“She didn’t appear to be enjoying it,” she said quietly, a thread of sadness woven through her voice.
He blinked, abruptly brought from his fantasy back into reality. He stared at her. He’d been in need of distraction, but he hadn’t expected her to provide it with such a nonsensical statement, but then he realized she was referring to the dove against the tree.
“She wasn’t being paid to enjoy it.”
Her eyes widened slightly. Perhaps it was the bluntness of his words. “She was a strumpet, then.”
He shrugged. “That’s as good a term as any.”
She looked out one window, then the other. Glanced up at the ceiling. Released a long slow breath. “Is it not enjoyable for women?” She slapped her hand over her mouth. “I can’t believe I asked that of you.”
“It’s the ale. It tends to loosen one’s tongue.” He grinned. “I like it when your tongue is loosened.”
“Oh.” Her gaze was focused so intently on him that he thought she might be boring into his soul. “Is your tongue loosened enough to provide the answer?”
Maybe hers was a bit too loosened. “I could demonstrate.”
“The remainder of my body would have to be loosened for that to happen. Is that why you gave me ale, hoping I would lose all my inhibitions and my moral compass so that you might take advantage?”
“Not exactly. I wouldn’t bed you if you were foxed. There would be no enjoyment for either of us in a situation such as that.”
“So women can enjoy bedding?”
“If the gentleman is the considerate sort.”
“Are you?” Again her hand covered her mouth, her eyes widened. “The words seem to come out before I even realize what they’re going to be.”
The conversation could become very interesting if he handled it just right. “I am given to believe women find pleasure in my bed.”
“Will you go see someone after you deliver me home?”
He needed to. His body was aching with need, and yet he knew any encounter would be unsatisfactory. “No.”
She glanced down at her hands, knotted in her lap. “I’m feeling a bit light-headed.”
He stiffened, straightened. “Are you going to be ill?”
“No. I just have all these thoughts that don’t want to stay where they belong.”
“You can tell them to me. I won’t tell a soul.” Tell me something about Kipwick that I can use, that will speed things along.
“It’s a confession of sorts.”
Even better. His gut tightened at the thought of her revealing her fantasies.
“I wanted to touch your beard, that first night, when we met.”
He almost laughed aloud. He’d been envisioning sins worthy of an afterlife spent burning in hell.
“I didn’t even think to do it while we were kissing the other night,” she said. “I was so absorbed by the kiss.”
“Surely you felt it around your mouth.”
She finally looked up at him. “I did a little. It was softer than I thought, but I was focused on other things. I wanted my fingers to touch it.”
Leaning forward, he pried her hands apart, took one of them in his. “I propose a trade. You can touch my beard, and I’ll kiss the tip of your nose.”
“My nose? You can’t be serious.”
“I adore it. And if I ever meet that obnoxious cousin of yours, I’m going to flatten his nose against his face.”
She laughed. “Well, then, I do hope you cross paths with the Earl of Eames someday.”
So did he. “Are you agreeable to the terms of the trade I proposed?”
Even in the shadows, he saw her nod. “Don’t do anything,” he ordered as he gently returned her hand to her lap. Quickly, he yanked off his gloves before loosening the buttons on hers and slowly tugging it off. In spite of his best intentions, he couldn’t stop himself from tracing a figure eight over the back of her hand. So smooth, like polished marble—only warm, not cold. Warm and fetching. Turning her hand over, he glided three fingers along her palm. The same smoothness greeted him. He wanted that luxurious silkiness against more than his fingers, more than his beard. He wanted it everywhere.
With the back of her hand nestled in the palm of his, he slowly carried her hand to his jaw where her fingers flexed before combing through the coarse strands. The gentle touch nearly undid him. Keeping his hand over hers, he leaned in farther, filling his lungs with her fragrance as his lips landed lightly against the adorable imperfect tip of her nose.
She sighed. Whether from his touch of her or hers of him, he didn’t know, he didn’t care. There was bliss in the sound, joy and contentment, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d experienced any of those sensations.
Because he was so near to other things he wanted, he tipped her face down slightly and planted a kiss on her brow, her temple near the corner of her eye, her cheek—
“You’re taking liberties,” she whispered, cupping his jaw with her palm, stroking his skin with her fingers. Against his hand the delicate muscles and tendons of hers worked slowly, gently.
Drawing back, he held her gaze. “I am indeed. It seems where you are concerned, I’m not very disciplined.”
In the darkness, he heard her swallow. “The ale wants you to kiss me again.”
“Well, I would not wish to disappoint the ale.” He lowered his mouth to hers.
As their lips merged and their tongues were reintroduced, she was vaguely aware of his crossing over to her bench without staggering or falling in spite of the moving carriage. Her hand remained on his jaw while his continued to cover it as his free arm snaked around her back, drew her in nearer, nestling her partially against his side, partially against his sturdy chest. She wished the waistcoat and jacket were absent, as they’d been that night in his office, so the heat from his body had less fabric through which to travel. It still reached her, seeped through her clothes into her skin, but it wasn’t nearly as pleasant.
The kiss, however, was more than it had been before. Perhaps it was because she now knew what to expect of him, or perhaps it was because the ale had chased away all her inhibitions, doubts and guilt, but when he angled his head to take the kiss deeper, she adjusted hers so she could welcome him fully. His deep growl served as both reward and encouragement. He tightened his hold, and she wondered if it were possible for them to be absorbed into each other.
She had intended to remain strong, to resist his allure, but the gentleness with which he’d rained kisses over her face had been her undoing. Bringing her free hand up, she cradled his bearded face between both hands. His whiskers fascinated her. They were at once silky yet coarse. She longed to watch him trim his beard, shave around it. It should have made him look scruffy and common. Instead, it made him appear forceful, dangerous. A man to be reckoned with.
All the dire warnings the duchess had given her were for naught. A woman could be alone with a man without sacrificing her reputation and self-respect. A woman could ask for a kiss without being made to feel as though she deserved nothing better than wandering the streets.
Being in his arms elevated her. It was wrong, on so many levels, in so many ways, and yet she couldn’t seem to regret it.
He dragged his mouth from hers, took it on a slow journey along her chin, her jaw, her throat. “Dear God, Aslyn, I would have you here in the coach if you but whisper yes.”
“A kiss. Only a kiss.” Her response came from a seemingly great distance, and she wasn’t altogether certain it was the answer the ale desired, but the lady groomed inside her would let no other pass between her lips.
“Then I shall be content with that.”
Disappointment warred with relief. His mouth returned to hers, hungrily, eagerly, and this time the kiss seemed to reach all the way down to her toes. They curled within her boots. She wanted to kick off the heavy lea
ther coverings and run her stockinged feet along his calves, wanted his bare hand to close around the arch of her foot, squeeze it.
Instead, he took the kiss deeper until it obliterated all thought, ignited a blaze of frenzied yearnings that fairly consumed her. How could the mere press of lips, the waltzing of tongues create a myriad of sensations in every part of her body? Heat swirled, nerve endings tingled, limbs went lethargic even as they seemed energized. She wound her arms around his neck, scraped her fingers up into his hair, relished the silken strands curling around them.
Moving aside her pelisse, he cupped his hand around her waist, glided it up her side, held it there for three heartbeats before moving it along her ribs—
Up. To cradle her breast, squeeze lightly.
She should have been appalled, should have shoved him away. Instead, with a moan, she continued to explore his mouth as though on the morrow she would have to recount every exquisite detail. He brushed his thumb across her nipple, and it responded with a sweet, painful tightening, straining for another stroke.
When it came, she nearly wept. When his mouth left hers, she nearly cried out.
She was disoriented, so it took her a moment to realize they were no longer moving. Breathing heavily, she stared at him, the glow from the nearby streetlamp chasing away enough of the shadows that she could see him relatively clearly. Not the precise details, not the colors, but the hunger. His desire for her was evident in his expression, as though he suffered greatly.
“I fear I’ve worked you up into a lather. I suppose you’ll go to a brothel now.” She hated the notion of another woman touching him, of another being able to touch him in ways that a lady of her station could not, must not, would not.
“No.” His voice was raw as though he’d had to drag the word up from the depths of his soul.
“I lied. It wasn’t the ale that wanted you to kiss me.”
He flashed a grin. “I know.”
Sobering, he cradled her face, stroked his thumb over her high cheekbone. “Never in my life have I longed to be legitimate more so than I do at this very moment.”
His words devastated her. Leaning in, she took his mouth, sweetly, tenderly. “The circumstances of your birth shouldn’t matter.”
“Yet they do. I can’t take tea with you in a nobleman’s parlor nor waltz with you in his ballroom. I can’t escort you to the theater or be seen walking you through the park too often.” He shook his head. “Even once more and tongues will wag. But I want to see you again. Have dinner with me tomorrow night at the hotel. Currently the few guests we have are not nobility. They are simply people passing through. Even if they see you they won’t know who you are. Your presence there will never be found out. There’s something I want to share with you.”
She could think of many things she’d like him to share with her: his mouth, his hands, his broad chest, the hollow at his shoulder where she was relatively certain her head would fit perfectly. Before her thoughts could careen to portions of his body located below his waist, she cut them off and focused on what he was asking, implying, suggesting: a tryst at his hotel. Another illicit evening spent with him. She knew what her answer should be: No. Absolutely not. It simply isn’t done.
But where he was concerned, she’d already done a great deal that simply wasn’t done. She’d lied, sneaked about, spent time in his company without benefit of a chaperone.
So her answer was not what it should have been, but clearly was what she wanted it to be. “I’ll find a way to sneak out.”
He stroked his fingers along the edge of her face, along her hairline. “Splendid.”
“Until tomorrow then.”
“I shall count the minutes.”
As would she. Each and every one until she was again in his arms.
Chapter 17
“I’m sorry, m’lady, but he is not at home.”
Aslyn gave Kip’s butler a stern look. “Literally not at home?”
“Literally, miss. He has yet to return from last night’s—” he cleared his throat “—adventures.”
Gambling and drinking and God knew what else he was up to, what other indulgences might be occupying his time. Blast it all! She spun on her heel and strode out of the town house, her entourage of servants in her wake. They needed to talk, to reach an understanding regarding their betrothal: it was over. She could not—would not—marry him when she harbored such intense adoration for another man, when she drifted off to sleep with visions of Mick Trewlove prancing through her head. Although he hadn’t truly been prancing. In truth, he’d been barely moving at all, simply holding her gaze and slowly trailing his finger along her throat, over her collarbone, across the swells of her breasts—
Her errant thoughts centering around Mick were more intense, more detailed, more consuming than any she’d ever envisioned with Kip. Mick had the right of it. Where Kip was concerned, her passions had been those of a child, a sister toward a brother, a friend toward a friend. Mick brought forth her womanly passions with little more than a look, a smile, a touch, a word, passions that were very far removed from anything resembling what a sister might feel toward a brother.
The duke and duchess needed to be informed that she was crying off, that she would not marry their son, but she wanted Kip there with her, wanted it understood no hard feelings existed between them—they were simply not suited for each other, not when it came to marriage.
A footman handed her up into the carriage, and she settled back against the squabs. It was an odd thing to realize she had floated through most of her life, never questioning the direction she traveled, the decisions made for her. If Fancy Trewlove hadn’t accidentally bumped into Kip that night at Cremorne, she’d have a very different life unfolding before her. She would have continued on her path of merely existing. Being with Mick made her feel alive.
She pondered the way the duchess had described falling in love. The description very much applied to her. She was falling, and she had no doubt Mick would be there to catch her.
She was beautiful, gorgeous, as he handed her down from her carriage. He’d been standing on the front steps of his hotel, staring down the street, like some lovesick loon waiting for her arrival because he was anxious to see her again, to touch her, to inhale her fragrance, to bask in the gentle smile she bestowed upon him.
“I thought you’d never get here.”
“For a lady to make a proper entrance, she must arrive somewhat tardily.”
The little chit had tormented him on purpose, and he couldn’t find it within him to take her to task. She was here now, and that was all that mattered.
With her hand nestled in the crook of his elbow, he began leading her up the steps. “Are your servants going to wait for you?”
“I think it best. I’ve sworn them to secrecy. My maid isn’t too happy about my being here. She wanted to accompany me inside, serve as chaperone.”
“But you don’t want a chaperone.”
That crooked smile again, the one that made his chest expand even as it tightened into a painful knot. “No. She’ll wait in the coach.”
They reached the doors, and he jerked his head back. “Jones, let them know you’ll watch the carriage if they want to enjoy dinner in the dining room and relax in the parlor with some port until they’re needed.”
“Yes, sir.” He pulled open the door. “I’ll see to it immediately.”
“Are you striving to spoil my servants, Mr. Trewlove?” she asked teasingly, as they strolled over the threshold.
“Trying to ensure their silence and reward their devotion to you. Whatever is necessary to safeguard your visit here.”
“Having a pristine reputation is such a bother.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Her tinkling laughter echoed through the lobby. She was at home here, comfortable, and it occurred to him he’d built this place fo
r her before he’d even known she existed.
As they glided through the lobby, the gas-lit chandeliers revealed her in all her glory. She wore a gown that was neither blue nor green, but the manner in which the light caught it made it appear to be both. It reminded him of the sea, seen in the distance, reminded him of their day at Brighton.
At her throat were the pearls he’d returned to her. In her upswept hair was the comb. If she were his, he would gift her with all the jewels in England and beyond. But he had the promise of her for only tonight, for only as long as his secret held, for only as long as she didn’t know the truth.
He considered telling her, telling her everything, but it would test her loyalties, and he wasn’t confident hers would remain with him. She’d known him such a short amount of time and known them forever. They were family and he . . . he couldn’t be certain he was more than a curiosity. She was learning to spread her wings, preparing to take flight, and he had no guarantee she would fly to him. He began leading her up the stairs.
“I thought we were going to have dinner,” she said, looking back toward the dining room.
“I want to show you something first.” Something he’d not shared with anyone else, something he’d not wanted to share. Until now. Until her.
She didn’t object as he continued up the stairs, floor by floor. He had her trust. It humbled him. She humbled him.
“You should know I’m ending things with Kipwick.”
He very nearly tumbled back down the stairs with her quiet pronouncement. “Does he know?”
“Only that I’ve been considering it. I was going to confirm it for him today, but when I went to his residence, he wasn’t in.”
“He’ll be disappointed.”
“But not heartbroken. I don’t think he truly loves me, and what I feel for him is the love of a girl for a boy. I do not think it would stand the test of years spent in each other’s company.”
And what of years spent with me? But he didn’t ask. It was possible even Hedley’s acknowledgment wouldn’t be enough to cleave her to him for any great length of time.
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