and bolstering him for the day to come. He could keep his beast contained if losing her beauty, her charm, her wit, was the price of letting the animal take over. He could cage it. He had done so to this point. Let them talk, as long as they were happy—he and his dear Elsie. He pulled his fist back and rubbed the heel of his palms into his forehead and down the length of his face. He breathed into his steepled fingers.

  He must move now. He must resist his own weakness before the objections overwhelmed his resolution. She deserved better of him. It had come to this. All the years, all the joy, it had all been building to this unavoidable moment. He knocked three sharp reports on her door.

  She stood at the window, taking one last look over the quiet, moonlit city before laying herself in bed. The town was slowly falling asleep. The street lanterns had been lit, throwing circles of illumination on the bricks below. A one horse buggy clattered down the abandoned street. It had always amazed her how the bustle of midday transformed into the deep silence of night. Three crisp knocks sounded through the interior of her room.

  “Elsie. It’s me. I need to speak with you.”

  Her heart raced straight to her throat. She moved quickly to the door, but her limbs trembled as she went. Jack was in a complete state of disarray. She opened the door to the picture of a man tucking his shirt into his pants. She felt an amused smirk touch her lips. Jack froze and looked up. His hands darted away from their tasks and he placed them hurriedly behind his back then just as quickly ran them through his tousled hair. Jack cleared his throat and pulled on the starched collar of his unbuttoned shirt. She waited for him to speak, taking in his unprecedented disorder. She was nothing but enthralled at his stage of undress. His lips and throat worked, but nothing was said. A myriad of emotions ran through her. Desire. Fear. Reach out and touch him or plead with him not to speak?