by Gayle Eden
The woman curtsied and finished smoothing Alina’s hair into its wavy style, before leaving...
Facing the long mirrors, three of them, making a screen around the dressing table, Alina watched him get to his feet and then come over while pulling a velvet box from the jacket of his coat. He box, placed it on the vanity, and opened it. His swarthy fingers extracted a delicate chain with a single diamond.
He stepped behind her to latch it.
Head bent slightly, she closed her eyes at the brush of his fingers against her nape. Aware of his scent, his large presence, finding that any time she was around him, her mind wanted to fix on the dangerous rep and harsh features—but more and more some part was always too aware of the heat and scent. Aware too, of that intensity, some alluring something about his darkness and strength that made her senses alert and skin tingle.
He was over a foot taller than she, and muscled in a way the snug trousers showed. He had long powerful legs. His broad shoulders that could block out the view where he was standing before her. Alina was too aware of the silken black of his hair, and the sooty lashes that stayed half-mast at times over sherry eyes. Dangerous he may be. Aloof, but it had a potent allure all the same.
When he was done with the latch, she raised her head, seeing that his eyes were on her reflection—where the single diamond rested at the hollow of her throat. They lifted slowly and met her own jade ones, this time with something more than the usual satisfaction at her appearance.
“Are you a fair gambler?”
She wet her lip. “I know the rules. I haven’t played save teaching Audra a few hands.”
“Play tonight. I’ll cover your stakes.”
She nodded turning as he stepped back and went to fetch her white velvet cape. He held it for her, then said stepping back as she tied the throat loosely, “I’ve entered an exclusive game which will likely go on until the wee hours.”
She nodded. “I’m sure I can amuse myself.”
He dipped his head with a slight curve to his lips, and then escorted her downstairs, collecting his long cape and an ivory-headed walking cane in the foyer. In the coach a bit later, he drew on white gloves. It did not escape Alina that he made few concessions to fashion. She had seen him just as oft in black leather gloves, a long coat with wide high collar and cape. Or in all black. His hair lay on his shoulders in layered strands, unlike most who combed and clubbed theirs back. The Viscount too, did not wear his similarly long mane clubbed. A slight smile teased her mouth as she thought to herself how she found those little things attractive too. She was still living with a stranger in some ways, and yet accepting that he drew her in many ways.
There was a crush at the mansion and they exited amid laughter and loud calls. People moved toward the entry draped in their rich fabrics and sparkling jewels, many greeting each other wit familiarity as the coaches and buggies deposited them at the curb. There was a long line to the main doors and Alina noted that Rotherham merely nodded when greeted by name. Hand on his arm; she received long assessing stares, which she returned with an enigmatic smile and nod. Once or twice Rotherham introduced her as, “My wife. The Countess, Alina.” She curtsied to a foreign noble whom her husband greeted with, your grace.
Inside, there was no announcing of formal titles and names so they proceeded as the line moved, gaining the elevated entry with stairs that flowed down into a marble-floored room. It was filled with patrons, some around the gilt legged card tables. There was roulette and other games of chance in the center. A steady crowd poured in behind them and music cascaded from a balcony orchestra.
Alina observed the ivory walls of the hall swaged with rich blue velvet drapes, with gold-fringed edging. Seating was available in the form of scrolled and plump chairs and settees against the walls or in out of the way spots. Servers carried trays of champagne, wine, other spirits, as well as fine cheroots.
It was obviously a crowd of usual’s, going by what Trevon had told her of the place—a Spaniard or two, some Russian diplomat, a dozen dark skinned men with official looking sashes on their uniforms. She stayed on Rotherham’s arm until they had their drink, and made their way to the far end. There was a large private table of several people, who came to their feet as they approached.
After introductions were made via her husband, Rotherham turned to her in dismissal. “Enjoy your evening. I will sign any markers or notes on your behalf.”
She nodded. “Good luck.”
He smiled that, not reaching his eyes smile, which she was coming to privately call his indulging you smile. He did bow toward her before he turned and took his seat.
Alina found a game needing another player and sat down when invited— losing quite a bit before she could read her opponents well enough to start winning instead. They were not large wins. Nevertheless, it made for entertainment, and she did find herself laughing often—the group she played with being very witty and droll. None of them seemed to take losing badly, and they teased each other with familiarity when winning.
Three men were scattered around her table; and one, a Scotsman, gave the women a run for their money in witty by play. Alina almost did not mind when she did lose, and have to toss her cards in. even their long stories were about someone they could point out in the room and she had to chuckle with them and their biting wit between each other, passed hours entertained, where otherwise she would be trying to make small talk that wasn’t really her strong suit.
Night deepened, and her group eventually dispersed, finding other games, and friends, some leaving for another amusement. Having had several glasses of champagne, Alina ordered a Turkish coffee they were famous for and sat back a bit to watch the blur of faces, observing the tension in those who played too deep and lost, and the euphoria of those who won. There were couples, some older and perceptibly jaded by the impressive atmosphere and elite patrons. Men with their mistresses, obvious due to the flamboyant gowns and headpieces as well as the liberties and intimate touching—some beautiful, some not—but all richly turned out.
There was, if one attended close enough, couples passing, murmuring in French extending explicit offers before heading toward the grand stairs and the upper floors. She had heard there were dining and more intimate chambers above, and that many nobles had reserved suits or rooms prior to arriving.
Finished with her coffee, Alina arose and wondered around. She gambled a bit without losing much. Gambling did not really interest her as much as the people doing it were distracting. She ended up near the table were Rotherham still played. Set apart from the room at large, it was an indication that the players would not welcome hovering by non-participants. She could see Rotherham from her spot. His jacket hung on the back of the chair, his white were cuffs rolled up, and the throat of his shirt undone.
He appeared relaxed. The others tense. He played whilst sipping brandy, and smoking a cheroot, never showing a reaction to winning or losing.
The room never thinned to any degree. In fact, the later the hour, the more guests poured in from balls or other amusements. Though windows were tall and wide opened, it became an atmosphere thick with perfume, smoke, and spirits.
Alina was busily looking around at patrons, so she did not realize Rotherham’s game had concluded until she heard the scrape of chairs.
She saw him bow as the others did and collect his jacket. He didn’t put it on, nor roll down his sleeves, but had it over his arm as he found her with his gaze, even in the thick crush.
Hands in his pockets, he walked toward her, raven hair a bit mussed and taller than many in the room.
“Let’s take some air.” He reached for her arm. Thankful for the chance to breathe it, Alina let him lead her through the crush and into a hall at the top of the dais; entry; a few steps beyond and they exited ivory doors with iron grillwork, and stood in a compact courtyard.
A path went round the mansion. Others were on it, but Alina breathed fresh night air into her lungs whilst he leaned against the outer wall, doing much th
e same. Rotherham raked a hand through his hair and then tucked it back into his pocket, watching her as she wiped at her face and neck with a damp hanky.
“Are you hungry?”
“Not for a large meal. But I will sit while you eat?” She smiled.
He shook his head and then reached for her hand, leading her out the Iron gate and up the street. “There is a bakery, just a block away.”
She enjoyed the walk, even if Paris was alive with traffic and music from the halls and dining clubs. The streets were as raucous in the night as in the day hours. Arriving at the small bakery, they ate croissants and drank rich coffee before strolling back to the hell.
Inside again, Alina watched Trevon at the roulette wheel and other games, before he called it a night. They fetched their wraps, departing at the edge of the dawn hour and arriving home before the sky lighted.
The sleepy maid helped her with the dress, and then Alina offered, “I’ll see to the rest. Go back to your bed.” She kicked off the pumps and laid the diamonds in their case before washing her face in a bowl, patting her nape, and dipping the cloth between her breasts to cool her heated skin. She undid the chemisette ties with the other hand.
Alina had the garment open, and wearing just the lace stockings whilst glancing out the windows at the lightening mist of dawn. The hand with the cloth soothed over her breasts and flat stomach, cooling, refreshing her, whilst the dense noise of the hell cleared from her head. She heard a soft click and turned to find her husband leaning just in the doorway—darkness behind him and the small lamp by the dressing table lighting on his dishevel.
His shirt was pulled free of his trousers, and he was in feet bare. A gap in the unbuttoned shirt showed a swarthy chest, solid muscled. And his ridged abdomen.
Conscious that her nipples were hard from the skim of wet cloth, she nearly moaned as the edges of the chemise slid back from them. With the usual awareness, her skin now chilled, and tightened in an unexplainable way, the feel of the lace brushing her buttocks, the inches of skin between her stockings and the hem cooling all registered in her mind.
“Did he tell you that you were beautiful?” Rotherham’s voice was low, intimate.
She did not ask whom. “No. It was not that sort of marriage. He was a retired captain. I think, the marriage was an assuage of his loneliness. Still, my mother coming to live with me, drawing her usual low company, and staying in constant debt—” She shrugged. “He avoided the house, and spent his days at the tavern. I did not blame him. One of mother’s lovers apparently assumed he had money on him after a night of cards. They shot him as he was coming home one night.”
Rotherham nodded as if confirming he already knew that. “You are.”
She stared at him, her profile still to him, though with the chemisette undone and falling away, it did not leave much covered. Her breath grew a bit shallow realizing what he said.
He went on, “Handsome in the face, lithe and compact in body. Petite, which somehow suits you,” he spoke in a one, not hard as usual, but not precisely seductive, merely informative.
Rotherham pulled away and walked toward her, his long legs quickly taking him to stand before her, before Alina could cover herself.
His gaze glided over her, lingering on the up thrust small breasts, skimming down flat ribs, slim hips, and lingering again on her upper thighs—and that strip of hair between them. He moved a few steps viewing her from behind and said, “Your derrière is sweetly rounded, spine sleek, legs shapely.”
She muttered, to cover her real reaction to his words, “I feel like a horse at Tatters.”
A sound—suspiciously like a laugh answered that.
she could not imagine him doing so, thus Alina called it a grunt—before he stepped round and half sat on the window ledge—the wall of them having been behind him. He let the morning air cool him whilst he held her gaze and uttered, “You’ve got good teeth.”
She grinned and arched her brow. “Was that a jest, Rotherham?”
“Never,” he murmured, though she saw in his gaze that it was.
Alina admitted, “I feel a bit disadvantaged, and awkward, standing here like this.”
“You shouldn’t. You are most attractive. But sit.” He waved toward the bench behind her, at the foot of the bed.
She turned and sat, and was starting to latch the chemisette when he murmured, “It feels better undone, so leave it.”
She left it—feeling her nipples get tighter. Feeling, when her thighs came together, some wicked sensitivity of her skin brushing skin.
He had his ankles crossed, the shirt falling away from his honed torso, and hands lightly braced on the window ledge by his thighs, as he looked her over in that low lidded way.
“It’s sometimes difficult to relax, even after a night such as we spent. At times, the atmosphere, crowds, the play itself, leaves one with a certain tension.
She watched his lids lift. Alina met his stare as he offered, “A climax will do the trick. It soothes all the frayed edges and melts all the clutter out of one’s head. Not to mention, it makes one more aware of one’s sexual self. After the first time, you become more sensitive, awake, to the erotic atmosphere. Knowing what your body can feel—brings you in tune with your instincts.”
Somewhere as she absorbed that and stared at him, Alina had a vague memory of a brief wedding, briefer bedding, and occasionally waking to find her husband pushing up her gown. It was not anything she gave thought to, simply a part of marriage, and nothing special or dreadful. Simply a duty.
The way Rotherham was staring at her, talking to her—yes, just from the way he chose her clothing, she knew he was speaking of something entirely different. Already her awareness around him was making her feel differently about herself as a woman, and the clothing, the way he was simply—had her aware that she had missed much in her twenty six years of womanhood.
Rotherham was dangerous in more ways than one. He made her somewhat nervous because of that darker edge to him. It was not as if she had grown blasé about him seeing her nude or undressed. Even in this semi-detached mood, he could say things, look at her, and her breath and heartbeat changed.
“I’ve nothing to respond to that.” She raked her teeth over her lip then glanced down at the floor, and up again. “I’ll take your word for it.”
He unfolded his frame and padded to her. Rotherham reached and cupped her shoulders, lifting her by them, still cupping them, he met her watchful gaze, and she was not expecting it when he lowered his head—and kissed her.
Having been kissed, Alina knew she had never had one—like his.
His lips were like smooth velvet flowing over hers. When his tongue sought entry, she gave it, hearing the breath rush through her nose at the sleek, intimate feel of it. Her body reacted to the mysterious eroticism in the way he kissed.
He moved his head slightly, made her tongue lift for his—making sure he laved around it and under, doing things in her mouth that felt sexual. When he was done with that, he lightly kissed her lips, in a loose way that whispered their mouths against each other. It made her dizzy, left her trembling. He went back inside purposefully, and left no sensitive spot unclaimed.
Pulling back amid her harsh breaths, Trevon raised his head a bit, lashes lifting as hers did, so that his gaze held captured her own, searching it, clearly reading her reaction.
Her hands fisted at her sides, Alina had wanted to raise them, to clutch at him when her head spun. She licked her damp lips, tasting him. She sensed however that he would have prevented her from touching him.
It was an odd thought, in the jumble of her mind.
His hands slid from her shoulders to the sides of her neck. The tips of her breasts touched his chest as he came inches closer. Thumbs brushing upward, he lowered and kissed her soft, short, ones, before biting at her lower lip.
This time, when he stared at her, there was that sense of approval behind it.
Trevon let one hand glide over her breast, and down her side, b
efore nudging her toward the dressing table.
She sat as he motioned for her to, and drew in a breath when he peeled the chemise off her—watching him in the mirror when he stood behind, scanning her body, completely nude, save the stockings.
“Part your legs.”
Alina did so, trying to ignore the tremble in them. He sat on the bench beside her and facing opposite, but back enough to reach over and skim his palm up the inside of her thigh—watching her face as he did so.
Her gaze observed that masculine hand, saw it touch both thighs in long caresses—then moved when he leaned over and caught her nipple between his teeth. She raised her hand instinctively to his upper arm. He loosed that nipple, leaving it wet and quivering—looking at her hand on his arm, before he slid it down to rest on his hard thigh.
Flickering her a brief glance, he went back to licking and teasing her nipple, still caressing her legs—stopping just as the edge of his hand butting soft against her sex. Arching her back, Alina was amazed at the way his normally harsh mouth appeared wrapped around her nipple. Amazed at the feel of what he did with it. The moist heat and flicks of his tongue made her skin come alive in a way it never had before.
She moved her body, giving him access to the other breast. Breathing short and quick, and then drawing in a sharp gasp of air when he suckled harder and took more into his mouth.
He raised his head enough to skim his lips between her breast, then up to her collarbone, and across her throat. When a noise of pleasure betrayed her, Trevon stood and sat astride the bench, facing her—his teeth nibbling at the side of her throat, his breath warm on her skin before he husked in her ear, taking her hand in his to rub against her thighs, “Feel how soft, how sensual, your skin is…”
Alina stared into the mirror with drugged eyes, watching his larger, darker hand, guiding hers in a caress of her skin. He skimmed it upwards, over her sex and stomach, over each breast languidly, and back down.
Lifting his head again, he turned and glanced in the mirrors, saying, “Arch your feet.”
She did so, letting him push her thighs wider. Whispering, “Rotherham...” in a half aroused, half embarrassed way. It exposed her sex fully—his fingers opening the lips, exposing the glistening tender flesh—the evidence of how aroused she was.