by Lavinia Kent
She did not know how long they stood—not touching. It could have been a moment or a month. Her hands had curled to claws at her sides with the effort not to move, and her legs were pressed so tight it was a wonder they had not fused. She was a statue—did stone so long to move, to feel?
There, she felt it. First a twitch and then a shift. He hauled her forward, strong hands grasping her waist and lifting her to him. His mouth pressed down upon hers, forcing it open. He was all heat, passion, and speed. Her back was flattened against the tree as he took possession.
But it was not all his possession. From the moment she’d felt him move her own desires had run free. Her hands cupped his face, holding him tight. She opened her mouth wide beneath his, welcoming him in, before her own tongue darted out on its own forays.
She tasted, nibbled, devoured. It had been too long. It felt so good to feel him against her. She pushed forward against him, rubbing her breasts back and forth against the linen of his shirt. Her fingers ran through his hair, tangling in the strands at his neck before sliding to find the bare skin beneath his cravat. She ran a finger around, enjoying every tiny shudder coursing through his body. She pulled back a moment to stare into his eyes, they were so deep and brown she felt she could drown in them and never return.
It was a moment of stillness in the midst of a storm, a moment of peace as their eyes met and took measure—well, except for her fingers, which were all the while working skillfully to bare his neck before her.
Still keeping her gaze locked with his, Violet leaned forward and nipped at his chin, her teeth grating on the stubble he could never shave completely away. His body jerked and trembled, his fingers grasping more tightly into her waist.
She kissed the nip away, and then, finally releasing his look, she kissed and licked and laved her way down his throat, she could feel the rush of his pulse beneath her lips, the tension that shook him with each swallow. She lingered slowly, endlessly.
She could feel her power over him, relished it. His fingers tightened again, beginning to gather her skirts, but with the slightest swish of her hips she discouraged him. Slow. Easy. Gentle. That was what she liked and as always he seemed to know her every wish before she formed it.
His hands released, and then began to form slow, easy patterns up and down her back as he buried his lips in her hair, breathing in her essence.
She unfastened his shirt, her mouth continuing its dance down his chest. She caught the short hairs between her teeth and tugged. She tasted the salt, the sweat, the flavor that was all him. She reached his left nipple, and ran her closed lips around it before letting her tongue dash out to play. She could feel his heart beating beneath her mouth, feel its strength, his strength in each pulse.
She pressed her cheek against him there, loving that sign of the life that filled him, wishing she could stay like this forever—but still her hands moved on, dipping beneath the waistband of his trousers, before seeking the fastening.
One of his hands came forward then and caught hers, stilling them, while the other caught her face and tilted it up to meet his gaze.
“You do know what this means. Remember what I said the last time?” His voice was husky with passion, with desire, but his eyes stared into hers, seeking.
God, what did he want? Violet tried to gather her scattered thoughts, while her body cried for more. She knew whatever he was asking was important to him, could see that in the stillness of his face, but all she could think was, Don’t stop now.
She nodded in agreement as her hands fought their way free from his and released the flap of his trousers, her hips pressed forward against his heavy arousal. His eyes flared, and his body jerked, but even as she rubbed against him, her body wanting him, wanting to forget everything but him, he held her gaze and refused to continue.
“Do you remember? I need to hear the words.” His voice strained with effort. She pressed tighter, testing, wanting. Everything was so perfect when she was with him—why did he force this pause in the midst of the magic?
“Yes. Yes,” she whispered as her forward hands crept around him. She didn’t know what she affirmed, but she knew this was not the moment for talk. She would have said anything to feel his arms about her again.
Peter watched Violet’s eyes glaze over as she moved her hips against him. She was so beautiful in her passion, her lips parted and swollen and pink, her face flushed and rosy.
When her fingers wrapped around his erection, it took every ounce of his being not to give in to her, not to get swept away. She was all he wanted, all he needed, and it went against everything that he was not to answer her.
But he needed her answer.
“Yes.” Her voice murmured around him, surrounding him, lighting each particle of his being as if with static shot. His eyes closed with the sheer pleasure of it. Even the soft movements of her hands brought not the pleasure of that single word.
She was his.
She had finally agreed.
He would have crushed her to him then, but he knew what she liked. He forced his hands to relax, pulled her to him gently, as he tilted her face up for one more infinite kiss. Sweet, caressing—perfect.
He allowed his hands to run down her back, to cup her buttocks to him, to gather the fabric of her skirts. The rough bark of the tree behind her rasped his knuckles with each gather.
Finally he slid his fingers beneath her skirts to find—“What’s this?”
“What?” Her voice was blurred with passion, her eyes unfocused. She shook her head as if to clear it.
“You’re wearing pants.” Where was the velvet skin his fingers longed for? What was this cloth blocking his desires?
She laughed then, soft, husky, and all Violet. “They’re my drawers. Have you never seen them before? The very latest fashion, but also a bit of warmth should the evening cool. But never mind them.” Her hips pressed forward and rubbed hard against him, showing him how unimportant they were.
His gaze moved down, capturing the measure of her long legs in the fine linen. The drawers did not block his view, merely shadow it. He could still see the curling red that marked her sex at the apex of her thighs. And as she moved, the hint of that true flame peeking out.
He pushed her back against the tree, sinking to his knees to get a better view. “What if I want to mind them?”
He ran his hands up and down her legs, enjoying the rub of the fabric against them, imagining how it must feel on the even more sensitive skin at the top of her legs.
There. He was right. The whole center seam of the thing was open, inviting. He’d always loved her long, naked legs surrounding him, but this—the chaste linen with her curls shining through—
He ran his hands outward, toward her hips, causing the fabric to pull tight, and separate. Then he blew. The barest puff, it would not have disturbed a lit candle, but she shuddered and cried.
He blew again. Her hands found his hair, tangled, pulled.
He leaned forward and kissed her, not pressing or demanding, but barely denting the surface of her curls.
He didn’t know how he held back when his own body screamed for completion. He was one endless sensation, centered in the hard arousal that longed to be buried deep within her.
But this was about her. He gripped his own thigh with one hand, the nails biting deep as he fought for calm, while with the other he held the seam of her drawers open. He moved carefully, precisely, opening his mouth on the second kiss, letting his tongue move out to taste, to savor.
“Oh, Peter. Yes.” Her voice moved about him as she raised up on her legs, spreading herself further. “I am so glad you’ve forgotten that foolishness and come back to me. I was insane without you.”
“What foolishness?” He spoke against her, feeling her response to each breath of his voice.
“Ah, that marriage nonsense,” she rasped. “We are so perfect like this. Why should we need more?”
Peter felt all the air leave him. Nonsense. He was a fool. She had spoken t
he truth. He had been so eager to believe she remembered his words that he would not do this again until she agreed to be his wife, so eager to believe that she took him seriously, so eager to believe—in her.
Anger ground though him—not at her, at himself. He had been betrayed by his own eagerness. It still betrayed him.
He should stand and walk away.
But he could not.
In one move he rose and, lifting her around him, dove in, impaling her to the core. “Then let’s give the lady what she wants.”
He pushed forward, pulled back, thrust again. Hard. Fast. Unmindful of the care and gentleness of a moment before. Who cared what she wanted. This was for him.
But even as he thrust again, felt the climax coming, saw the flashes of light against the closed dark of his lids, he felt her quiver around him, heard her cry, that sound he knew so well.
Then it was upon him and he could think no more.
The world came back slowly, and then in a rush.
He’d played this scene before. Peter unwrapped his cravat from the branch it had tangled about and pulled back.
Violet leaned against the tree. Her skirts had fallen with his departure, and, aside from the flush on her cheeks and a single leaf in her hair, she looked unchanged—if very contented.
He stepped away.
Then walked away into the dusk.
“Peter?”
He did not answer.
He did not have the words to explain the turmoil within.
Chapter 5
How could he have done that to her?
Violet picked up a jeweled hairpin from the tray before her. Tonight would be her first night out since the episode in the woods two weeks ago, and still the incident preoccupied her. She smoothed her hair back and threaded the pin through it. She would have jammed it into the side of her head if she hadn’t already made that mistake with the first pin. She would have cursed, but she’d run out of curses.
How had this happened to her? She was the one in control. He was the boy. If anyone was going to walk away it would be she.
Only he’d done it to her. Twice.
She pushed away from her dressing table and stood. Her light skirts flirted around her ankles, moving of their own accord. It should have pleased her. The dress was spectacular. It cut across her shoulders, revealing the full curves of her breasts while still shielding her upper arms, and its silk-gauze overlay smoothed any imperfections in her figure. The gold iridescent fabric reflected light up toward her face, giving her a radiant glow.
It was perfection.
She looked almost girlish.
She had chosen it with Peter in mind.
Damnation.
Not only did the boy walk out on her, she couldn’t stop thinking of him. She refused to think of him.
There were numerous young men who would be all too happy to take his place. She did not need him. She wished the thought did not sound so childish. She was determined to be mature about the situation.
If she sought the company of other men it was because the time had come. If Peter didn’t want her she would not waste any more time waiting for him, wishing for him.
A woman did not always get what she wanted.
She had wanted Peter, but she could not have him.
Therefore, it was time to take what she could have.
She selected a necklace heavy with sapphires. It was a bolder piece than she would normally have selected, but tonight was a night for boldness.
It took a woman of a certain ilk to intrude upon the men in their gambling hells, one who could hold her head high and stare down anyone who would question her right to be there.
Even at her wildest moments she had never felt the need to be such a woman, to attend such gatherings, but now…
Now, the time had come. Whispers had surrounded her for years—she killed three husbands, had hundreds of young lovers, spends a fortune without a thought, never gives a damn what anyone thinks. There was a pinch of truth in all of them—there usually was—but now she was ready to make them all true. Well, she hadn’t killed any of her husbands and it did seem a little late to start now, but otherwise taking another young lover and recklessly spending some of her well-cared-for funds didn’t sound like bad ideas at all.
She took one last glance in the mirror. She glittered and glowed. One deep breath. One glass of sherry. She shook an invisible wrinkle out of her skirt and left.
How had he gotten roped into this?
Peter looked around the room and resisted the urge to hide. He hated this kind of house party, always had. The only good social gatherings involved horses, hounds, and very fine French brandy—with nary a lady in sight. Here, there seemed to be nothing but women, and young giggling ones at that.
The only thing worse than staying at home thinking about Violet was being abroad—thinking about Violet.
A group of tittering chits stood before him. One of them had her eyes glued right to his—gads—he glanced down, everything was fastened and there were no embarrassing crumbs of food or spills of drink. What was she staring at? Everything he knew of young women—which was not much—indicated that they avoided the very mention of body parts. But there was no doubt where her eyes were fastened.
He did the only thing a man could do—he turned his back and pretended that the portraits of Summerton’s ancestors were of unsurpassing interest. Unfortunately, the titters increased. Hopefully, they’d grow bored, and in a moment he could slip away.
“Have you found her yet?”
Peter turned to see Henry Edwards, a friend from Cambridge, peering up at him. The crowd of giggles seemed to have moved on. Henry’s pronouncedly larger backside was not the attention grabber that his own had been.
“Well, have you?” Henry asked again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I am afraid.” Peter relaxed, leaning back against the wall, careful to avoid whichever Summerton grandmother hung on the wall to his side.
“My mother said you were here looking for a wife. Why else would anyone come? Lady Summerton isn’t even pouring brandy since she feels that it will only muddle the situation—and she didn’t even explain what the situation is. I am afraid that we are going to have to force Summerton to take a wife so that his mother becomes the Dowager Lady Summerton and can be shipped off to a cottage. It is cruel of him to allow her to hostess his parties, and therefore it is only fair we help him find his own leg-shackle.”
Henry smiled up with round-faced good humor, looking as harmless as a man could. Peter, however, had known him for too many years to be taken in.
“You’ve thought this all out, haven’t you? You truly do mean to find the poor man a wife?”
Henry continued to grin, his cheeks stretched and glowing. “Of course I do. The man has reached his middle thirties and is allowing his mother not to serve brandy. If he is not careful the port will go too. It will have to be the right type, of course; men with controlling mothers often end up with controlling brides—and that would defeat the whole purpose.”
“I’m going to feel sorry for Summerton if you keep this up, and I don’t believe he’d take kindly to the sentiment,” Peter said.
“We must deal with you first, of course,” Henry answered.
Was it possible for the man to keep smiling for much longer? “Again, I am not sure what you mean.”
“Oh, no need to be bashful. Your mother told my mother that you had decided it was time to enjoy matrimony. So, who is she? Even when you were a boy you always knew what you wanted. So, which one? We’ll mount a campaign.”
Peter was about to exclaim with great vehemence that he certainly had no interest in marriage, when he caught himself—he was interested in marriage.
“My first thought was that you’d like one of the Breyers girls—very sweet and pretty, with good portions,” Henry continued. “I’d probably pursue one of them myself—if I were of a matrimonial mind. The only problem is that they are too sweet. I am of good
acquaintance with your mother and she is definitely not sweet, so you will not want a sweet wife.”
Peter happened to think Violet was quite sweet, although perhaps not in the way that Henry meant. He doubted Henry expected him to walk through the room licking all the young women. “I am not looking for a wife who resembles my mother.”
“You are seeking a bride, though.”
Peter considered. Even here, a day’s ride from London, surrounded by—he took the time to look around the room at the beautiful girls spinning and dancing and laughing—the choicest damsels of the year, all he could think of was Violet and how she tasted of honey.
If he couldn’t have Violet, why not choose another?
“You know what, Henry, I think I am. A sweet fiancée may be what I need.”
This was supposed to be exciting and risqué? Violet peered around the room—it was too smoky to do anything but peer. Small groupings of men sat around tables pouring large quantities of brandy and whiskey down their throats, something most of them should have stopped doing hours ago.
There was some thrill in watching fate turn on the flip of a card, but it had taken only one look at a loser’s face for Violet to decide that stupidity beat out adventure.
Maybe the excitement was in the personal risk. Did she need to substantially risk her own funds to find the attraction? She swigged her brandy, letting the burn fill her mouth and throat. The sweet aftertaste soothed her.
She shook her head at the dealer, gifted each gentleman at the table with a smile, and stood. She needed to find a different table if she wanted higher stakes, since it had become clear that the two older men at the table were there merely to pass the time and that the younger ones didn’t have the funds to play deeper.
And she wanted deeper. It might be stupid. It might be a step on the road to true ruin, but she needed to feel something.
She must stop looking about the room and imagining Peter there. She must stop seeing him grinning up at her as he turned his cards—sharing the secret that he knew he was going to win and didn’t care.