Love Lessons at Midnight

by Shirl Henke

  “Perhaps you could kiss my hand?” she asked, cupping his jaw until he took the hand and pressed its back to his lips. “Non,” she whispered, turning it so his mouth touched her palm. When he kissed it, heat coursed up her arm. She had been told a woman’s palms and wrists were sensitive, but she had never imagined how much so! Eager for more, she moved her hand across his lips until his mouth touched the pulse at the base of her inner wrist. “There, oh!”

  He could feel her pulse race when he plied his lips against it. Her tiny gasp of excitement elicited an unexpected surge of satisfaction. Taking the initiative, he raised her hand gently and let his mouth travel up the inside of her arm. When her free hand cupped his shoulder, he felt her nails dig into the muscles. Like a kitten kneading in pleasure! The experience was utterly new, heady, wonderful.

  “Does this please you?” he asked, certain that it did.

  “Oui. Perhaps…”

  “Yes,” he drawled, falling under the spell of her soft French accent, eager for further instruction.

  “Perhaps you would try kissing my neck and throat…s’il vous plait?”

  The pulse points. Of course! What felt good on her wrist and arm would also feel good there. He moved his mouth to the curve where her shoulder joined her neck and kissed her silky skin until he found the tiny hollow at the center of her throat. “Do you like that?” he asked, his heart hammering in his chest.

  “I think it would be better if you made the kissing softer, like the wings of a butterfly,” she murmured near his ear.

  Pausing to control his excitement, he repeated the caresses slowly, letting his lips dance across her throat. She threw back her head, allowing him greater access, now holding on to him with both hands gripping his shoulders. Rob felt the tips of her breasts brush against his bare chest. This brought the fire he had tamped down raging to sudden life. He fought the irresistible urge to pull her into his arms and roll onto the bed.

  She knew they were poised at the brink of an abyss. The tips of her breasts tingled from the feel of his chest muscles. It would be so easy to give in. His whole body had grown tense with lust. But the faint male musk of his arousal reminded her that doing the deed so quickly would help neither of them. Her lazy, delicious haze of pleasure dissipated.

  “Lie back, mon commandant,” she commanded cajolingly. “We must go slowly…lightly…softly. Here, I can feel your heart pounding,” she whispered, pressing her palm against the springy hair on his chest, pushing him onto the mattress.

  He complied, lying on his back in the center of the bed. She sat beside him, gently holding him down, feeling the thrum of his racing heartbeat. “Now…” She waited, hoping he would continue to defer to her wishes, giving him time to do so.

  “Now?” he finally echoed hoarsely.

  “Now I will read more of your body. I need to become accustomed to how it feels…to how you are made.”

  If she touched his fully aroused sex, it could frighten her and it most certainly would undo his struggle for self-restraint. But before he could say anything, she knelt on the bed and ran her hand over his chest. “I think my heart may burst free and explode,” he said raggedly.

  “I would not wish you harm, mon ami. Does this not please you?”

  “Ah, Gabrielle, it pleases me all too well.”

  “Then I will continue, for it pleases me, too.” She felt the cunning pattern of hair and the hard muscles. He was young, powerful, all male, and, she hoped, completely hers to command. She glided her hand up to his collarbone, tracing along it, then around one broad shoulder, feeling the biceps bulge as he clenched his hand into a fist. She could sense that he was fighting for control. “You are a strong man, mon commandant…and very beautifully made, I think.”

  Rob had never been vain of his looks. In fact, the subtle and more often not-so-subtle invitations in women’s eyes had always made him uncomfortable. Yet her simple declaration pleased him greatly. “I am glad you think so, Gabrielle,” was all he could reply. The barest essence of her perfume again teased his nostrils. It was torture. It was paradise, all at the same time. He waited for her to say something. When she did not, he asked, “What do you wish me to do now that you have…read my face and body?”

  “W-would you kiss my lips?” she asked hesitantly, scooting closer but keeping one leg over the edge of the mattress. She wanted to trust, but it was nearly impossible. Her right hand remained resting lightly on his chest.

  He sat up and took her hand in his, once again pressing his lips to her palm, then kissing his way softly up her arm. Like butterfly wings. The thought hammered in his brain. Soft. Slow. She made a low hum of pleasure as he reached her throat, brushing it once more with his mouth. He framed her face with his hands and tilted his head to place a chaste kiss on her lips, being careful not to press too hard. Then he withdrew, still holding her face, feeling the heavy silk of her hair spilling over his fingers.

  “Did you like that?” he asked.

  “Oui…but…”

  “I was too rough.” His heart constricted. When she gave a tiny, mischievous chuckle, he was so startled that he dropped his hands from her head, tangling them in her hair. “What amuses you?” he asked, trying not to sound as frustrated as he felt.

  “Oh, please forgive me, mon ami. I did not mean to anger you, but it is only that you were not…rough at all. I mean…well, I have been told that a man’s lips should move over a woman’s, brushing, teasing. Please…I do not mean to be bold, but…”

  “Very well,” Rob replied, taking her face in his hands once again. He could feel the blush heating her cheeks. This time he did as she instructed, turning his head back and forth to caress her mouth…brushing, teasing, still careful. He was rewarded when her hands stole up his arms and held his shoulders. Remember the butterfly wings. After a moment, he raised his head and asked, “Am I doing this correctly?”

  “It is most excellent. Now you could kiss me again, please, but open your mouth…perhaps just a little bit, so you can touch my lips with your tongue. I have heard that such a thing feels very…agreeable.” The courtesans called it Frenchkissing, when two tongues dueled, openmouthed. Grace had explained that it was far more than “agreeable.” Somehow she had never thought it sounded appealing…until now.

  “Let us find out if such kissing is indeed agreeable,” he whispered raggedly. He sought her mouth and brushed against it, opening his enough to let his tongue rim her lips. She moaned quite distinctly this time, clutching his shoulders until her nails dug into the muscles as she leaned into his kiss.

  Oh, good heavens above, Grace had been right! The tingle that began on her lips spread all over her body. She pressed her mouth to his, harder, then opened her lips. Would he understand what she wanted?

  What could he do but enter the sweet chamber into which he had been invited? He let the tip of his tongue dart tentatively inside. Her teeth were smooth and even, the taste of her as pure as spring water. When she did not pull away but opened wider, he dared to touch his tongue to the tip of hers before withdrawing, breathless. “Is this agreeable?”

  “Oui! But I think we need a better word than ‘agreeable.’ Your tongue…when it touched mine…”

  “You mean like this?” He knelt on the mattress and lowered his head over hers, taking care to keep enough distance between their bodies so as not to alarm her with his erection. He kissed her again, slanting his mouth, opening it for another foray between the barely parted seam of her lips. He teased at them and she parted them quickly, making him bolder this time when he slipped inside. Butterfly wings! Butterfly wings! He let his tongue dart and dance against hers until she returned the caress in his hungry mouth.

  They kissed for a breathless moment, then two. Both were eager, experimenting with tastes and textures never experienced. She felt as if lightning had struck her, setting her on fire. Oh, such a sweet burning! Such a dangerous addiction! His staff, rock hard and desperate, brushed her thigh at the height of their kissing frenzy. He had her
hair tangled in his hands, holding fistfuls of it as he bracketed her head, kissing her as she had never been kissed before.

  This is going too fast, too far! If she did not stop him soon, everything would be ruined. She was suddenly afraid. He was starting to lose control. She knew what she must do. Steeling her willpower, she pulled away, testing to see if she could break through the haze of his passion. For one panicked moment, she feared it would not work.

  Rob felt Gabrielle’s hands pressing against his chest, her head turning away from his impassioned kisses. He released her, panting and breathless, trembling. “I…I am sorry. Please forgive—”

  “Non! Do not be sorry. There is nothing to forgive,” she whispered fiercely, feeling an ache of emptiness that unbalanced her. “But if I am to teach you how to control your pleasure so that you may bring equal pleasure to a woman, then we must stop…for tonight.”

  Rob sighed and sat back on his heels in the middle of the big bed. “You…you are not frightened by me? I did not repulse you?” He felt his ardor wilting as quickly as his erection.

  What would ever make him think he could repulse a woman! She vowed to find out. “Oui, I am a bit frightened by my own feelings, but you could never repulse me, mon commandant. In fact, you are a pupil most…exceptionnel. You have quite mastered kissing, I think.”

  He digested that, for this once wishing they did not have to be cloaked in darkness. He wanted to read her expression. Her voice sounded earnest, almost girlish at the last. “You enjoyed my kisses—truly?”

  “Vrainment. Oui, truly, I did. Only consider this until you return to me tomorrow night. We do not want our passion—I mean, your passion—to carry us too far, too quickly. We must go slowly, softly at first—like—”

  Rob sighed. “Like butterfly wings, I know.”

  After slipping through the hidden door into the retiring closet, Amber leaned against the wall, composing herself. The mirror in the corner showed a bright flush on her cheeks, tangled hair, and huge, wild eyes. She took a deep breath, trying not to listen to the sounds of the earl dressing beyond the door.

  I must get away from here…from him! When she heard the door to his room open and close, Amber reached for the bellpull. Almost instantly Bonnie stepped inside, curtsying nervously, her eyes downcast as she waited for instructions.

  “You may tell Sergeant-Major Boxer to put away his brace of Manton pistols and retire for the night. I will not require his services.”

  When Bonnie left, Amber collapsed against the wall. She had thought she might need protection from the earl. Her laugh was soft and bitter. She never imagined that she would need protection from “Gabrielle.”

  Chapter Four

  In the jumble of policing jurisdictions in London, Bow Street was the busiest. On any given day, dozens, even hundreds of people passed through its chambers, some willingly, many under physical restraint. Sullen young pickpockets, crafty old bawds, and drunken toffs, offenders of low and high degree, awaited deliverance to the courts. Mingling with them were an equally diverse group of law-abiding citizens seeking redress. Staid bankers and plump boardinghouse matrons eyed non-propertied slum dwellers with disdain, often shoving ahead of them in the ill-formed lines that crowded the railing. The runners were adept at listening to one supplicant while tuning out the babble of sound surrounding them.

  That morning, a slattern from the Billingsgate fish market reeking of “blue ruin” gin related how she had been robbed by the emaciated boy she held in one red, meaty fist. She twisted his shirt collar so tightly he made strangling noises. Close by a man in a clean but cheaply cut wool jacket wrung his hands, trying to avoid contact with her while waiting his turn. A drunken Corinthian whose doeskin inexpressibles were stained with claret brayed in a nasal voice, demanding he be placed at the head of the shortest line.

  Alan Cresswel had been a runner for over two decades, a long time in a hard and dangerous job. Tall and rangy, he had once possessed considerable speed, an asset while learning his trade. Now his wind was all but gone. However, over the years the clever fellow with the pockmarked face had made a reputation for himself around Westminster. He honed survival instincts and learned how to turn a tidy profit, often with clients who were not law abiding. As long as they could pay, Cressy was happy to work for them.

  “Come along, what is it now?” he asked over the din, inspecting his next petitioner’s appearance as he waited impatiently for a reply. The younger man shoved a shock of greasy straight tan hair from his high forehead. His clothing, while that of a gentleman, was certainly not made by a London tailor. He was of medium height, thin with a slight thickening around his waist that hinted at dissipation. His sallow complexion and the puffiness beneath his close-set eyes proclaimed it. A large nose with broken red veins moving across it like poorly spun spiderwebs was set in a long, angular face.

  Out at heels chawbacons. Cresswel sighed. “Well, out with it,” he said, irritated by the smirk on the young fellow’s face.

  “If you are the chap known as Cressy, you can attend me in a quiet alehouse. What I have to say is not for common ears.” He glanced disdainfully around the room.

  Cresswel shifted slightly, looking up at the man. “Why should I desert me post for you?” he asked. When the complainant pulled a fat purse from his waistcoat and hefted it in his hand, the runner nodded. “Maybe I do ’ave a bit o’ thirst,” he said.

  They made their way through the crowd and left the offices. As they walked, the stranger said, “I am Mr. Hull, late of Northumberland.”

  Cresswel had already deduced that from the accent. Among his repertoire of skills, he possessed an ear for patterns of speech. “What’s this business ‘not for common ears‘?”

  “I need some help with a runaway gel. Might be a deal of the ready in it for you.”

  “She be gentry?”

  Hull snorted, peeling back his lips to reveal crooked teeth going to rot. “She’s the wife of a bloody marquess, but she ain’t a lady now. His Lordship sent me to fetch her.”

  Now Cresswel became truly interested. A bloody marquess. Yes, lots of the ready, he would wager on it. “The Hare and Hound’s just round the corner. We can talk real private.”

  The interior of the public house was dark and smelled of spilled ale and rotting wood, but it was quiet. The owner knew Cresswel and quickly ushered them into a small room. After serving them pints of foamy liquid, the barkeep closed the door and departed. Hull pulled the pouch from his waistcoat and tossed it on the table. The runner picked it up, nodding. “Now, where’s this here woman live?”

  “A fortnight past, I chanced to be at White’s on St. James Street,” Hull said, self-importantly.

  “I know where all the gents’ clubs is located, ’less they put wheels on ’em this mornin’,” Cresswel interjected impatiently. “But I’d give odds she ain’t in any of ’em.”

  The smirk on Hull’s face vanished at the cheeky reply. “I learned where she resides when a member described her,” he snapped. “He was foxed, talking loudly to his companion. The chit’s in some crib called the House of Dreams.”

  Cresswel’s jaw dropped. “Crib, my arse! It’s all the crack! Most expensive bordello in London, it is. Every lord and cit with enough blunt be pantin’ to get inside. And lots of ’em don’t make it. That’s where your run-off marchioness is?”

  Hull nodded. “This baron saw her in the hallway of a private area where he was not supposed to be. He had just relieved himself in a pot of greenery. Chit didn’t see him, but he saw her. Then the madam’s guards caught up with him and tossed his arse out the front door. He kept remarking to his friend on the odd color of her hair. Dark cherry red. Said she was a real beauty. Not too many like that, I’d warrant. He even mentioned a scar the marquess gave her—a little nick on her left cheekbone. Obviously I shall require help to get her out of the place.”

  Cresswel digested the information. “That ain’t going to be a brace of snaps. The gels what work for Lady Fantasia is guar
ded closer than Prinny.”

  “Lady Fantasia?” Hull echoed, scratching his head. “I recall that baron saying something about her—no one ever sees her face, some such rot.”

  “No rot.” Cresswel scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know about stealin’ a whore from that woman. ’Er guards is all veterans. Fought ole Boney. A mean lot, they are.”

  Hull’s eyes narrowed and he hunched forward over the table. “You ain’t met the marquess. Nobody is meaner than that one.”

  George Berry’s grocery emporium boasted the finest teas and coffees from the far reaches of the British Empire, not to mention the very best spirits to be had in the city. The wealthy, Quality and Cits alike, traveled to St. James Street to make their selections. Rich, strong coffee was one of Amber’s indulgences ever since she had been introduced to the beverage while traveling in Tuscany. Feeling a need to get away from the House of Dreams, she decided to spend the morning amid the fragrances that reminded her of her first taste of freedom.

  While Boxer waited patiently outside, she and Jenette walked up and down the aisles, examining the merchandise. When Amber took a deep breath, her friend said with a chuckle, “I do believe you would apply coffee beans in place of fine French perfume if given the choice.”

  Opening a tin of beans from Java, Amber sniffed. “What a novel idea. Yes, perhaps I should start a new fashion that will become all the kick, as the toffs say.”

  As they ambled along with a clerk following obsequiously behind them to carry the “widow’s” purchases, Amber suddenly froze. Jenette stared at her. “What is amiss, cherie?” she asked, reaching into her reticule for the Forsyth percussion-lock pocket pistol she carried.