by Lavinia Kent
Oh, she wanted his touch. She was glad he could not see her face. She feared her expression was close to begging.
She pressed back against him. The one aspect of her position she had not considered was her inability to touch him. She edged farther back and tried to think as his fingers began to softly knead, working their way toward the tender peaks.
Control. That was the key. She schooled her features carefully, wiping her face clean of all entreaty. She bit her lips, causing the blood to rush to them, and then let her head fall back, pillowing it in his lap.
She knew her eyes were dark with desire, but his were darker. He was not unmoved by her actions. She rubbed her head back and forth against him, feeling his shaft swell. No, not unmoved at all.
His fingers gripped tighter, his needs more urgent. She rubbed again. Licking her lips with great intent, she turned her head to the side, letting the heat of her breath sink through his trousers. His hands still played, but his eyes were locked on her lips.
She pursed her lips and blew, feeling his body spasm. As he fought for his own control, she turned within his arms, bringing her face full against him.
It was amazing how one move could shift the balance.
She blew again as his now empty hands tangled in her hair. They pulled her back and then pushed her forward. She slipped her hands up his legs, running a finger inside the top of his boots before moving up over his knees and along his thighs. His fingers now gripped her head tight, holding her still.
But her hands still moved. Up and up, her fingers sweeping wide as they approached the crucial territory. She stopped, her fingers framing him. She pushed up, freeing her head from his grasp, bringing her face even with his. He groaned at the sudden pressure of her weight and then groaned again as her lips crushed against his.
This kiss bore no relation to their others. This was all hot fire, need and demand. Tongues dueled and tangled. Lips pushed and pressed. Teeth, oh yes, there were teeth.
She had never been kissed like this before—kissed as if the room could burn around them and still the kiss would go on. Her fingers worked quickly at the fastening of his trousers as his arms swept around her, supporting her.
Then she held him, hot, firm velvet. His hands moved lower, clasping her buttocks and lifting her until she was seated across his knees. God, the man was strong.
And still the kiss went on, mindless, endless—earth shattering. She’d always thought the expression melodramatic, but this was—there weren’t even words.
She felt her skirts lifted, his fingers now tracing the tender skin of her inner thighs, his thumbs caressing the soft, moist flesh where leg and torso met, sweeping ever closer to her cleft.
She wrapped her fingers tight around his erection, moving along the hot skin in rhythm to his fingers. They moved closer, positioned themselves. His fingers pressed her soft flesh, opening her to him. She shifted, his tip rubbing hard against her, sending a thousand spears of passion up her torso.
She pushed her body down, unable to withstand it any longer. He was in her, filling her, completing her.
She pressed her legs tight against him, giving herself leverage as they began to move. Her head fell back, breaking the kiss. His lips moved to her neck, sucking, marking.
She rode hard, seeking, searching for that final ending. The fires grew. The tension became unbearable. She ground down hard, needing more, helpless as she sought release.
He jerked against her hard, bringing their upper torsos into full contact. This was the moment.
She heard his cry and let herself go, the whole world a kaleidoscope of bright color.
It was over. The thought grew in his mind as she burrowed against him. His body felt limp and spent, as if it might never move again.
He shook his head, trying to draw the blood back to his brain. It was over. He had done what he shouldn’t have and would not regret it.
Only he did regret it. Sitting in the south parlor, not even undressed, with a wilted woman in his lap, was not where he wanted to be. He did not want to face the things that must be said and done.
She was not a thief, but that did not mean she could ever be for him. The rumors of her past were still real.
He closed his eyes to resist looking at her. Even now she was nothing but temptation, the representation of all he denied himself in life. She stirred, purring against his shirt.
He was still in his jacket, his waistcoat, even his boots. Such behavior was not he, was not proper or respectful.
She moved again, her face rubbing against him. She tensed. Awareness was returning to her as well. He felt her lift, separating them. She slid her feet to the floor and stood. Her skirts brushed against him as she turned.
“Please do up my laces.” It was softly said.
He opened his eyes and stared at her smooth back. She was more clearly muscled than the women of his acquaintance. There were red indents just above her corset. It must have shifted during their—
He didn’t know what to call it. They had not made love. Of that he was sure. But…sex. Sex seemed such a paltry word for what had happened between them. Fuck. The word should have fit but it did not.
Passion. That was what had been between them.
He swallowed hard as he thought the word. Passion.
To distract himself, he picked up her laces and began to tighten them. He used great care, prolonging the moment when she would turn and he must face her.
He’d once spent a drunken night with a prostitute. He’d felt less dread awakening on her dirty sheets than he did now. At least on that occasion he’d had drink to blame. He had never drunk so much again.
He could not blame the bottle now.
The forces that overcame him had been a power in their own right. Passion. There was that word again. He had been overcome with passion more surely than a growing lad noticing the dairymaid for the first time.
He pulled the knot tight. He saw her square her shoulders, felt the slight jiggle that told him she fixed her bodice. Still she did not turn.
He counted ten full breaths before she moved.
Even then she did not turn. She walked to the door, turning the key and easing it open a few inches.
He feared she would leave. He did not want to face her, but how much worse would it be if she left without a word?
He counted another fifteen breaths as she stood at the door with her back to him.
Then, finally, she turned. Her face was flat, curiously devoid of emotion. “So, you leave this afternoon? That is what Robert said this morning before you arrived. He said you were desirous of returning to your quest to find Isabella.”
“Yes, I am leaving. I have one task I need to complete and then I will be gone.” He had worried for nothing. There was nothing else to say—and only one more thing to do—one task, and he could leave with his conscience at ease.
“You did what?” Clara could not believe what she had heard. From the moment Mr. Green had entered, his head hung low and looking distinctly greenish about the gills, there had been a strange quality of unreality about the whole morning.
Her head was pounding after a sleepless night. Dreams of Masters had filled her head. It was hard to believe that he had left only yesterday—it felt like a lifetime since their encounter.
She lifted her head from her hands and stared straight at Mr. Green, awaiting his answer. Was it possible it could all be so simple?
“I dosed your ale with laudanum.” Mr. Green looked only at his boots. There was a large smear of mud—at least she hoped it was mud—across one toe, but it did not seem worthy of such intense scrutiny. His hands shook and he wrapped his fingers tight together.
“I still cannot believe I am hearing you correctly. Why ever would you do such a thing?” She stood and paced across the room, trying to make sense of his words. She should have been more upset, but her mind could not yet comprehend all the pieces.
“I hadn’t planned on it. I’d picked up the bottle earlier in the d
ay. My mother has been having megrims and the apothecary had offered to make her up a potion.” Mr. Green continued to stare at his boots, but began to wring his trembling hands. His nervousness was palpable.
“I still don’t see—”
“Please let me finish. I promised I’d tell you immediately and I must keep my promise or—” He stopped there for a moment, letting the words hang. It was impossible to miss the fear in his face as he spoke the soft words. He raised his eyes to her for the first time and continued, “It was when you turned me down and then I saw you at The Dog and Ferret. I hadn’t planned it before. It just seemed like fate was finally smiling on me. I’d heard that if you got a woman relaxed she might be more amenable. I didn’t know how much to give you, though. I only wanted to make you a little friendlier. My brother said you should give a woman whiskey, but I knew you’d taste the whiskey. This didn’t seem that different.”
She was going to be ill. She wasn’t sure which was worse, wondering what had happened that night or this. No, that was not true. She would much rather know.
She sank into her chair. It was too much to take. “Why do you tell me this now?”
Mr. Green looked even more nervous. He pulled his hands apart and clenched them into fists so tight she thought the knuckles would pop through the skin. “Mr. Masters told me I had to.”
“Mr. Masters?” How had he known?
“Yes, he came to see me yesterday, just before leaving for London. He told me that if I didn’t tell you, he’d write and tell Lord Westington. He’d lock me up if he found out.” Mr. Green’s glance dropped again as he spoke, and he turned his face away. For the first time she noticed the faint outline of a bruise along his jaw—a bruise that bore a remarkable resemblance to a man’s hand.
“Mr. Masters simply told you to?”
Mr. Green answered, “Yes,” but there was clear hesitation in the word. The meeting between the men had not been as simple as Mr. Green depicted.
Clara turned and walked to the window, staring out across the fields. Norfolk had always been so safe. It still did not seem possible that this had happened.
She chose her words with care. “I think it might be best if Lord Westington were told. I would not want to think that this might happen to another woman—one who did not have my luck.”
“Oh please, my lady.” He was crying, large droplets streaming down his face to land on his muddy boots. “I would never do it again. I truly hadn’t understood what I was doing. Now that I understand I would never do it again.”
Clara squeezed her eyes shut. A dull throbbing was beginning in her temples. She should tell Robert, regardless of how pitiful Mr. Green might now be. She wasn’t exactly sure what the crime was, but surely there was one.
She turned back to Mr. Green and froze him with an icy glare. “I will not tell Lord Westington at present, but I do not promise for the future. I may change my mind at any time. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Mr. Green gulped out. He stared back down at his boots.
“You may go now.” She put on her haughtiest countess voice. “And be sure that I do not catch sight of you for some time.”
“That won’t be a problem, my lady. Mr. Masters advised that if you did not choose to prosecute I should consider a term abroad. He mentioned that I might care to join a regiment in—in India. He promised to help with the arrangements.” More tears joined the first, but Clara could not find herself moved.
She would never forget the violation of not remembering her own actions.
She nodded, and then turned away from Mr. Green. He began to leave without another word.
“One last question.” Her words stopped him in his tracks. “How did Masters know what you had done?”
Mr. Green shrugged without looking up. “I don’t know. I imagine he must have seen me. He didn’t know what I’d used, but he seemed confident in what I had done. May I go now?”
“Please.” Clara leaned back in her chair, unsure what she was feeling.
Masters had not seen Mr. Green pour the draught in her ale. Of that she was sure. He would have said something if he had.
Somehow he had puzzled it out and then confronted Mr. Green with his suspicions.
Masters should have talked to her first. He was once again making decisions for others.
Still, she sat up and stared toward the window. It was nice to have someone who cared—and beyond that, someone who tried to protect her. Michael had always been the one who needed caring for. He had wanted to play and have good times. When it came to actual responsibility, he had always turned to her. She had run his estates then, as she did now for Robert.
With Masters it was different.
Sinking into her chair before the fire, she considered. He could only have visited with Mr. Green after their own encounter in the south parlor. He might not have said anything much when she left the room, but perhaps he was letting his actions speak for him.
He had taken action to protect her. First, physical action—if that cheek was anything to judge by—and then he’d formed a plan to move Mr. Green far from her world.
Now she owed him. She owed Masters far more than she cared to. She’d never liked carrying a debt, and now he’d left her no choice.
She’d have to find a fitting way to repay him.
It was not a party she would normally have attended. The Marquess of Wimberley was known to throw a most elegant ball, but elegance had not been her priority in past years.
Now she felt changed. In truth the change had begun long before Robert had asked—she refused to consider it a command—her to come home to Norfolk. The thought of wild late nights held little appeal. She’d planned to begin a new life, and this was the moment it started.
She waited for the couple ahead of her to enter the ballroom and wondered why she had chosen this as the place to start. Marguerite, the marquess’s wife, had become a friend over the past years, but not so close that Clara’s presence would have been missed this evening. It was unlikely they even knew she was in Town.
The couple moved ahead finally, leaving her in the doorway to the grand room. People were crowded tight, and the light of candles shone upon their brightly colored evening dress. It was exactly what she had been looking for—festive gaiety.
“Clara, I didn’t know you were back. Has the evil stepson finally released his hold?” There was no mistaking that soft, husky voice.
“Violet, I didn’t know you’d be here,” she replied. “And you do know that Robert could never be considered even wicked, much less evil.”
“I am only teasing.” Violet stepped forward. Her gown was incredibly daring, the low scoop neckline showing all her assets to their best advantage. And the color—Clara had never thought a redhead could wear that bright a fuchsia, but on Violet it looked perfect.
“I know you are. I am still surprised to see you. I didn’t think you cared for this type of affair.”
“No more than you. But Peter is Wimberley’s brother, so this is a command performance. Besides, Peter loves showing me that respectable society won’t turn us aside—and I adore letting him reassure me.”
Clara chuckled. “I won’t even ask how he accomplishes that. I can see from your expression that some things should not be mentioned in polite company.”
“And where would I find polite company?”
Clara laughed again, and hooked her arm through Violet’s. “Come and bring me to that charming fiancé of yours. A party is always brighter for his presence.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that.” Violet was laughing now too. “He’s full enough of himself already.”
“Have you set a wedding date? Lord Darnell has finally approved a late summer date for Robert and Jennie.”
Violet sobered at the question just as they approached Peter. Clara smiled wistfully at the look that passed between them. Despite the difference in age—Violet was a shocking seven years older—and stature, they so clearly belonged together.
&nbs
p; Peter lifted Violet’s fingers in a gesture that was both proper and surprisingly intimate. Clara did not miss the way his thumb passed across Violet’s gloved palm or the way she closed her fingers around it.
“Are you asking her about a date?” Peter asked. “I can tell just from her expression.” He leaned toward Clara and whispered, “She really wants to be married, but I think she wishes it were already passed. I may have to start playing hard to get if she doesn’t relent soon.”
Violet swatted him with her fan. “Don’t even think of trying that. You’ve tried it already, and I don’t believe I’d call you the winner.”
“Ah, but you didn’t win either.” Peter grabbed the fan and held it tight.
Clara had been treated to long letters from Violet describing the situation between the two of them as Peter sought to persuade Violet to matrimony. He’d finally won her agreement, but that had been more than a year previously, and they still had not made it to the altar. She wondered what caused the delay, but there were some questions even close friends could not ask.
Turning away from the couple, she looked over the crush. “Your brother certainly knows how to host an affair. I think I count at least two dukes and six earls in the crowd. Is there anybody who declined the invitation?”
Violet turned from Peter and perused the crowd herself. “I know of only three, and one of them had died the day before the invitations were issued. You’d have to ask Marguerite to be sure, though.”
“I am surprised she was up to entertaining so soon after—”
“The birth of her daughter. It has been several months now.” Violet finished the sentence. “Don’t be so shy, Clara. I am well past discomfort at my own childless state. I’ve discovered I am quite happy as an aunt. I do love babies, but I equally love leaving them behind at the end of the evening. Peter and I have stayed with Marguerite and Wimberley for both of her confinements, and I can assure you there are many aspects of the process I do not miss at all.”
Clara glanced at Peter and was surprised at his level of comfort with such an intimate discussion. For a moment, another face flashed before her eyes, a man who would not have been comfortable with such discussion. She pushed it back, roughly. She smiled at her friend. “I am so happy for you, for both of you. I know I’ve said it before, but every time I am with you two, you remind me of how much is possible.”