The first step and the wood snapped under his weight. He slipped, regained his footing. He tried again and got three rungs up before the trellis broke under him. This was all rather dramatic; he hadn’t had to climb the outside of a house since he was nineteen. Doors were left open or women met him where he had comfortable rooms organized. But then again this was the woman he would marry.
Ilya glanced back at the oak tree, his boots would have to come off or they’d slip on the bark. The trellis was not going to be sturdy enough.
He walked over to the oak, tracked a path that would take him to her window with not too much challenge. Removed his shoes and coat setting them down on a small white garden bench. A misspent youth stood itself in good stead as he shortly found himself on the branch less than an arm’s length from her window.
Some of the dramatic impact of sneaking in was greatly hampered as he was left with no other option than to knock on the glass or break it. Ilya reached over and gave the glass three solid taps.
The curtains opened. Her face showed delicious shock at him perched barefoot on the branch leaning over to the window.
‘Open up,’ he mouthed.
Seraphina folded her arms.
Oh, she was going to be in trouble.
“Open the window,” he growled knowing she would hear him.
His little bird smirked and pulled the sash window up.
“Why should I let you in?” She hushed at him.
“Seraphina, you are in big trouble.” He warned as he reached out, held the window above and stepped onto the sill and then eased himself in the room to the delicious sound of female giggles.
“Really Ilya. You know you can’t stay.”
That’s as far as she got before he dragged her against him and pressed his lips to hers. She folded into him, arms wrapping around him making the tightness in his chest lift.
“You tortured me tonight,” He growled against her lips, “flaunted yourself in front of me with another man.” He bit her neck. “A very dangerous thing to do.”
Ilya drew her closer against him. Corset gone there was nothing but layers of silk between his palms and her hot delicious skin.
“Little bird,” his mouth devoured her, neck, ears, brows, hair. She responded with hot open-mouthed kisses of her own, on his neck, his chin, his lips, as hands with tiny nails pressed into his arms giving punishments of her own.
“Ilya…,” the sound of his name on her lips sent scorching heat through him, his hands tighten, pulled her closer.
“You play a dangerous game, little bird.” Sharp teeth sank into his shoulder and he dropped his head back savoring her attack.
“How so?” She nipped and kissed, scratched through his shirt.
“You wore the dress.” His hand slid down over her hip, her thigh, forward into the apex between her legs and cupped her.
“Mmmm.”
His fingers pulled up the fabric of her night gown until he touched the soft curls of her sex.
“You wore the dress and flirted outrageously with St Alban.”
“He is my fiancé.” She murmured rocking her sex against fingers that sought out her heat. He pressed in, one finger, two.
He bit her neck. “Cruel little bird. I have read the papers.” His fingers curled, rubbed that spot on the inside and she crooned.
“I didn’t think you read,” she panted.
He growled in her ear. He knew how to play. His fingers withdrew, and he got a delicious growl back. He pinched her nub. She made that sound against his mouth, that sound as if she were in pain, and suffering with her need to have him. A sound that was a balm to the tightness that had curled black in his chest all night.
He ripped whatever that gorgeous material was that covered her. Ripped it until it fell away, kissing her so she sobbed against his mouth, sobbed against his neck as he dragged his vest off, his shirt. Her hands frantically pushed down his trousers and he picked her up and threw her on the bed. She bounced and then he was there on top of her, her legs wrapping around him and her sex thrusting up, rubbing against his arousal, his trousers.
Ilya struggled out of the last vestiges of clothing and looked down at her. The sight made his heart trip. Her golden hair splayed across all the pillows, her breath was coming hard, her eyes glazed, her breasts, god help him, those perfect breasts rising and falling as she struggled for air. Her arm reached for him. “Ilya…set me free.”
Oh, he intended to. But not until they had sorted out the anger, the pain between them.
He reached for her legs and pulled her to him, pressed them back against her chest as he pushed himself into the hot, wet, heat of her; told her in every language he knew, how she felt around him.
His hand fisted in her hair and he drew her up to his lips and kissed her as their hips met in a frantic pounding of need. Claimed her at long last without any impediment. Every silken inch of her as he slid in and out made his head light, his body tighten as the pleasure built. Giving and taking with all the want he’d stored for months, months that felt like centuries.
Her fingers curled into his skin. Her thighs tightening across his hips. “Ilya…” She was close “Ilya …let me fly.”
“Tell me little bird. Tell me you love me.”
Her hips tried to take over the pace and he drew out. The tip just there, tantalizing her entrance as his heart hammered, his nerves stretched but he needed her to say it more than anything in his life.
“Tell me…please, Seraphina.”
She sobbed, shook her head, the pain still sitting in her eyes. Determined he gave her the next climb up. He thrust, thrust deep and hard, lifted her head and took her lips, pressed his tongue deep into her mouth so she sucked it and rode him like he was all she could taste and feel. And then he slowed, slowed and lowered her head back down.
Her claws scratched down his arms and her hips tightened their hold not letting him leave. He ground against her, ground and stilled, ground and stilled, until she was crooning and undulating under him.
“Tell me little bird. Tell me,” he murmured. “Tell me how much you missed me; how much you love me. How much you need me. Because I nearly died with longing for you.”
She shook her head no. Her eyes stubborn in her determination.
There was sweat on them both. They were both strung tight, balanced on the edge. Backing away and building, backing away and building, each time breaking her down, breaking down the pain that he’d put there, breaking down the barriers she’d built in return. Pushed them both until it all broke and there was only them. Skin to skin, breath to breath, him deep inside her and her welcoming him into the very core of her where he belonged.
And just like that, he went too far, went too far and she spilled over. A shout, a cry and she went taunt, her core contracted around him. Nothing in the world had prepared him for the way her body clasped around him, as she milked him as she came. Squeezed and pulsed and there was no physical way he could pull out, he shot his pleasure into her as his head spun and the world went blank and there was nothing but the explosion of blissful sensation through his body, the pulse, the throbbing of her around him.
Ilya slipped his arms around her as she clutched him back. Rolled to the side pulling her close as his head spun. Her sobs against his chest said everything he felt. Everything raw, everything broken open. He held her tight, crooned every nonsense a man ever told a woman he loved and meant it. Crooned and kissed her hair, her head her lips as she pressed against him as if he were life itself.
“I love you.” She murmured and he clutched her closer. “I love you. I love you.”
The satisfaction, the pleasure it was in the way she clasped him, in the holding of her. In knowing they had made it to the other side. That he had her and she had him.
“I love you too, little bird.” Then against all the rules of seduction and rakedom he fell asleep.
Chapter 27
The door to Seph’s bedroom opened waking her up. The light streamed through the b
edroom window and the sound of birds playing in the tree outside floated into the room.
Her eyes opened and she saw Ilya walk through the door, the morning papers under his arm chomping a piece of toast. Warmth washed through her at the sight of him until reality hit.
“Ilya! The servants know you’re here?” She leaped out of bed. “You have to leave.” She reached out and pulled on her wrap. Ran her hand through her hair which cascaded down her back. “What time is it? Aren’t you supposed to leave before people wake?”
He was totally non plussed as he set down the papers.
“I think it’s too late. I made sure to introduce myself to the household and have arranged for more breakfast.”
“Are you out of your mind!” She started to pace. This was disastrous. “The news will be in tomorrow’s paper if not the next edition today!”
“Scandalous,” he drawled, totally unperturbed. “Forcing a man of Russian nobility to marry you like this. Clearly a harpy.”
“I am not forcing you to marry me. If you leave now, we might weather it?”
“You think so?” He crunched on more toast. “I had a cigarette on the porch earlier, spoke to your neighbor. Lord Winfield? Seems like a nice chap. I said he can come for a ride in my car later.”
“Your car?” Her heart was beating so fast she had to sit down.
“I parked it under the portico last night. I was sure you wouldn’t mind.”
“For everyone to see? All night?” Her voice had ridden to a high screech.
She shook her head no, face pale, hand shaking. There was no avoiding the scandal.
“Perhaps you would like to see the morning papers?” he suggested. “Start with Snowden’s column.”
Seph stood and snatched up the paper and flipped through the pages. She stilled when she got to the column.
“Read it out loud,” he said looking pleased with himself.
“‘Wedding bells for the elusive widow and her rogue of a Russian prince.’”
Ilya watched, chest tight. Her eyes welled; he was suddenly nervous. If he’d overstepped the mark he didn’t care. She’d loved him in December. She loved him last night. He’d made himself into a man worthy of her and would every day onward.
Seph slapped him with the paper.
“Little bird?” He stilled. Put down the toast, reached for her and drew her close. “What’s wrong?” He murmured into her hair. “Did I misunderstand?”
“You didn’t ask me.” She mumbled into his neck as her arms went around him.
Ilya lowered himself into the chair and folded a grumpy warm woman onto his lap holding her close.
“I haven’t asked you?” He kissed her cheek. “Is that what you think?”
She nodded, a wonderful scowl on her face.
“I have asked you with every kiss, with every touch. I have asked you with every longing look. With every afternoon spent talking and laughing together. And you, little bird, have said yes, every single time.”
He kissed her lips. Soft and full of all the love and affection he felt, from the first time he’d heard her voice and knew no one else would every do. A lone tear rolled down her cheek and he kissed it away.
“You will come and meet my mother! She is ferocious. But first we will go buy you a ring. I want you to be wearing it before we have dinner with Tatiana, Demetri and Georgie.” He looked down at her. “Unless you have misled me in your affections.”
“I would have liked to have been asked.” He made a big show of getting up and settling her back on the chair and getting down on one knee.
“If I have to do it all myself.” He grumbled but gave her a smile. He withdrew a beautiful diamond ring from his waistcoat. “Just in case you were going to be difficult.”
Her cheeks flushed.
And all of a sudden, nerves rioted through him, heart pounding Ilya held the ring out to her between clasped fingers. “Seraphina.” He swallowed. “Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?” His throat was suddenly constricted, and it was hard to breathe as he waited for the most important answer of his life. If she said no, he would simply try harder. Try until he won the right to her heart.
“So, once I am in the family, I will be your sole ‘family business.’”
“Absolutely,” he promised.
“Your thigh warmers are a thing of the past.”
“Already far gone.”
She made him wait but the constriction had already eased. It was in her eyes. They shone with a love he didn’t deserve and would be grateful for every day for the rest of his life.
She grinned. “Yes, Prince Vladimir Ilya Petroski, I will marry you.”
Ilya slipped the ring on her finger, drawing her to her feet and to the bed. Then showed her just what an attentive husband he was going to be.
THE END
About Elsa Holland
Elsa Holland writes lush, sensual stories set in Victorian England. They skirt the edge of Gothic eroticism and dark romanticism giving them a rich, moody feel (which has nothing to do with the bowl of chocolates at the side of her keyboard or the pictures she chooses for her desktop).
Her heroines walk fearlessly through the dark and her heroes are exactly the kind of men you want to find there.
Elsa lives with her Viking-stock husband and her follow-you-everywhere dog, in semi-tropical Queensland, Australia.
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At the Mistletoe Masquerade
by Dayna Quince
Chapter 1
December, 1811
“Cassie,” a male voice whispered playfully. A hand darted out in her periphery from the curtained doorway and pinched her arm.
Cassie swatted at the retreating hand and then rubbed her abused arm.
Brothers, what good were they? She wasn’t supposed to be in the smoking room. It was the lair of men, her father would say. But she was provoked. Tristan had thrown the gauntlet and now hid where she could not reach him. She’d been standing beside the entry, woefully left out of the fun—as usual. And Tristan had known it. He’d winked at her as he and Lord Reardon entered—Sidney, her heart reminded her with pleasant palpations. But she dared not say his name aloud, even if she’d known him for close to six years now. She couldn’t hide the breathlessness and excitement in her voice when she said his name, even in the dark, alone with her dolls and pillows.
Cassie folded her arms and cast her gaze over the drawing room. Her mother had insisted on the heavy velvet curtain to contain the smoke.
“The door lets it out in billows,” her mother would complain.
But her father, the Earl of Summers, was not in there. He and Lord Farthingway were in deep discussion near the hearth. Cassie scanned the faces in the room. Not a single eye moved in her direction. Holding her breath, she slipped past the curtain and into the smoking room. A haze had settled about the area. A soft baritone murmur clung to it, masking the speakers.
Cassie softly coughed. Who enjoyed breathing all this muck? She waved the miasma in front of her face, searching for her brother, her errant heart pounding, knowing that beside him she would find Sidney. Stoic and arrogantly amused, his sun burnished brown curls perfect and smooth, his jaw roguishly stubbled by sunset every day even though he shaved every morning. She knew this, because she knew everything she could possibly know about Sidney Anthem, Viscount Reardon, an elegant rogue who could charm the thorns off a rose. Yet, he found Cassie’s obnoxious brother tolerable. Cassie reached the French doors on the far side and threw them open. The smoke dissipated as crisp air wafted in through the doors and ventilated the room. There her brother and Sidney sat, her brother smirking, Sidney having not even lowered his paper.
“I told you she’d come.”
Sidney bent a corner of the paper down to look at her.
Cassie froze, suspended in aching anticipation as his gaze skimmed her figure and then met her stare.
“Lady Cassandra,” he greeted without an ounce of emotion. “That blue is very becoming on you.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“We should stand, but we won’t,” Tristan teased in a loud whisper to Sidney. “It is only Cassie, and she isn’t supposed to be here.”
Sidney only shook his head.
“You needn’t bother,” Cassie returned, glaring at her brother. “And thank you for the compliment, my lord. I’ve always favored Navy blue.”
She looked back to him, but his paper now covered his face as he resumed reading.
She stumbled over her thoughts. Scattered and dull as they were. She never knew what to say to him now that she was so painfully aware of her own infatuation, and the lack of his. She was nineteen, officially out in society after a successful come out, and yet he made her feel like a girl of six and ten.
She had to prove her womanly worth—no, those weren’t the right words. She knew her womanly worth, as did he. He’d put her on an impossibly high pedestal. Forbidden fruit too high to pluck.
She wanted to be plucked by him.
And only him.
But he saw her only as Tristan’s little sister.
She needed to alter that perception, and the only opportunity to do so would be to trick him. At least, partly. She wasn’t so evil as to trap a man in marriage. She could never. All she wanted was a kiss. One chance to prove that the smoldering desire she felt, the tension that infused her body whenever he was near, could become so much greater if shared between them.
She wanted him to see her at last, and how could a kiss not awaken him to the truth?
Was it a gamble? Certainly. His feelings toward her may never change. But she would never know unless she took a chance. Just one kiss, to show him all the fire she had inside her.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Scandal: a Christmas collection of Historical Romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 1) Page 96