MB Saucy Side: Illicit Liaison (Regency AU, Ferro/Female MC) (Patreon)

Your entire life, you were raised under strict parental oversight and with the constant reminder that you were not an individual but a Wiseman, and thus must act accordingly. A family was only as good as their reputation, and your family’s reputation was worth more than your dowry.

A young lady of noble breeding did not introduce herself to strangers; she waited to be introduced. She did not chew with her mouth open but rather, if she must eat in the company of others, took dainty, birdlike bites hidden behind a napkin. A young lady did not raise her voice, did not argue politics, and she certainly did not climb out her bedroom window to cavort with an untitled American poet.

But there you were, your skirts lifted to your waist to avoid tangling, attempting to clamber down the oak tree that you’d stared at longingly for years from the other side of your glass window yet never before dared use to escape. Taliaferro Parker did something to your sensibility; he made you forget everything that a young lady should do, and instead filled you with an irrational conviction about what you must do. Which was to be with him, in any way possible.

Even if it involved climbing down a tree, societal approval and parental permission be damned.

“That’s quite the view,” a soft voice calls from the garden below.

You glance down to see Ferro, his amused smirk visible in the moonlight.

“Quit that,” you inform him tartly. “It’s ill-mannered for a gentleman to stare.”

“Didn’t your mother inform you?” he drawled in that smooth-as-honey accent that made you shiver in a way that had nothing to do with the cold night’s air. “I’m no gentleman. As a writer, however, may I just say that I find your posterior to be positively inspiring.”

You gasp aloud, in equal parts from shock and pleasure. No one has ever spoken to you so boldly before, and yet . . . well, you quite like the way his audacity makes you feel. Ferro’s stare is a heated, heady pleasure that makes you feel as if, instead of being a mild-mannered wallflower, you’ve blossomed into a muse worthy of admiration and verse. It was the poems he wrote for you which convinced you to meet Ferro tonight, an impulse you’re beginning to regret despite your delight in his presence.

Climbing a tree seemed so simple, in theory.

Your head tilts to the side as you examine the pathway down to the ground. You’re not entirely sure that the lowest branch would be able to bear your weight, and you’re still high enough that an accidental tumble would likely leave you bruised or, worse, be loud enough to wake your parents. You eye Ferro speculatively. His arms seem strong, despite his scholar’s build.

“I’m coming down,” you announce.

He chuckles softly. “So I see, darling. With great appreciation.”

“You misunderstand,” you say. “I’m coming down now.”

You let go of the window’s ledge. The decision to fall without ordering Ferro to catch you is, in retrospect as gravity takes over and panic floods your mind, a poor one. In your defense, you’d been intoxicated by the thrill of this rendezvous. It wasn’t a choice you’d ever make sober.

Luckily, Ferro moves quickly enough to catch you in his arms, albeit with less grace than you envisioned. His arms wrap tightly around you, protective and warm, but the force of your impact sends both of you sprawling onto the damp grass.

Neither of you speak, ears intent for any sign that your fall has woken those within the house. The only noise is that of your mingling breaths—at first heavy from the adrenaline of your tumble, and then from shared awareness over the intimacy of your proximity.

“I have a hack waiting just beyond the garden gate,” Ferro whispers. His eyes are locked on your lips, which you part in quiet invitation.

He doesn’t take it. Instead, his head falls to rest upon your shoulder. You try to stifle disappointment over the lack of kiss, but fail to school your expression appropriately. The moonlight reveals your expression, and Ferro smiles. You’ve catalogued a thousand of his smiles, some teasing, some polite, and some enamored, but this smile is new: smirking and cocky to the point of arrogance. In one of your other suiters, the look would repulse you, but it suits Ferro.

“Not here, firefly,” he says. “Soon, but not here.”

He stands and offers you his hand. You hesitate a moment out of habit; neither of you are wearing gloves. Then, upon realizing that you’re poised to commit a much greater faux paus, you accept his assistance in standing up. His hand is warm and dry, tightening when you attempt to pull away.

“I adore your hands,” Ferro says. His thumb caresses the backs of your knuckles in smooth, repetitive strokes. “With anyone else, I’d make an innuendo about what they could do to me, but with you . . .” He lifts your hand and brushes a chaste kiss against its back; were it not for the lack of gloves, the action wouldn’t be out of place in a ballroom.

“I adore your hands,” he repeats sincerely. “I adore you.”

Your breath catches. Until now, no declarations of love have passed between you two. You’d assumed that Ferro was only looking for a dalliance; he’s a poet, after all, and everyone in your social circle told you that poets never settled down. Yet Ferro’s never acted the philanderer, nor expressed interest for anyone but you. Does he truly want more? Within your chest, smothered hope reignites.

The confidence on Ferro’s face falters at your prolonged silence, and his demeanor turns cool. He releases your hand, and it drops to your side before you can register that something has gone wrong.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Ferro says softly. “I overstepped.”

With that puzzling declaration, he turns his back on you and begins heading for the garden’s gate.

“Wait!” Your shout rushes out in complete disregard of your desire to not get caught. Discretion be damned, you will not let him walk away.

Ferro stiffens as you wrap your arms around his middle, clinging lest he again attempt to escape.

“I adore you, too,” you inform him, your voice muffled by the back of his jacket. “To the moon, to the stars. I want—”

Your final sentence is captured by his lips. Ferro Parker kisses you, and nothing else matters: not status, not society, and certainly not something as shallow as propriety. There’s only the two of you, fists gripping clothing and lips dragging over exposed skin. Ferro is passion and joy and freedom, everything which your sheltered life was missing before. He’s what has been missing, and you’ll never let him go.

Ferro clearly feels the same way. His fingers thread through your hair, and his mouth greedily consumes yours. Gone is the carefree, laughing artist with the lopsided smile; in his place is a conqueror staking his claim over both your body and soul. You mark Ferro as yours in return, grabbing his cravat and yanking him nearer to better taste his lips.

He tastes like salt and oranges.

A candle illuminates a nearby window, and reality shines down; it’s only a matter of time before someone comes out to the garden searching for intruders. Ferro’s lips break away from yours, but he doesn’t release you. There’s a silent question in his eyes, which you answer with a resolute nod.

Ferro’s smile is so joyously wide that you can’t help but let out a small laugh. How wonderful, to be able to bring him this much delight.

“Let’s go,” he says, and takes your hand once more.