by Lavinia Kent
“I must find my sister.” He spoke with some vehemence.
“Of course you must.” She did not understand why he felt the need to defend himself. Isabella could be little more than twenty, perhaps less. While Clara would defend to her last breath any woman’s right to make her own decisions, she would certainly not have wanted to be on her own at twenty. The world did not tend to be kind to such women.
The footman stepped forward to refill her cup, and she waved him from the room. There were some moments one did not want the servants around.
Masters picked up a piece of bacon and bit into it with some gusto. She could not resist eyeing it and then glancing up at him with a smile, her lips forming a full curve.
He almost dropped the bacon as he caught her look. “Must you always attempt seduction over breakfast?”
That brought her laugh—it rose within her, filling her chest before spilling past her lips. “I would never have believed you would actually say it.” She paused to fill her lungs. “It will spoil my fun if you admit to it. It is ever so much more delightful when you merely throw me sour looks. And…” She paused to consider. “I can’t say I’ve ever attempted seduction over breakfast before you. Seduction before breakfast, or even in lieu of breakfast, but never during.”
She leaned forward and snagged a piece of bacon from his plate with her fork. She held it up and examined it with some consideration. “It is hard to see the innate attraction of such a food. Although”—she brought it to her lips—“the flavor does make up for the appearance—and the smell.” She took a small bite off the edge and watched as his eyes darkened.
“You are doing it again.”
“Am I?” She took another nibble and closed her eyes, savoring the rich flavor. The whole thing was irresistible. Why should she not have one last bit of joy before turning over her new leaf? “If I were really trying to seduce you, I reckon we’d be sharing our breakfast in bed.”
“Do you think me so easy?” He sounded offended.
She couldn’t help laughing again. “Oh, don’t look so glum. No, I don’t think you are easy—not by any measure.” She put down the fork and turned serious. “What I do think is that you are attracted, as am I. The sensation is most uncomfortable and undesired, but it cannot be denied. I want you and you have great desire for me,” she finished.
He stared at her. Some other response would have been more effective, more advantageous, but all he could do was stare. He only hoped his mouth did not gape.
If she had been surprised by his blatant talk of her attempted seduction, he was even more shocked by the frankness of her discussion. It was not exactly taboo, but he had never known a lady to talk in such a fashion.
He dropped his eyes and stared at his rapidly cooling breakfast. Even the food spread across his plate reminded him of her. He swallowed and looked up again.
He could see the laugh hiding in her eyes. A part of him wanted her to let it out—when its joyous sound filled the room, it was impossible to resist. But resist he must.
“You presume much.” He toiled to keep his tone flat.
“Do I? I wish that it were so.” Her words were forlorn, but her eyes still danced.
“How do you presume to know what I desire?” It was increasingly hard not to give in to her.
She sighed softly. “Do you really want me to tell you how I know?” She leaned toward him again. He could not help his gaze dropping to the tantalizing hint of bosom the gesture again revealed. “Do you really want me to describe how your eyes darken when I am near, how much more pronounced your swallow becomes, how muscles go tense as if awaiting my softening touch?” She placed her hand upon his wrist. “Do you want me to describe how I feel your pulse begin to race, how even without touching I know your heart beats fast within your chest when I approach?”
He wanted to look away, but it was impossible. She was a witch, with each word she drew him further under her spell.
“Or should I talk of myself?” she continued. “Should I talk of that kiss upon the stairs we have so often ignored? Should I tell you how my lips longed for yours for days afterward, how my breasts still swell at the very thought of your touch? You accuse me of seduction over breakfast, but I still see the look of passion in your eyes whenever my maid brings the morning tray. I cannot even drink tea without thinking of you, of your lips. Is this what you want to hear?”
With each word the desire to touch her grew. Her soft fingers wrapped about his wrist and he could feel her blood speeding within them. That was the trap of her words, that she admitted her own entrapment. She offered no defense.
He turned his hand so that hers lay within his palm. He closed his fingers about it, forming a cage. Her fingers fluttered like a small bird, but did not attempt escape.
He drew her hand up to his lips, blowing between his fingers. She fluttered more.
She had spoken of his eyes darkening; her pupils had grown so large and deep they reflected the whole room within them. He could see himself within her, feel the traps that drew them both. He should release her. He should stand and go.
He blew again.
A quiver wafted through her. The lace edging on her bodice shook and then drew still, as if she no longer breathed.
Almost of its own accord, his other hand rose and drew a line along that edge of lace. She gasped in one large gulp of air.
He slipped his finger under the edge of lace, feeling the velvet of her skin. Her heart was pounding in her chest. He flattened his hand, the fingers slipping deeper. Her open desire was more alluring than anything he had ever known.
His fingers slipped around her breast, beneath it until they lay flat atop that beating heart. He wanted to still it, to soothe it, to comfort her, to take her. That last thought filled him.
To take her.
He could take her here, in her breakfast room, and she would not resist. He knew that as surely as he knew from the strong pulse of her heart that she lived.
His fingers slipped higher. He teased the delicate nipple, pinching lightly and drawing a nail across the top.
She inhaled suddenly, her whole body drawing toward him. The hand he still held within his own clenched, the nails drawing across his skin.
He teased again. She swallowed, her tongue dampening her lower lip.
His own desires were almost out of control. His pants were tight, and it was only with supreme will that he kept from pulling her into his arms and tossing up her skirts.
She could see his wants within his eyes. She watched as the hand that held hers clenched and relaxed. He was a man of restraint.
The fingers that stroked her breast moved again, and her whole body responded. She heard the gasp that passed her lips as if it were from somebody else. The hand he did not hold caught the edge of the table and squeezed it tight.
His actions were so small and her response so great.
She was ready to let him take her here, on the breakfast table.
She knew she should not. This was against everything she was determined to be. But how could she not? She might be determined to live a more sedate life, but she refused to give up joy and spontaneity.
She pressed closer, wanting more contact than those teasing fingers allowed. Her eyes dropped to his mouth and she imagined it on her breasts. His lips parted as if he read her mind.
She eased from her chair, slipping sideways so as to not break contact, and came toward him.
He made no move, but stared at her, straight into her. It felt as if he looked for her soul. The desire she saw in him was so powerful, but it was not all she saw.
She bent toward him, bringing her lips down on his, closing her eyes as she did so. She did not want to see his eyes anymore, did not want to acknowledge the expectations and beliefs she saw there.
Instead, she kissed him, softly and then more deeply. She let her tongue and lips speak all the words that she could not, dared not.
He met her kiss full-on, sought control, seized it, lost it,
seized it. She would not let him win. This was her kiss. She pressed closer, ran her tongue between lips and teeth, teased and played, lured him to her. She could not reach victory through force, only through persuasion.
His hand finally released hers as it swept down her torso, her thighs, her calves, seeking the hem of her skirt.
She pulled back, panting. “No.”
“Yes.”
She closed her eyes again, seeking to avoid the look in his. “I mean not here. I will not spread myself between the toast and eggs. And it is already a wonder the footman has not returned.”
“Where then?” His impatience was clear. He thought this some further tease. “Your room?”
She needed to find calm, to consider. “No, this is Robert’s house and that will only cause talk. We will take further refreshment in the south parlor. There is a beautiful rug I really should show you.”
She turned and tried stepping away from him. He resisted for a moment, his fingers tight about her breast, but then relented. It took only the slightest tug to right her bodice. At least her hair remained unmussed.
She walked from the room with confidence, allowing a gentle sway to her hips. The belief that a man would follow was the surest way to make him do so.
She suppressed the desire to turn and give him that one lingering look that assured he knew the sparks between them still burned hot. It was time he learned how powerful anticipation was.
It took but a moment to ask for refreshment. Another to walk the hall, slowly but not too much so, and enter the parlor. She didn’t use the room often. Heavy shrubbery blocked the windows and did not allow for much light. She’d always had a preference for sunlight.
A roaring fire had already been set. She had not been sure it would be, given how infrequently the room was used, but someone must have thought it in need of a drying after the heavy rains of the last days. She hummed in pleasure at the warmth.
Turning, she watched as he stalked into the room after her. There was always the possibility that interrupting pleasure would give too much time for thought and sense. His stance spoke clearly that such worries were groundless.
She granted him one smile as she sat near the fire, spreading her skirts about her. “The maid will be here momentarily. Perhaps you’d like to come and examine the rug? My late husband found it during his travels. I’ve always found it much softer than it looks. Come tell me what you think.”
He did not like taking direction. He wanted control no matter how trivial the consequence. If he had stalked before, he stomped now.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that.” She felt like laughing. It was all so delicious—his scowl, the warm fire, the pleasure that was to come. Anticipation. It was almost too much.
She let her eyes feast on him. He stood before her so proud and strong, his dark eyes flashing. She’d never realized quite how strong he was before, but now she could see the width of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips.
He turned and looked at her, still scowling. “I don’t understand why you called for the maid now. Surely it would have been—”
“Better to be interrupted in fifteen minutes when she knocked to see if we required anything? My staff is well trained and would not enter a closed room, but even the fact that the door is closed will cause comment. They are used to my habits. Once I have a warm drink I can linger for hours. They will assume that we merely sit and talk and will leave us undisturbed.”
“You are well experienced in these matters.”
It should not have cut deeply, but it did. She wanted to flash a sarcastic smile and stride from the room, the perfect retort on her lips. But there were better ways to punish him. “And are you not? Experienced, that is?”
“I have the normal experience of a man.”
“A phrase that says much and little at the same time. Would you like to hear of my experiences? Since the day we met you have mentioned them frequently. Is it curiosity or voyeurism? Do you have your own particular fancies? You have already tied me to a bed.” She pouted her lips as she spoke, letting her eyes roam free again. She began with his boots, such polished fine boots embracing his muscled calves. Then her glance moved up along lean thighs and thin hips. She paused there for a moment—he was still aroused—but only for a moment; subtlety was to be desired. A glance accomplished so much more than a stare—she peeked back—yes, her goal was definitely growing.
He stepped impatiently to the side, trying to shift her attention. She would not be moved. She enjoyed letting her gaze move up a button at a time. “Your coat is beautiful. It is so well fitted, there are clearly no pads.”
“Of course not.” The poor man was distinctly disgruntled.
She pushed out of the chair with a full laugh, glancing at the door before laying the lightest of kisses across his firm lips. “Shh, be patient. It can only be a few minutes longer. Perhaps we will be lucky and Cook will add scones and jam. It is much too soon after breakfast, but one never knows. There are so many wonderful things one can do with jam.”
She could not contain the giggle that bubbled from her lips.
Damn that laugh. He wanted to leave. He knew he should leave. He had no place here, but how could he leave when that magic sound filled the room, that sound that spoke of a joy in living so deep as to be endless? It filled him, sneaking into tiny crevices he had not known were there.
Passion might be suppressible, that laugh was not.
He’d felt stripped when she examined him. He stood there fully clothed in jacket and cravat, and she made him feel naked as a newborn babe.
He was a man, not a boy to be toyed with. How did he let her weave this web of desire—desire and joy? He tapped his toe into the deep plush of the carpet she had so admired.
Damn her. He caught her glance and smirk—her gaze had finally moved to his face—and held it. He let her see the power of his passion, but also his dislike of that power. He might be its prisoner, but not a willing one.
And even prisoners could fight back. He stepped toward her until the distance separating them was barely proper. He ran a finger across her cheek and down along her chin line. His thumb brushed upon her lips.
She was caught unawares by his movement—still thinking herself the general controlling the action. He ran his thumb across her lips again, feeling the warm breath within. His eyes never left hers. They shone like warm melted honey now.
Listening for the sound of steps, he stole his own sweet kiss—his longer and more demanding than hers had been. It was always important to show your foe that you would go one step farther.
Finally, he heard the maid. He stepped back, but only by a few inches. He lifted one of her hands in his and stroked his thumb across her palm as the maid settled the heavy tray.
“What a beautiful chocolate set.” He drew a little circle along her wrist. “And what delicate scones, and the color of that jam. It must be raspberry. I do love a good raspberry jam. I can eat it on most anything.”
He waited until the maid’s back was turned and then dipped the tip of a finger in the jam. He brought it to his lips, tasting it first with his tongue and then bringing it into his mouth with great suggestion.
He had no time for subtlety.
Her eyes followed the movement of his fingers as he sought to remove every last morsel of the sweet jam. He dipped it again and brought it to her lips. “It’s nice and tart.”
She resisted for a second, and then gave in, allowing his finger access. He smeared a good quantity on her lips before letting his finger be sucked inside. She gave as good as she was given. Her mouth worked his finger hard, and other, lower parts of his body responded in turn.
It was impossible to tell who was winning.
She stood and stepped away, releasing his finger, and walked to the door. She pushed it shut the remaining inches, and after some slight consideration turned the key within the lock. “Raising suspicion is better than actually being caught.”
He turned and settled into the
chair, legs splayed. He allowed his head to fall back as he appraised her.
Clara watched him settle; he gave every appearance of comfort, but she knew better. She could feel the tension in his thighs, knew how hard his muscles would be beneath her fingers. Her hands clenched in anticipation.
She met his gaze head on. He was trying her trick, letting his eyes speak his thoughts, his desires.
She stepped toward him. This next part required planning. If she’d known how the morning would play out she would have worn a different dress, one that did not require help with the laces. She worried at her lip, considering—but never releasing his gaze.
Then she let the wide seductive smile spread across her face. She didn’t walk toward him, she sauntered, hips swaying and drawing his gaze lower. When she reached him, she turned gracefully and sank to her knees before him, head tilted forward, gracing him with the full curve of her back.
It should have been the ultimate gesture of submission, the kneeling slave girl before the master, but she knew it was a gesture of strength, of confidence. She was so assured of her own power that the outward manifestation of submission did not matter.
His fingers tickled the back of her neck, then clasped it. Her vulnerability was clear as his fingers wrapped completely around. She relaxed her shoulders and bowed her head further, uncowed. His fingers tightened for a moment and then relaxed, trailing down her back to the top of her dress, toying with the knot that held the laces tight.
Her dress fell loose almost before she felt the first pull of the knot. His lips brushed along the trail his fingers had left. With unerring skill he found that exact, small spot on her nape—the spot that had always been her favorite.
She could not suppress a gasp as he nipped, then laved the small injury, leaving his mark. She shivered as his hands slipped between her dress and chemise, moving forward to cup her breasts. His fingers swept beneath her nipples without touching them.