He pushed off the door and came at her, his legs eating up the distance, stalking her in a manner that urged her to take flight, to bolt. It took all her will to hold her ground.
He stopped in front of her, the chair between them. “Why are you here?” he demanded.
There was no urgency to him, no fear that they might be discovered. No, that was only her fear. The hard hammer of which pulsed through her now. Her gaze darted several times toward the door and back to him. What if someone entered? He held himself boldly, as though he had every right to be here. And what would it matter to him if they were discovered? That was the dichotomy of men and women. Women had reputations to lose. Men merely had reputations.
“Why are you here?” he repeated.
“It is a party, is it not?” she snapped, her ire rising for the unfairness of it all. That he should have no worries whilst she had so many things to consider. That he should be so very appealing and so very out of her reach simultaneously. “There are a great many people here. Why shouldn’t I be here?”
He ignored the reasonableness of her question and angled his dark head in a manner that could be described only as faintly menacing. “Are you and the viscount lovers now?”
She came out from behind the chair, skirting him. “That’s none of your business,” she retorted even as heat flooded her face.
She moved about the room evasively, making progress toward the door. She never presented her back to him. That seemed a foolish thing to do.
She kept her gaze trained on his face, on the glitter of his gaze. She had been alone with him before and it never felt like this—all crackling space and too-hard-to-breathe air.
As she stared at him, it was hard to recall he was the same Lord Strickland she had known almost half her life.
Everything about him was different. He treated her . . . differently. Looked at her in a manner that made her skin feel too tight for her body.
Or maybe it was that she had changed. After all, she had become the manner of female who visited pleasure clubs and contemplated taking a lover.
He knew that about her now. So of course he would look at her differently and behave differently toward her.
Her gaze fixed on him as he closed the space between them. She held out a hand as though to ward him off. There shouldn’t be this strangeness between them. He should not look at her the way he was. He should not make her feel the way he did.
She was still Autenberry’s stepmother.
Still a duchess.
Still forbidden.
Those words never came, however. They were on the tip of her tongue, but she lost them when she bumped a table that held a lamp. Glass clinked in discord, and she turned, steadying the surface with shaking hands.
When she turned around again, it was to find him before her. She gasped at his sudden closeness and leaned back against the table, her gloved hands falling flat on the surface.
“I’m waiting for your answer.”
“What was the question?” She breathed, her pulse an urgent charge that ran all the way from her throat to the core of her . . . making her press her thighs together.
“Are you and Needling lovers now?”
For him to wonder such a thing was not outrageous, she supposed. Not given her activity of late. It was only outrageous in that he would think he had any right to ask.
Her fingers curled and dug into the cloth-covered surface of the table. The heat in her face did not abate. Any other man who dared to utter such words would be treated to the flat of her palm. It was only their long-standing connection that stopped her from slapping him.
“I do not see how that is any of your concern.”
He smiled slowly. Actually, it was more a grimace than a smile. His lips peeled back from his straight white teeth. “True, it’s not any of my business, but did you not only recently pry into my affairs regarding my intentions to marry? I think you even offered to help in my quest. I assumed that meant we were sharing confidences.”
She squared her shoulders and tried to pretend not to notice his gaze dip to her décolletage. A difficult task when her skin seemed to warm from the inside out at the stroke of his gaze. “It is not the same.”
His hands came to rest beside hers on top of the table. She felt all of him then aligned with her body. It was shocking. Even dancing, she had never felt a man’s body so close. Not since her husband.
“How so?” he pressed.
She struggled to focus, struggled to ignore the distraction of his proximity. Her eyes ached from lack of blinking. She really needed to blink. “It’s improper to ask me such a thing, whereas my inquiries are polite . . . an extension of my maternal interest—”
“Bollocks,” he growled, his hand coming to fist the side of her gown.
She swallowed against the impossibly thick lump in her throat at his hand there, gathering the fabric slowly up, radiating heat into her hip. “What?”
“Don’t.” The word puffed out in a breath.
“What?” she managed.
“Lie.”
He brought his other hand to her skirts. His body crouched slightly as his fists tightened, bunching the fabric, lifting her gown to her waist until cool air kissed her stocking-clad legs.
She opened her lips to speak but only a squeak escaped as he jerked her closer, mashing her breasts into his chest. Holding on to her waist, he lifted her and plopped her down on the table, wedging himself between her splayed thighs.
“Shall I show you just how much you lie?”
Without waiting for her reply, one of his hands dove between her parted legs.
He moved with such skill and swiftness to the slit in her drawers that she knew he was quite familiar with lady’s undergarments. He knew what he was about. Her head was spinning and she had yet to gain her voice before his fingers were gliding through her womanhood.
“Let’s just crush the idea that what you feel toward me is maternal once and for all,” he growled, his fingers growing more confident, stroking and circling around that tiny button of pleasure at the top of her sex.
Her head fell back with a strangled cry. “What are . . . you . . .” Her voice surfaced in a rasp. As far as protests went it was pathetic, but then, her body was one clamoring ball of need at the moment.
All she could do was gaze in astonishment at the stark handsomeness of his face. The burn of his stare matched the heavy throb low in her belly.
It had been too long since her body received any kind of attention. Even longer since her body knew true satisfaction—perhaps it never had. There was something about his hooded gaze that promised satisfaction—to say nothing of his hand working between her thighs, stroking that most intimate part of her.
Her body shook in her eagerness, her muscles tightening like a coil. She leaned back, giving him greater access.
She still recalled that trip to Sodom. The smell of sex and desire ripe all around her. It was as though the single experience had infected her, leaving her feverish and aching, afflicted with a deep craving for this, for him, even if she happened to be in the middle of a party at Lord Needling’s house. It mattered naught. She realized that now. When you had gone without for all your life, nothing else mattered when the opportunity finally presented itself.
She whimpered, her arms starting to tremble on the table from holding her weight. There was no denying herself this.
He explored her, circling her opening and then moving back up, so close to that aching nub, and then darting away again. Close but never quite touching it. She could weep for the torment of it. Her hips started to move, pelvis lifting, seeking his touch.
“So wet, Ela,” he groaned and dropped his head in the crook between her neck and shoulder. “You feel like honey and silk.”
His teasing became too much, unbearable. Soon she felt herself wet and slippery against his fingers. Embarrassment stabbed at her, but she pushed it aside as his hand continued to work its magic between her thighs.
She bit her
lips to stop herself from begging. Autenberry had never touched her like this. Until Sodom she had not known that men petted women in such a place on their bodies . . . nor had she had any notion that it could feel so good.
“Do you like this, Ela?” His deep voice scratched her skin, traveling over her and abrading her in her most tender places—places she hadn’t known could feel sensations like this.
And that’s when she realized he wanted that. He wanted her senseless with need. He wanted her to beg for it. Damn him.
She gnashed her teeth to stop her pleas from escaping.
“Say it. Tell me.” Colin’s finger brushed the tiny bud nestled at the top of her folds and she jerked as though burned, sucking in a hissing breath.
In the gloom of the room, his eyes glowed like moonlight. He continued to toy with her, circling around that button faster, tantalizingly close without actually making contact, bringing her to the brink of something.
She could hardly hold herself up. Her entire body quaked. She fell back on her elbows, making the dangling beads of the lamp jingle.
He squatted, shoving her legs wider apart. He looked up from between her thighs at her. “I’m going to taste you as you come apart, Ela.” She gaped down at him, bewildered, her body a throbbing inferno at his outrageous words. But he didn’t stop there. He continued to talk, to say the most scandalous things that made her already pulsating body vibrate with want and need. “And then after you come apart, you’re going to beg me for more. For me. Inside you. Not bloody Needling. Not any other man.”
Then his hands gripped the slit of her drawers and tore the fabric wider, giving him greater access. Her chest froze, the air trapped in her lungs as she watched his head dip. His mouth was there. On her. He took the oversensitized nub he had just been teasing moments before and sucked it deep in his mouth, his tongue flaying it as his teeth scored the tender flesh.
She gasped, her hands diving into his hair. It was too much. She tugged on the strands but his face just burrowed deeper between her legs. But then she felt it. The coming apart he had promised. A tidal wave of sensation washed over her. Moisture rushed between her legs.
She choked, overcome, lurching off the table as she shattered and came apart. A shriek tore from her lips, but his hand shot up, covering her mouth and muffling the cry as his own mouth continued to devour her below, riding out her pleasure.
She drifted back to earth gradually. Small sobs spilled from her throat. She couldn’t help herself. The aftershocks continued to come. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes and she couldn’t stop shaking.
She was dimly aware of his hands tugging her skirts back down as he rose. She should be grateful for that, she supposed. And yet she couldn’t motivate herself to move. Her muscles had the consistency of jam. Her legs hung limply off the sides of the table.
He grasped her arms and pulled her off the table to her feet. She wobbled on her legs and he reached out to steady her. She stared at him, still feeling dazed and fuzzy headed.
He smiled down at her, looking so smug and satisfied. Embarrassment brought a fresh wave of heat to her face. She’d come apart for him just as he predicted. This was also the moment, after she came apart, that he predicted she would beg him for more.
He hadn’t forgotten his promise either, for his next words were just as smug as his expression: “When I claim you, it won’t be on a table.”
A shiver of anticipation shot through her, followed fast with regret because she had no business feeling anticipation.
She really was shameful. She’d allowed him—Lord Strickland! Que el cielo me ayude—to do the most wicked things to her whilst the girl he was courting played the pianoforte a few rooms over. And despite all that, Graciela still wanted him. She wanted him to do more wicked things to her. Every wicked thing.
She had clearly lost herself. Anger welled up inside her. Anger at herself . . . anger at him.
His eyes stared down at her so knowingly. He thought he had her. He thought he’d won.
Her hand twitched at her side and before she realized her intent, she slapped him.
For a moment neither one of them moved. Their breaths crashed between them, the only sound in the silent room. He touched his cheek where her hand had left a stark white handprint on his face. He looked utterly calm as he gazed back at her.
Her chest heaved. She felt anything but calm. She wanted to hit him again, irrational or not, and that shamed her, too.
“Feel better?” he asked.
No. She felt worse. The strange urge to cry overwhelmed her. She didn’t know what this was. She didn’t know who she was.
She shook her head. “No more.” It was all she could think. All she could manage to get out.
It was enough to garner a reaction from him. His eyes narrowed. “I’m assuming you’re referring to us.”
She nodded.
He chuckled and the rough laughter startled her. She eyed him warily.
“You really are naïve if you think we will never do this again, Ela. We started something here. It’s too late to go back.”
His words sent a sharp sting of panic through her. Was he right? She was suddenly desperate to prove him wrong. He had to be wrong. They had to go back to the way things were before. She winced. Very well . . . maybe that wasn’t possible, but she definitely knew they couldn’t move forward. If someone ever found out about them—and people always found out—it would be disastrous.
He dropped his hand away from his face. The white handprint had faded to leave a reddened cheek behind. “If you were honest with yourself, you would admit we both want this and then we could quit wasting time and find the nearest bed.”
She should hate his words. Hate him for all the grief he was putting her through. Instead she felt a treacherous little thrill. She was still wet between the thighs from him and terribly sensitive. Her body hummed, ready for the more that he had promised.
She took a bracing breath, suppressing her body’s traitorous longings and reached for logic—for sanity. “You need to be an adult, Colin.”
His nostrils flared and she knew she’d insulted him with the insinuation that he was a child. “I am an adult,” he growled.
“Then you should know that you can’t always have what you want.”
“I’m adult enough to know that this thing between us isn’t simply going to go away. We might as well indulge in it, purge it from ourselves.”
She bit her lip, silently arguing that he was wrong. Giving in to this thing between them would make everything worse.
In the distance, music started, signaling Lord Needling’s daughters had resumed playing. It was like a douse of cold water, effectively killing all the yearning she felt. A necessary reminder. He belonged out there, wooing his future bride. Not in here committing all manner of licentiousness with her.
She turned in the direction of the door, motioning at it with her hand. “I’m sure Forsythia is looking for you. Save your kisses for her. She will gladly take them.” The image that produced cut her like a blade. Forsythia with Colin—his head ducking between her thighs to do all the wicked things he had just done to Graciela. The idea actually hurt; it was a physical ache in her chest.
Just then a sound reached her ears. Footsteps. A door opening and closing, the noise echoing down the stretch of corridor.
Someone was coming.
Her panicked gaze flew to Colin’s face, but he was already moving, diving behind a large piece of furniture draped in cloth just as the door cracked open.
Lord Needling peered into the shadows. His gaze scanned the room, stopping with a jerk on her. His expression lightened. “Your Grace! I’ve been searching for you. I worried when you had not returned. The recital has continued.”
She stepped forward, pasting a smile on her face and pretending not to feel the evidence of what she had just done beneath her skirts. The rent fabric of her drawers flapped against her upper thighs.
“I just needed a moment. The retiring roo
m was quite crowded,” she lied, assuming he would not contradict her. How would he know what it was like inside the ladies’ retiring room?
He nodded agreeably, offering his arm. She stepped forward to accept it, eager to leave the room where Colin hid. After they departed, he would slip out and presumably return to the musicale, no one the wiser.
Her heart hammered in her chest, the fear of discovery enough to choke her. She wouldn’t breathe easy until she was in her seat. Perhaps not even then.
Her fingers settled in the nook of the viscount’s arm. She resisted the urge to look behind her into the shadows to assure herself that no part of Colin was in sight. She needn’t draw Lord Needling’s attention anywhere except to her.
Needling covered her hand on his arm with his own and gave it a squeeze. “I’m so glad you came tonight, Your Grace.”
She nodded, shaking inside, her nerves stretched thin. She tried to step forward so that they might continue out from the room but his hand tightened around hers, holding her in place.
His eyes roamed her face. “Are you well, Graciela?”
She nodded, an uncomfortable knot forming in her chest at the avid way he was looking at her combined with the knowledge that Colin was in the room listening to their exchange. She prayed he would make no sound even as she wondered, what must he think? Then she told herself it didn’t matter what he thought. Despite what just occurred between them, he had no claim on her.
“Yes, of course,” she said, willing to say just about anything to get him to lead them out of this room.
He released a nervous sounding breath. “Brilliant. Then while I have you alone here, I must do what I have longed to do since I first clapped eyes on you all those years ago. I confess, even when my late wife was alive, I felt a strong pull toward you.”
She shook her head, horror filling her as he drew closer, his head inching her way. No. No. No. This wasn’t happening. He wasn’t saying these things. He wasn’t moving toward her with puckering lips and passion-glazed eyes.
She pressed the flat of her hand against his chest and strained away, hoping to stop him from encroaching further. “My lord . . .” she began, glad that he wasn’t a very big man. He was scarcely taller than she. Not that she imagined she would have to wrestle free of him, but if necessary she likely could.
The Scandal of It All Page 8