Eh?
She was Lady Beckett.
He doubted that there could be a more appropriate bearer of that title. He’d seen her in the hall outside her husband’s office the day he had brought the heart. An icy blue gown of the finest silk and lace that matched equally frigid eyes. A pointed nose and perfectly arched eyebrows. Porcelain pale skin without blemish. Jet black hair piled atop her head in the latest fashion.
He had been in a daze as he’d exited Lord Beckett’s office. Admiral. But already the sneaking dread, the unease, the guilt, was beginning to cut the joy of getting his life back.
She had stared at him boldly as he passed, cold eyes appraising. No doubt finding the filthy wretch that was James Norrington sorely lacking. He’d smirked at her. Let her turn up her aristocratic nose and pull her skirts away so as not to touch him. He had his life back, and that was all he needed.
Alone in his dark and desolate house, he would keep telling himself that.
She was staring boldly at him again at the ball. At first, he had been trying to get a moment alone with Governor Swann. But Beckett’s man Mercer was never more than an arm’s reach away from the governor, making any sort of meaningful discussion impossible. Frustrated, he’d grabbed another glass of wine off a passing tray. He was quickly loosing track of how many he’d had, but he didn’t care.
And Lady Beckett’s cold gaze seemed to follow him where ever he went. Finally, in desperation, he’d slipped into the library. A moment alone was all he needed. Without Governor Swann and Mercer and Beckett and his unnerving little wife staring at him. It was like they could all see under the new protective shell of his admiral’s uniform. As if they knew that the uniform truly changed nothing.
He shut the library door behind him with a sigh of relief.
And then she laughed.
He doubted he would ever know how she had gotten into the room before him; how she had known that was where he would go.
His back was against the door as she approached, a slow smile spreading across her lips. She was mere inches away from him when she stopped.
Again that appraising look.
“You do smell so much better now, Admiral Norrington. And that beard did not suit you at all.” Her small hand brushed down his now clean-shaven cheek.
Her skirts were brushing his legs. He had to carefully look away to avoid staring down at the abundant cleavage presented by the low neckline of her gown.
“Oh come now, Admiral. Just looking at a woman won’t damn you.” Her voice was laughing.
“I am already damned, madam.”
“We all are.” She leaned in closer.
And then he’d felt her hand on the front of his breeches. Shocked, he tried to pull away, but the solid wooden door gave him no escape. Her laugh was lower now, her whole body pressing against his, her lips at his ear.
“You can even call me Elizabeth.”
She nipped at his ear, and then lower, on his neck just above his cravat.
Later, he would blame the wine. That was the only rational explanation. The only way to explain how he had ended up pressing Lady Beckett against the door of her husband’s library. With her finger plucking at the buttons of his breeches, her legs hooked around his hips, his hands shoving her skirts up.
She was far more responsive than any proper society lady was supposed to be. Her moans, the way she moved her hips against him, was too much. It was all over too quickly, and then she was smoothing her skirts, checking her hair, and then her hand on the door that he had just pinned her against moments earlier.
She tossed a sly smile over her shoulder, and then she was gone, leaving him alone in the library, his breathing still heavy and his breeches still open.
In the following weeks, he managed to convince himself that the incident in the library had all been a dream. Or a hallucination. A very, very vivid hallucination.
One morning over a month later found him in Lord Beckett’s office, waiting. He’d been summoned in the wee hours of the dawn, and now Beckett wasn’t even there.
He had been waiting for almost an hour when he heard the door open. He was on his feet immediately before he realized that it was not Lord Beckett who had entered. The swish of silk across the floor told him who it was.
“Good morning, Admiral Norrington.”
He gaped at her. Her dark hair was down around her shoulders, a dressing gown the only thing that shielded her undergarments from view. And that was only held closed by a loosely tied belt.
She smiled at his obvious confusion. “My, your time in Tortuga must have done horrible damage to your manners. I do hope it is not irreparable.”
Beckett obviously hadn’t made any attempt to keep his Admiral’s past a secret. No doubt to perpetually remind him of just how far he stood to fall if he caused any trouble.
He cleared his throat, trying desperately to regain control of the conversation. “Do you know where Lord Beckett is?”
She had perched herself on the edge of her husband’s desk and was playing with the tie that held the front of her dressing gown closed. He could feel his face getting warm.
“I’m afraid he’s rather…occupied, at the moment. It will probably be a while before he gets to you.”
She was giving him that appraising look again, this time her gaze lingering below his waist rather longer than was necessary. He shifted his waistcoat slightly so that his body’s response was hidden from view.
“Lady Beckett, I…I really should be…going…I-“
“Come here, Admiral.” She held out her hand to him, still seated on the large desk.
“I really shouldn’t…”
“He won’t be here for at least another hour.”
She was untying her dressing gown. He needed to get out, but what if Beckett arrived and found him missing? And the memory of the night at the ball was still frighteningly clear in his mind. She had felt so good…
He had always scoffed at the old sailors’ stories of sirens that drew men to their deaths, but now he wasn’t so sure. He was certain he was a dead man if they were caught.
Once he was close enough, she grabbed the lapels of his frock coat and pulled him the last distance so that he stood between her knees. She was unbuttoning his waistcoat as he rubbed himself against the inside of her thigh, his lips on her neck.
“See? I’m not so horrible.” Her voice was hot in his ear. She tugged his shirt out of his breeches so she could run her hands up his chest. Her hands drew back down, lightly dragging her nails over his flesh.
His vision clouded by the wonderful sensations she was provoking, he still managed to find her knees and the hem of her thin shift. He pushed the fabric up and could feel the heat radiating off her skin.
Her hand stroked firmly over the front of his breeches before moving to the buttons. He was pushing her on to her back on the desk as he thrust into her. She hooked her ankles around his hips, drawing him even closer and deeper.
Her moans drove him faster, harder. Her hips were moving, welcoming his increasingly rapid thrusts. Her hands fisted in the silk of her dressing gown. Her hair splayed across the desk.
Lord Beckett’s desk.
The thought should have chilled his blood, but instead it only pushed him on. Beckett never missed an opportunity to humiliate him, to remind him of how much he was at Beckett’s mercy. But he, pitiful James Norrington, was having Beckett’s wife, on the bastard’s desk.
She cried out as her body trembled, muscles clenching around him, and that was all he needed to spill himself.
The room was silent, save for their heavy breathing. He pulled away, tugging at his uniform, trying to make himself presentable. She was still sitting on the desk, her knees still parted and shift pushed up around her hips, the tops of her breasts rising and falling rapidly above her stays. She watched him through half-lidded eyes.
Staring back at her, he could feel his body beginning to respond again.
No.
He turned his back and finished buttoning his waistcoat. There was a hand on his back; he glanced at her quickly, relieved to find that she was at least mostly covered. The belt of her dressing gown still wasn’t tied, but she was holding it closed.
She eyed him, one perfect eyebrow arched, well aware that he was specifically resisting a second round. Her gaze icy again, she moved toward the door.
She turned back to him just before she stepped out into the hallway.
“Oh, and the reason why he summoned you this morning was to inform you that the fleet sails tomorrow.”
And she was gone.
He doubted that there could be a more appropriate bearer of that title. He’d seen her in the hall outside her husband’s office the day he had brought the heart. An icy blue gown of the finest silk and lace that matched equally frigid eyes. A pointed nose and perfectly arched eyebrows. Porcelain pale skin without blemish. Jet black hair piled atop her head in the latest fashion.
He had been in a daze as he’d exited Lord Beckett’s office. Admiral. But already the sneaking dread, the unease, the guilt, was beginning to cut the joy of getting his life back.
She had stared at him boldly as he passed, cold eyes appraising. No doubt finding the filthy wretch that was James Norrington sorely lacking. He’d smirked at her. Let her turn up her aristocratic nose and pull her skirts away so as not to touch him. He had his life back, and that was all he needed.
Alone in his dark and desolate house, he would keep telling himself that.
She was staring boldly at him again at the ball. At first, he had been trying to get a moment alone with Governor Swann. But Beckett’s man Mercer was never more than an arm’s reach away from the governor, making any sort of meaningful discussion impossible. Frustrated, he’d grabbed another glass of wine off a passing tray. He was quickly loosing track of how many he’d had, but he didn’t care.
And Lady Beckett’s cold gaze seemed to follow him where ever he went. Finally, in desperation, he’d slipped into the library. A moment alone was all he needed. Without Governor Swann and Mercer and Beckett and his unnerving little wife staring at him. It was like they could all see under the new protective shell of his admiral’s uniform. As if they knew that the uniform truly changed nothing.
He shut the library door behind him with a sigh of relief.
And then she laughed.
He doubted he would ever know how she had gotten into the room before him; how she had known that was where he would go.
His back was against the door as she approached, a slow smile spreading across her lips. She was mere inches away from him when she stopped.
Again that appraising look.
“You do smell so much better now, Admiral Norrington. And that beard did not suit you at all.” Her small hand brushed down his now clean-shaven cheek.
Her skirts were brushing his legs. He had to carefully look away to avoid staring down at the abundant cleavage presented by the low neckline of her gown.
“Oh come now, Admiral. Just looking at a woman won’t damn you.” Her voice was laughing.
“I am already damned, madam.”
“We all are.” She leaned in closer.
And then he’d felt her hand on the front of his breeches. Shocked, he tried to pull away, but the solid wooden door gave him no escape. Her laugh was lower now, her whole body pressing against his, her lips at his ear.
“You can even call me Elizabeth.”
She nipped at his ear, and then lower, on his neck just above his cravat.
Later, he would blame the wine. That was the only rational explanation. The only way to explain how he had ended up pressing Lady Beckett against the door of her husband’s library. With her finger plucking at the buttons of his breeches, her legs hooked around his hips, his hands shoving her skirts up.
She was far more responsive than any proper society lady was supposed to be. Her moans, the way she moved her hips against him, was too much. It was all over too quickly, and then she was smoothing her skirts, checking her hair, and then her hand on the door that he had just pinned her against moments earlier.
She tossed a sly smile over her shoulder, and then she was gone, leaving him alone in the library, his breathing still heavy and his breeches still open.
In the following weeks, he managed to convince himself that the incident in the library had all been a dream. Or a hallucination. A very, very vivid hallucination.
One morning over a month later found him in Lord Beckett’s office, waiting. He’d been summoned in the wee hours of the dawn, and now Beckett wasn’t even there.
He had been waiting for almost an hour when he heard the door open. He was on his feet immediately before he realized that it was not Lord Beckett who had entered. The swish of silk across the floor told him who it was.
“Good morning, Admiral Norrington.”
He gaped at her. Her dark hair was down around her shoulders, a dressing gown the only thing that shielded her undergarments from view. And that was only held closed by a loosely tied belt.
She smiled at his obvious confusion. “My, your time in Tortuga must have done horrible damage to your manners. I do hope it is not irreparable.”
Beckett obviously hadn’t made any attempt to keep his Admiral’s past a secret. No doubt to perpetually remind him of just how far he stood to fall if he caused any trouble.
He cleared his throat, trying desperately to regain control of the conversation. “Do you know where Lord Beckett is?”
She had perched herself on the edge of her husband’s desk and was playing with the tie that held the front of her dressing gown closed. He could feel his face getting warm.
“I’m afraid he’s rather…occupied, at the moment. It will probably be a while before he gets to you.”
She was giving him that appraising look again, this time her gaze lingering below his waist rather longer than was necessary. He shifted his waistcoat slightly so that his body’s response was hidden from view.
“Lady Beckett, I…I really should be…going…I-“
“Come here, Admiral.” She held out her hand to him, still seated on the large desk.
“I really shouldn’t…”
“He won’t be here for at least another hour.”
She was untying her dressing gown. He needed to get out, but what if Beckett arrived and found him missing? And the memory of the night at the ball was still frighteningly clear in his mind. She had felt so good…
He had always scoffed at the old sailors’ stories of sirens that drew men to their deaths, but now he wasn’t so sure. He was certain he was a dead man if they were caught.
Once he was close enough, she grabbed the lapels of his frock coat and pulled him the last distance so that he stood between her knees. She was unbuttoning his waistcoat as he rubbed himself against the inside of her thigh, his lips on her neck.
“See? I’m not so horrible.” Her voice was hot in his ear. She tugged his shirt out of his breeches so she could run her hands up his chest. Her hands drew back down, lightly dragging her nails over his flesh.
His vision clouded by the wonderful sensations she was provoking, he still managed to find her knees and the hem of her thin shift. He pushed the fabric up and could feel the heat radiating off her skin.
Her hand stroked firmly over the front of his breeches before moving to the buttons. He was pushing her on to her back on the desk as he thrust into her. She hooked her ankles around his hips, drawing him even closer and deeper.
Her moans drove him faster, harder. Her hips were moving, welcoming his increasingly rapid thrusts. Her hands fisted in the silk of her dressing gown. Her hair splayed across the desk.
Lord Beckett’s desk.
The thought should have chilled his blood, but instead it only pushed him on. Beckett never missed an opportunity to humiliate him, to remind him of how much he was at Beckett’s mercy. But he, pitiful James Norrington, was having Beckett’s wife, on the bastard’s desk.
She cried out as her body trembled, muscles clenching around him, and that was all he needed to spill himself.
The room was silent, save for their heavy breathing. He pulled away, tugging at his uniform, trying to make himself presentable. She was still sitting on the desk, her knees still parted and shift pushed up around her hips, the tops of her breasts rising and falling rapidly above her stays. She watched him through half-lidded eyes.
Staring back at her, he could feel his body beginning to respond again.
No.
He turned his back and finished buttoning his waistcoat. There was a hand on his back; he glanced at her quickly, relieved to find that she was at least mostly covered. The belt of her dressing gown still wasn’t tied, but she was holding it closed.
She eyed him, one perfect eyebrow arched, well aware that he was specifically resisting a second round. Her gaze icy again, she moved toward the door.
She turned back to him just before she stepped out into the hallway.
“Oh, and the reason why he summoned you this morning was to inform you that the fleet sails tomorrow.”
And she was gone.