Overview
The gardener's sin is my lord and lady's pleasure.
The daughter of an earl, Lady Mary Linden never noticed the servants who toiled on her father's estate. But her aristocratic blindness shatters when she meets Drake, the head gardener. Drake shows her sensuous delights she could not have dreamed of. Just when she thinks he has taught her all there is to know, Drake introduces a new player into their game...Mary's cousin Harry.
What they did was surely a sin...but a sin too delicious to give up.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781781843840 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Totally Entwined Group |
| Publication date: | 07/26/2013 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 35 |
| Sales rank: | 986,799 |
| File size: | 233 KB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
"Mary, I shouldn't give this to you. It's not right."
Lady Mary Linden, third daughter of the Earl of Whitten, snatched the book of Ancient Greek poetry from her cousin Harry's hand. "Rubbish. You've read it. Why shouldn't I?"
"Because you're a female!" Harry's voice rose in offended outrage. "Some of these poems are ... um ... quite shocking."
"You mean they're sexually explicit," Mary snapped.
"The poems are from the classical Greek period. They're not meant for women. The female constitution is delicate," Harry said. "Excessive stimulation is harmful."
"You don't really believe that nonsense you're spouting." Mary grinned at him. Her cousin knew her better than that. He knew she was hopelessly curious — about everything.
"A lot of people do believe it." He ran a hand though his hair, dislodging a straight golden lock that flopped onto his forehead. "They also say women don't like sex."
"That's probably not true either," Mary argued. "If women were given the chance I know they would enjoy sex just as much as men do. We just never get to find out. Just like we never get to learn about History and Politics — and Ancient Greek poetry. How can I tell I won't like something if I never get told anything about it?"
Her cousin shook his head. "I should never have started lending you any of my books. I knew no good would come of it."
Mary ignored the last part of his statement. "I'm grateful for all the things I've learnt. I couldn't have done it without your passing on your books to me." She paced the floor, her steps long and fast, hardly befitting the elegant glide expected of a lady. She didn't care, she was heartily sick of restrictions, infuriated by the list of things boys were actively encouraged to experience that were forbidden to girls.
"But this is different. This book has poems in it that talk about things you know nothing about."
"Well once I read them, I will know, won't I?" she reasoned.
"But that's just it. I don't think it'll be good for you."
"If I expire from hysterical over-stimulation I am sure no one would blame you." She rested her hand on his arm. "You needn't worry."
His forehead remained wrinkled and his grey-blue eyes looked distant and disturbed. "The kind of relationship the poet describes. It's ... well, most people think it's disgusting. And it is against the law in this country." The furrow between his eyes deepened. "I don't know how you came to know the book existed, or why you asked me for it."
"I read about it in one of the other books you lent me." She stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. "And once I read that it existed, who else would I ask about it but my wonderful cousin Harry? I knew if you had a copy you wouldn't refuse to give it to me."
"When have I ever refused you anything," he sighed.
"Never," she replied. "And I love you for it."
"I don't want to do anything that could cause trouble. Not after all your family has done for me."
"Shh." She put her hand over his mouth. "Don't you dare start telling me how grateful you are. And don't talk about my family. It's our family and always has been."
Mary couldn't remember a time when Harry hadn't lived with them. His mother, her father's sister, had died in childbirth and his father had gambled away his fortune, ignoring the needs of his infant son. Mary's parents had taken Harry and raised him as their own. She'd grown up loving her gentle cousin.
"I am grateful," he insisted. "Your father gave me a life I could never have had otherwise. But I am not his son. I may have a title but there is no money or property to go with it. I have to make my own way in the world."
"You know Papa would never leave you unprovided for."
Harry shifted from foot to foot and refused to meet her eyes. "He might change his mind if I failed to live up to his expectations."
"You think Papa would cut you out of his will because he found out you were lending me salacious reading material?" A spurt of laughter escaped her. "Papa is not as hidebound as that, I can promise you." Again she laughed and waggled the book at him. "But to appease you, I'll take the book some place no one will find me."
The worried look didn't leave his eyes and he didn't laugh with her as she'd expected. She reached up to kiss his cheek once more. "Silly. Nothing will go wrong, I promise you."
Tucking the book under her arm, she strolled outside, leaving Harry standing still and silent in the hallway.
The sun shone warmly in a rare, summer-blue sky. She walked towards a shaded bench on the edge of the lawn and sat down. Three young men swept scythes from side to side, mowing the expanse of grass. They were shirtless, their backs glistening with sweat, muscles flexing as they bent and stretched. Their hypnotic rhythm kept her motionless and enthralled until one of them looked up and saw her then nudged the others. All three stopped and straightened.
Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, she stood and moved away, following a path that led between the trees to a little wilderness. Overhead, interlocking branches provided cool shade and the soft cooing of doves mixed in lazy harmony with the drone of bees. This was just what she wanted. Somewhere remote, rustic, but still safe within the confines of her father's estate.
Another path branched off the main one, narrower, scattered with twigs and mushy, decomposing leaves left from last autumn. Clearly few people ever came this way. The deserted pathway lured her. After a few yards it narrowed even more and turned sharply. She glanced behind her. The main house, the lawns and the gardeners were completely hidden from sight. Mary shrugged and strolled on.
Ten minutes later she broke out of the trees. A small lake twinkled in the sunlight. A pair of white swans floated peacefully on the surface. On the far edge of the lake stood a small building, its white painted walls almost smothered by thick clusters of pink climbing roses. Arched windows were set into the walls, their shape echoed in the double doors at the entrance. The enchanting scene drew her forward.
As she placed her foot on the step that led to the front doors, she hesitated. She had an odd sense that she ought to knock. She dismissed the idea at once. The summerhouse was on her father's estate. And she had every right to enter. She put her hand on the doorknob and turned it.
The door opened silently and she stepped inside. A mosaic tiled floor depicting a hunting scene led to an oversized daybed pushed up against a wall. If the summerhouse was infested with mice or rats, there was no sign of them. The entire place was remarkably tidy and well maintained for a deserted building.
The musky scent of roses and the warm, dappled sun falling through the latticework windows made it a perfect place for her to read Harry's book.
She sat on the daybed, stretching out on its wide mattress, snuggling her back up against the padded rest at the end. Feeling deliciously wicked, she kicked off her shoes, rolled down her stockings then began to read.
Harry might have found the subject matter shocking but he must have had a far better idea of where to look for the scandalous parts than she did. The introduction to the work was dull and old fashioned. While she normally loved the chance to improve her knowledge, today, with the sun shining and in this peaceful spot, she couldn't summon up her usual enthusiasm.
The sun warmed her face and her eyelids grew heavy.
The sound of the door being shut snapped her awake. A man stood in the middle of the room. Shadows fell across his face and she couldn't make out his features. His arms were folded across his powerful chest.
Mary swung her legs down, smoothing her skirts and tucking her bare feet out of sight. Her heart fluttered with the first stirrings of fear.
"Who are you?" she demanded. "You have no right to be here."
"I have as much right as you, my lady." There was no subservience in his tone, yet he knew her rank.
"If you know my title, you know this is my father's estate." She lifted her chin, well used to giving orders. "I insist that you leave at once."
"I'm not interested in your demands."
The man stepped forward and she saw his face for the first time. He wasn't as handsome as Harry — few men were, but he had a hard chiselled appearance, his cheekbones high and his mouth a firm slash. A muscle fluttered alongside his jaw.
He wore no coat or hat, just a simple white broadcloth shirt and a pair of brown breeches, his feet in a pair of serviceable boots. Not a gentleman of leisure then. Unless he was a trespasser, and he seemed far too self-assured for that, he must work on the estate. He ought to be tugging at his forelock and leaving her alone, but he didn't seem to be aware of that.
"Take your silly little novel and go somewhere else if my presence here offends you." He bent over to pick up the book that had fallen to her feet. He straightened and his dark eyes flashed fire. "Where did you get this?"
"It's my cousin Harry's," she replied.
"I know it's Harry's," he said. "I want to know how you got it."
"Harry lent it to me." The implications of what he said struck her. "How do you know it belongs to Harry — and how dare you call him Harry? He is Viscount Selton."
"I call him Harry because he's my friend, and I know it's his book because he lent it to me, too."
"He lent it to you?" Mary gasped. "You've read this book?"
"I read all of Harry's books," he replied. "Don't look so surprised. I can read."
"That's not ... How do you know ...? Who are you?"
"I'm Drake, the head gardener," he said briefly and dismissively, his attention on the book. "Harry shouldn't have lent this to you," he said, thumbing through the pages. "It's not ..."
"Suitable for a lady," she finished for him. "Now who's making assumptions? I can read anything I want and not be shocked by it."
He looked down at her, an arrested expression in his dark eyes. "Oh really," he said and flipped to the middle. He read, his voice deep and fluent, never stumbling over the words even when the images they described made her face flame. She wanted to sink into the cushions of the daybed and never reappear but she'd boasted that she would not be shocked. She squirmed on the seat, her body stirred by new and unsettling feelings.
He got to the end of the poem, closed the book and looked at her. "You're blushing. Perhaps you were not aware that the classical Greeks wrote poetry celebrating the love between men?"
"Harry told me what to expect," she lied. Her breasts seemed to have grown heavier, her bodice tighter. Harry had told her what the poetry was about. He hadn't told her what she'd feel when a dark-voiced stranger read it to her. The thudding of her heart and the heat in her cheeks and the private place between her thighs couldn't be blamed on the slanting, late-afternoon sunshine.
"Was it too strong for your refined aristocratic tastes?" He made a brushing gesture with his hand "Scurry off back to your nice, safe room and forget all about what you just heard." He reached up and put the book on a shelf beside several other volumes.
"I'm not shocked," she said, then added, "Well not as much shocked as I am curious. Do people, men, really do that?"
"Are you certain you want to know?" he asked.
"Yes, I want to know everything."
The way he spoke, the way he moved echoed with confidence that could only come from a thorough knowledge of himself and the world.
He laughed and suddenly he didn't seem quite so intimidating. "That's a lot of information. I don't think anyone knows everything."
"Well, I want to at least know about sex," Mary said, the glow of the afternoon and the isolation giving this whole interlude a sense of unreality. It was a moment out of time with a man she had never seen before and whom she would make certain she never saw again.
She wanted to know so much but she was too embarrassed to ask Harry and she would never ask her younger brothers or her married sisters.
He rubbed his chin. "What do you want to know? Not that I'm guaranteeing to satisfy your curiosity."
"Well." Mary thought. She really didn't know anything. She might as well ask. "How do men and women make babies together?"
"You don't even know that?" A smile flickered across his face.
"Don't you laugh at me," she said. "It's not my fault. Nobody ever tells girls anything."
"All right then." He drew a hand down over his face but he didn't make sound, so Mary let it pass.
"A man sticks his cock — his John Thomas — into a lady's private place."
Mary thought about it for a minute. "The place where we ... make water from?"
"No," he said. "The other place."
"Our bottom?" Mary squeaked in outrage. "That's ..."
"No, the other place. The hole in between."
Perplexed, she asked, "What hole?"
"God! Don't you know? Your cunt." His eyes narrowed.
"Cunt?" The way his eyes darkened when she said the word made her breath hitch. "I don't know what it is."
"How can you not know your own body?" he asked, astonishment clear in his voice. "What happens when it's your time of the month?"
His bluntness shocked her again. Women barely talked of such stuff. How could she survive discussing it with this man? "I've been told my whole life not to touch down there," she whispered. "When it is that time I put a folded rag in my ... in my drawers. That's all I know."
"Lift your skirts, stick your hand in your drawers and feel around."
The air left her lungs in a rush. "I can't do that."
"You can."
"I ..." She was about to argue but he was right. How could she claim to want to know anything about sex if she couldn't even do this?
She lifted her skirts then hesitated.
"Do it," he ordered.
Obediently, she slid her fingers into the slit in her drawers.
"Tell me what you feel."
"I j-just f-feel h-hair," she stammered.
"Push through it. Feel where the folds of skin are, follow the line."
"I can't," she muttered, pulling her hand out. "I don't know what I'm looking for and it all feels strange. This is wrong."
"It's what you wanted." He marched towards her. "Are you afraid?"
She gave a tiny shake of her head. He loomed over her, making her feel small and vulnerable. She scrambled to her feet and placed her hands on her hips defiantly, so close her breasts brushed up against his chest. Instead of backing away, he gripped her by the shoulders and pushed her backwards. She tumbled onto the daybed, skirts falling around her. Drake knelt beside her, gathering up the swathes of heavy cotton and bunching them around her waist. He pulled her drawers down then tossed them aside.
She closed her eyes tightly. What she couldn't see might be endured.
"Do you want this?" he asked.
She nodded.
"Then tell me."
"I want this."
"Want what?"
"I don't know," she snapped, suddenly defiant. "I've never done this before. How can I know what I want?"
He slapped the side of her bare hip, not hard, but enough so the tingle sizzled across her skin.
"Politely, my lady, or you'll get nothing. Do you want me to show you or not?"
"Yes." The word was little more than a sigh, but he heard her. He stroked his finger, rough-skinned and firm, down a line in her middle.
"Feel here, this is where you piss," he said. "This" — he pushed harder and she felt part of herself yield — "This is the opening to your cunt." His voice was smoky, his accent less refined, more earthy than it had been before. "You're wet. You like this."
A shiver shook her skin as he slipped his finger back and forth. She clenched her fists by her side to keep from pushing him away or grabbing him closer, she didn't know which. Then he touched a spot that made her arch her back and moan.
"Aye, that's a nice bit isn't it?" He touched her again. "That's your bean, that is. You'd like it even more if I were to ..." He stopped and stood. "Never mind. I've done what I promised. Taught you what happens. Now when I say a man's cock goes in your cunt you'll know exactly what I mean."
Shaken but fighting for control, Mary sat up. She felt empty and achy, as if he had stirred something in her that she couldn't name or understand. If he thought he'd told her all she wanted to know, he was wrong. She started this and she wasn't prepared to stop yet.
"I want to see your cock."
His mouth flattened. "You don't know what you're doing. If you want to leave here a virgin we'd better stop right now."
Refusing to be cowed by his grim expression, she got to her feet. "I've never seen a man's parts. That's all I want to do, just look," she said. "Please?"
He glared at her, but he unbuttoned his pants and shoved them down his legs. His cock lay there, thick but soft.
"That's goes in my cunt?" she asked. Without thinking she reached out and gave it a gentle squeeze. To her astonishment, it stirred and twitched in her hands. "Oh my God, it's growing!"
She pulled her hand back a little, forgetting to let go, and the thing grew even more, hardening and thickening and beginning to stretch upwards towards his flat stomach.
What had seemed small and unthreatening a moment ago now assumed the girth and rigidity of a pick handle. "Does that hurt?"
"Oh fuck yes," he replied through gritted teeth. She snatched her hand away, and took a step back.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Gardener's Sins"
by .
Copyright © 2013 Alysha Ellis.
Excerpted by permission of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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