One Night in London

by Caroline Linden

  His breath caught and he laughed quietly. He released her bottom and hiked up handfuls of her skirt. The fabric of her petticoats spilled over her thigh as he reached down and grasped her knee, lifting it almost to his waist. Francesca shuddered as cool air hit her bare leg in intimate places. Her blood was already running hot and fast just from the thought of him touching her there.

  The heel of her shoe knocked against the narrow table beside them. He inhaled roughly and raised her knee farther, until he propped her foot on the table. She melted against the wall and clutched at him for balance as he stroked the flat of his palm leisurely down her calf, then circled around to slide up her shin. In the still darkness of the room, the soft shush of his bare hand over the silk of her stocking seemed to reverberate in her bones. He dipped his head, his lips whispering over her temple. His fingers paused. She shivered as he pressed, lightly, on the inside of her knee, opening her until he could move that last little step forward and ease his hips into the embrace of her legs.

  Francesca gulped as his body moved against hers. He flexed his spine, rocking his hips into hers, and she spasmed in painful pleasure as the length of his cock rubbed against her most feminine spot. God, he was going to kill her if he kept moving at this languorous pace. It must have been an hour since she walked through her door, and so far he had barely kissed her, yet she felt ready to burst into flame at any moment.

  She pushed her hands down his collarbones, forcing the elegant evening jacket back. He gave a low growl, but shrugged out of the coat without a word. She yanked and ripped at the buttons of his waistcoat as he kissed a scorching path along her temple and his fingers continued to play up and down the side of her leg. Her hands were shaking by the time she got the last button undone and tugged the waistcoat off. Edward cooperated enough to pull one arm free and then the other, but otherwise his attention seemed locked on touching every last inch of her skin, from the top of her head to the arch of her foot, after he slipped her high-heeled slipper off and tossed it aside.

  But at least she could touch him now. With a few pulls, the front of his shirt came free of his trousers. Now it was his turn to tilt back his head and exhale as she slid her hands up the warm, firm planes of his chest. He let her explore for a moment, and then shifted his weight forward without warning. She was pinned between the wall and Edward, her hands trapped under his shirt, balanced on one increasingly shaky leg. She squirmed a moment before realizing she was stuck, followed closely by the admission that she liked it very much and that it was, in fact, exactly what she had been hoping to achieve. This was what she’d wanted to rouse from Edward: passion, dark and thrilling and purposeful. She just hadn’t expected to be so excited by it—his touch seemed to send sparks radiating across her skin, through her flesh and into her bones. It wasn’t the wild ecstasy of pent-up need that she felt, but the controlled, relentless exploration of a man who would not be rushed. She hated his restraint even as it was twisting her into excited knots from the anticipation.

  Edward held her there, cupping her jaw with one hand to hold her face up for his kiss, his other hand gliding over her leg, slowly working its way across her thigh. His hips still rocked against hers with a gentle but persistent pressure. He kissed her deeply, his tongue possessing her mouth as thoroughly as he was about to possess her body. Francesca moved against him, her breath rasping in her throat as she tried without success to impart some of her own frantic need to him.

  His fingers slid up over her knee, pausing to finger the ribbon of her garter. A moment later the ribbon eased and slipped away, and he was sliding her stocking over her knee. Her muscles jumped and relaxed as he stroked down her thigh, over her hip, and finally, blessedly, between her legs. She let out her breath in what was nearly a cry of relief and pleasure. Oh God—after waiting so long for him to touch her, she thought she might shatter at the next stroke of his wicked, talented fingers. He knew how to touch her, and where, and how firmly . . . how could he make her come undone so easily? After wanting him so desperately, she was about to climax within seconds after he touched her. She didn’t want that. She wanted him to feel the same pleasure, the same madness, the same abandon she felt.

  With Herculean effort she twisted in his grip. “Stop,” she gasped. “I can’t take it—make love to me, now, damn it . . .” She dug her fingernails into his flesh and raked downward, recklessly glad when he muttered a curse and recoiled. She took advantage of his momentary distraction and whipped her hands out from under his shirt. “You can’t play with me all night like that.” She curled her fingers into the fall of his trousers and felt for the buttons. “I’ll go mad . . .”

  His smile was hard and slow, his eyes glittering as if he’d intended to drive her mad all along. He said nothing as she unbuttoned the trousers, and merely arched his neck and groaned as she finally wrapped her fingers around his erection. Francesca’s heart was leaping; she felt dizzy. This was her darkest fantasy come true: Edward standing half undressed and disheveled, his arms braced beside her shoulders, his head thrown back in ecstasy, his hips rocking back and forth to slide his length between her hands.

  And it wasn’t enough. She reached up with one hand and pulled his head down, sealing her lips to his. There was no pretense of delicacy this time. His mouth opened against hers and she tasted him again, more intoxicating than before. She could easily find herself addicted to the feel of this man’s mouth on hers. His member was hot and thick in her grasp, still thrusting against her palm, and she wrapped her fingers more snugly about him, running her thumb over the blunt head and down the velvety smooth shaft.

  Edward growled deep in his throat. He pulled on her knee, hooking it over his hip. The heavy crimson silk of her skirt rustled as he dragged her up, off her feet, still pinned against the wall, until she kicked her other leg free of the petticoats and curled it around his waist. She had to release him for a moment to shove the bulk of her gown aside, and he took advantage. He shifted his grip, holding her up easily, and then she felt him step forward, angle her hips toward him, and push deep inside her.

  For a moment she felt light-headed, and had to grab his shoulders to steady herself. Her body was ready for him, but she still felt stretched and invaded and utterly conquered. He adjusted his hold on her, then started moving. Her body seized every time he drove into her until she was shaking and almost sobbing. His breathing had grown harsh as well, and when she brushed her hands over his face, his skin was damp. He shifted again, anchoring her knee at his waist and tipping up her chin, still thrusting into her hard enough to shake the watercolor hanging on the wall nearby. At the first touch of his lips on hers, Francesca felt the floor drop out from under her as a hot, heady climax roared along her veins. Her back arched and her head fell back as it pulsed through her. Edward rested his forehead on the exposed line of her neck, and a few moments later she felt his breath against her throat hitch and pause as he stiffened in the throes of his own release.

  She managed to drape her trembling arms over his shoulders to keep from falling. It took real effort to turn her head to the side and press her lips to his cheek. His chest was heaving as hard as hers, but he was still holding her up. She had finally succeeded in making him lose his control, it seemed. If only it hadn’t cost her every last pretense of disinterest.

  Francesca laid her temple against his. Her fingers combed through his short dark hair, ruffling it as she had longed to do from the start. “I don’t want tonight to end,” she confessed in a whisper. There was no point in trying to hide it now.

  He raised his head and looked down at her. His eyes were mirrors for the silvery light that came through the window. For the first time since walking through her door, he spoke. “This is only the beginning,” he said, and kissed her again.

  Chapter 18

  The clock chimed two before Edward felt even partially restored to his usual state of mind.

  He hadn’t intended to make love to Francesca up against the wall of her drawing room. Well, maybe he h
ad; it certainly crossed his mind while he stood beside his carriage after she invited him in with desire burning in her eyes. In that minute of deliberation and hesitation, he imagined making love to her on the floor, on the sofa, on a table, on a bed, and even against a wall. It successfully drove away all thoughts of Louisa, and by the time he dismissed his driver and followed Francesca into her house, he’d already been hard. He had intended to make love to her. The wall was simply available when she kissed him with all the heat of a torch put to kindling.

  In the hours since, he’d made love to her twice more, although they made it upstairs after that first time. If he had expected their coupling to be tamer the second time, he’d been wrong. Francesca undressed him with a thousand sensual touches that twisted him into knots of desire so tight, he actually threw up the skirts of her gown and had her again, bent over a chaise longue. By the time he got her naked, he had recovered enough to let her control things, but he was going to have to buy her a new gown. The red one was absolutely ruined. Patience, it turned out, was highly overrated at times.

  And now he lay with her in bed, her back to his chest, his body relaxed and sated as his mind began to emerge from the fog of lust and urgency that had enveloped him. He would have been pleased not to have rational thought return; then he could have spent the night as he was, stretched out next to the most fascinating, irresistible woman he had ever met, idly running his hands over her bare body. But somehow, reason crept back in, pricking him hard. After behaving like a wild animal for the last few hours, he supposed he owed her . . . something. An explanation, or a declaration. It was obvious that he wanted her, and equally obvious that she wanted him. One night, though, was not enough. Already he was thinking how they would go on. But he hadn’t planned anything about this relationship. If he wanted it to continue, it was only fair that he be honest with her now.

  “That was my fiancée,” he said, choosing the most obvious starting point. “At Cleveland House, with the Marquis of Calverton.”

  She twisted her neck and gave him a faint, dreamy smile. Her copper hair spilled across the white sheets and her pale shoulders, silky soft against his arm. “I know.”

  Yes, she would. “Ah, of course. Sloan’s paper.”

  “That, and gossip, and innuendo, and the expectant silence that filled the room when you and she met.” She rolled her eyes. “Nothing is secret in London.”

  “No,” he murmured, pressing a kiss on her shoulder. “I suppose not.” How long until this was public knowledge? Charlie would never let him hear the end of it. Oddly, he didn’t care.

  She turned away. “I thought you handled the encounter very well. The lady will have no reason for embarrassment or reproach.”

  He barely caught back a snort. “I am sure that will please her.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Was this the first you saw of her since . . . ?”

  “Yes.” He trailed the backs of his knuckles over the full curve of her hip. Her figure was ripe and lush and utterly perfect, in his view, quite unlike the slim, willowy Louisa. Not that he had ever held Louisa naked in bed, nor even—come to think of it—been driven half mad with thinking about it.

  There was another long silence. “Did you love her?” she whispered.

  Edward paused. “Yes,” he admitted. “I did.” He thought he had, anyway. The feeling was distant and dim, barely remembered and hardly significant. Love was hardly necessary in the sort of marriage he had expected with Louisa, but he had refused to marry a woman he wasn’t fond of. Perhaps that was all it had been, and he’d mistaken it for love.

  Francesca rolled over to face him. “Do you still?”

  He stared at her face. It seemed an odd time to ask that question, as they lay naked together, twined in the sheets of her bed after several hours of scorching lovemaking. But then, perhaps it wasn’t. Perhaps it was the best time. He ran his fingers down the slope of her arm again to thread his fingers through hers. “No.” He raised her hand to brush his lips across her knuckles. “Do you love Baron Alconbury?”

  She gave a gasp of laughter—surprised, he thought, but not uneasy. “Alconbury! Where did you hear about him?”

  “Rumor,” he murmured. “Whispers. According to gossip, he wants to marry you.”

  She lifted one shoulder, but her smile faded. “Perhaps he does. That doesn’t mean I want to marry him.”

  “But a man doesn’t let it be known he wishes to marry a woman without some indication she would accept him. We aren’t such foolhardly fellows as that.” He continued kissing her hand, spreading her fingers against his own. She had beautiful hands, graceful and strong. Her fingers were almost as long as his.

  “Is that how it was when you proposed to Lady Louisa?” Her siren’s voice had grown husky again as she watched him caress her hand.

  “Yes.” He pressed his lips to her wrist, feeling the soft, strong beat of her pulse. “My family has known hers for years. Her father gave my father to understand that she was very fond of me and that he would look favorably on our union. My father suggested I see if she suited me.”

  “And then you fell in love with her?”

  “It was a good match.” He shrugged. “I called upon her a few times, and discovered we got on rather well. Our temperaments agreed. I came to care for her. By the time I proposed to her, it was a foregone conclusion; she knew I would ask, and I knew she would say yes.” He placed her hand flat against his chest, holding it to his skin with his own hand for a moment. He stroked her arm to her shoulder, then down the bare curve of her side. “So why would Alconbury think you might accept his offer of marriage?”

  She said nothing for a long moment. Edward waited, content to keep running his hands over her soft skin. He thought he could easily spend a year exploring just the dip of her waist below her rib cage. “My husband died only a month after my sister,” she said softly. He listened in silence; he already knew a few bare facts, but not how she saw them. “I wasn’t prepared for both. Giuliana had a difficult confinement, and the doctor warned her . . . Well, it was heartbreaking, but not a complete surprise when she died laboring to birth her child. But Cecil—my husband—Cecil agreed to act as a second in a duel, and somehow he ended up getting shot. He hadn’t said a word to me about any of it, and the friend who inveigled him to do it fled to the Continent before I could question him—or shoot him myself. It was a cruel shock. One day he was here, hearty and sound, and the next . . .” Her eyes were shadowed and sad.

  Edward’s fingers slowed to a stop and his jaw hardened. How could a man leave his wife so? And dueling, of all the damned foolish things to do. He wondered why Jackson hadn’t unearthed this rather lurid detail.

  She took a deep breath. “Alconbury brought me the news. He tried to stop that idiotic duel, and held Cecil’s hand to the last. I would have been lost without him these last two years. He’s been a good friend to me.”

  “I am glad he was.” Edward brushed a loose lock of hair back over her shoulder, his fingers lingering in the silky copper strands. “But you don’t love him.” He returned to the main point, the one that concerned him the most.

  She looked at him with a clear, open gaze. “If I did,” she whispered, “I would not be here with you.”

  “No?” He raised one eyebrow. The attraction between them was incendiary—strong enough to overcome his honorable intentions. He’d wanted her before he knew she was a widow, before he’d been charmed by her, before he’d even liked her. If Louisa hadn’t jilted him, he never would have been here with Francesca, either—but he would have thought about it.

  “Of course not. I had to work quite hard to lure you here,” she replied with a short laugh. “Why would I have wasted all that effort if I’d wanted Alconbury instead?”

  “You lured me here,” he repeated, beginning to smile. How had he never guessed how seductive it could be to know a woman wanted him enough to lure him? His fingertips glided down her shoulder. “I didn’t realize I was being pursued and manipulated . .
.”

  “You were taking too long to seduce me,” she said, unrepentant. She shifted her weight, stretching languidly beneath his touch. “I grew impatient.”

  “My dear Lady Gordon, I had no idea you wanted me from the moment we met.” He pressed closer to her, turning her onto her back. “You might have mentioned it earlier . . .” He stroked down the center of her chest, and pressed his lips to her collarbone.

  “Oh, not from the moment we met! I thought you were too dull initially.” She arched her neck and sighed as he kissed his way toward her throat. “Too restrained . . . too colorless . . . too quiet . . .”

  He laughed softly. His fingers skimmed the plane of her belly, teasing her navel and tracing her ribs. “And now?”

  “Hmm.” She tilted her head to the side and studied him with a playful expression. “A little less restrained than I thought.”

  “Yes, you’ve been a thoroughly corrupting influence.” He cupped the swell of her breast. “I feel utterly . . . debauched.”

  “Is that a complaint?” Her smile was pure, knowing, sin.

  Edward rolled on top of her, bracing himself on his elbows. “Did it sound like one?” He kissed her.

  “You should take it as a taunt.” She wound her arms around his neck and one leg around his waist as he settled his hips between her thighs. God almighty, he wanted her again, just as badly as he had downstairs. Then, he had put off any thought of consequences and repercussions. Now, he could see only that they were both free to want each other as desperately as they did. How fortunate that was . . .

  “Which part?” He slid his palm down her belly to touch her. She sucked in a sharp breath, but her hips rose against his, and when he pushed his finger inside her, she was wet.

  “To be . . . less quiet,” she gasped. Her body began to undulate beneath him. Edward slid another finger inside her, still stroking the spot that made her tremble and gasp.