by Liz Carlyle
Slipping her fingers into his, she smiled. “I do not need these veils.”
David frowned. “I think I must insist, Cecilia,” he said slowly. “I am not perfectly ready to commit us to this life of scandal you so heedlessly wish to rush into.”
Cecilia looked at him, confused. “Widows take lovers. Indeed, it is often done.”
“Not by you,” he said succinctly.
“As you wish, my lord.” With a fluid, elegant gesture, Cecilia lifted both her hands and drew down the froth of black netting about her face. “Kindly observe that in order to get what I want, I can occasionally be obedient.”
———
Cecilia recognized at once that David’s home in Curzon Street was the epitome of restrained elegance. And it was also, just as he had claimed, terribly short of staff. After a long wait, the second footman let them in, and as casually as if he did it every day, David ordered a light supper sent up to his bedchamber.
The footman did not so much as blink when he took Cecilia’s cloak. David offered his arm and escorted her through his home. Cecilia was deeply intrigued. The first floor was made up of the dining room, the breakfast room, a blue and gold drawing room, and a beautiful, airy parlor with French windows which gave onto a tiny garden.
“My mother’s morning room,” he said softly, and then, he led her up the stairs. Two flights of them, to be precise. As if sensing her confusion, he explained. “My mother has retained the master’s suite here. She is an invalid, and so it is easier for the servants, and for Charlotte. I have taken a room on the floor above. It suits me well enough, and as you see, the house is quite large.”
Soon, he pushed open a heavy mahogany door, and Cecilia found herself inside a startlingly austere room. David’s bedchamber was well but sparsely furnished in shades of brown and ivory. In the center of the room sat a massive bed without hangings or canopies of any sort. To the right, in front of the hearth, was a small sitting area with a table, a brown leather sofa, and a pair of sturdy armchairs. To the left of the bed sat a huge walnut armoire, a very masculine writing desk, and a doorway which obviously gave onto a dressing room.
In the hearth, a cheery fire burned, and on a small side table sat a decanter of what might have been port, along with several glasses. It was not a large room, but it was warm, unpretentious, and, best of all, it smelled of him.
Determined to behave as confidently as he had done, Cecilia folded back her veils and lifted off her bonnet, tossing it onto the bed. Then, suddenly, an uncomfortable thought struck her. “Your valet?”
David shrugged out of his coat and threw it across the settee. “Kemble insists upon having Thursday evenings off,” he returned, his voice quiet and a little uncertain. And then, as if he’d made up his mind about something, he whipped decisively around, caught her hand, and pulled her against him in a motion so swift and fluid it made her breath catch.
His mouth came down on hers in a kiss which was rich with possibilities. Lazily, his lips met hers, molded to them, and slid languidly back and forth, as if he meant to take all night. At once, Cecilia decided she didn’t mind if he did. Her heart began to hammer, and a fierce, primal need rose up inside her as she melted her body against his.
David’s lips were perfect, warm and faintly sweet. He slid his mouth over hers again, lightly nibbling, gently sucking, and raking her skin with the dark shadow of his beard. Cecilia’s nostrils flared, drawing in his warm, musky scent. He was tall, and Cecilia was very short, and so she rose up onto the toes of her slippers to meet him, realizing as she did that it should feel awkward to kiss a man in the privacy of his bedchamber. Certainly, Cecilia had never done so before.
But as if they’d done it just this way a thousand times, David kissed her thoroughly, opening his mouth over hers, teasing at her lower lip, then sliding his tongue sinuously inside, probing, tasting, and touching her very soul, it seemed.
And yet, it was not enough. Cecilia let her hands slide from his shoulders to his waist, and then to the buttons of his waistcoat. She felt David shudder under her touch as she slipped the first one free, and at once, he pulled incrementally away, without really lifting his lips from hers.
“Dinner...” he murmured against her mouth. “The servants will be bringing dinner.”
As if he had commanded it, a sharp knock sounded. Tearing himself away from her, David went to the door, took one tray from the servant, and ordered the rest of it set down in the corridor. With a wink to Cecilia, he crossed the room and put down the tray on top of the table. A bottle of white wine and a bowl of fruit followed.
Cecilia raised her brows. “A well-trained staff,” she remarked.
David’s grin merely deepened. “Perhaps just an optimistic one,” he muttered.
Cecilia wanted to ask what he meant, but at that moment, David picked up the wine bottle and poured it into glasses. He closed the distance between them, pressing a glass into her hand.
“To tonight, then,” he said, softly holding her gaze.
Cecilia stared over the rim of her glass. “To tonight,” she repeated.
David drained his glass, then stared at her. “I would dash this against the hearth, my dear,” he said jokingly, “but it’s Venetian. I hope you don’t mind.”
Laughing, Cecilia lowered her eyes to the bowl of her glass. “You sound rather like my old Scottish auntie, my lord. So infinitely pragmatic.”
To her surprise, he made no response, and it seemed to Cecilia that the silence grew deafening. What on earth had she said? Embarrassed, she drained her wine, which was perhaps unwise.
“If you have no valet,” she said, setting her glass aside, “may I offer my services?”
At that, David finally laughed. “My lady, I can think of no greater luxury,” he answered, sounding almost himself. “Will you accompany me to my dressing room?”
Following him, Cecilia passed by the foot of his bed, across the rather ordinary brown and gold carpet, and into the dressing room. If his bedchamber had been simply appointed, this room was quite the opposite. Cecilia found the difference telling indeed. While the simplicity of the inner man was hinted at by the stark bedroom, the public persona of Lord Delacourt was quite obviously crafted, layer upon layer, within the confines of his dressing room. It was almost as if the two chambers belonged to different men altogether.
In addition to several built-in wardrobes and two oak chests-on-chests, the dressing room contained a long brass hip-bath, a dressing table, bandboxes topped with a tower of hatboxes, a wooden frame filled with walking sticks, a tall jewel chest, and a walnut rack piled high with freshly laundered cravats. A large mahogany cheval glass provided the crowning touch of elegance to the quintessential gentleman’s dressing room.
“I fear the stench of Mrs. Derbin’s yet clings to me,” David murmured, tilting the glass to better untie his cravat. “You’ll forgive me, my dear, if I put on a dressing gown?”
Cecilia stepped boldly forward. “Permit me, sir,” she said, lowering her eyes to his throat. And then, with fingers that were surprisingly steady, Cecilia unfastened the intricate knot, unwrapped it from around his collar, and let it slither onto the carpet at David’s feet.
On tiptoes, she rose up to kiss him lightly. “And now,” she mused, dropping her gaze, “the waistcoat, I think.” Swiftly, she unfastened the remaining buttons, pushed it off his shoulders, and let it fall.
David lifted one eyebrow. “This shall certainly teach my man not to take Thursdays off,” he remarked, eyeing the growing pile of clothing on the floor. “Please, madam, have your way with me.”
Emboldened, Cecilia knelt and pulled off his shoes, hurling them into one corner. Then, she stood and began to tug free his shirttails. Impassively, David lifted his arms, his mouth quirking into a sideways grin. “You’re impatient,” he remarked.
But Cecilia was scarcely listening. His shirttails now free of his trousers, she slid her hands beneath the fine, starched cambric, skimming her palms around his waist and t
hen up his body, spearing her fingers through the fine thatch of hair which covered his chest. Cecilia could feel the male heat and strength surge inside him, and it made her ache with a strange new longing.
She knew David felt it, too. Under her touch, all humor suddenly vanished, and he made a deep noise in the back of his throat, a low, sweet sound of agony. Empowered, Cecilia found his nipples, hard and erect beneath her fingertips. For a moment, she let her fingers tease and play uncertainly, and then boldly, she withdrew her hands to shove the cambric up his chest. With another guttural sound, David stripped the shirt over his head.
At once, Cecilia’s mouth found his nipples. As he had done with hers, Cecilia took one into her mouth, wondering if it would please him.
It did. “Ah, Cecilia!” he choked.
Lightly, she brushed her tongue across his flesh, and David’s fingers seized her shoulders, digging into her skin. Again, he moaned hungrily, but Cecilia did not intend to rush. She wished to torment him. As he had tormented her.
Yes, this was her fantasy, and she meant to revel in it. Moreover, she would have been worse than a fool had she not sensed David’s doubt about their relationship. It was remotely possible that this might be her only chance to savor, to learn. And Cecilia meant to do both.
As if drawn by an irresistible force, her fingers found the close of his gray wool trousers. Awkwardly, she fumbled, and to her relief, David’s hands came down to slip loose the fastenings and shove the fabric free. His erection rose up between his hands, jutting from the white linen of his drawers, straight and strong and throbbing.
Strangely, the next step seemed perfectly natural, and it had nothing to do with the wicked paintings and statues she’d seen that afternoon. Unhesitatingly, Cecilia went to her knees in a crushing puddle of silk and petticoats. Greedily, her hands found him.
“Oh, God,” David whispered, one hand sliding down the back of her hair, gently cradling her head. “Oh, my God. Cecilia. You can’t. I can’t...”
But he made no move to stop her.
Deeply, Cecilia drew him into the warmth of her mouth. To steady herself, she slid one hand around him to cradle his taut buttocks. It seemed perfectly natural. She felt powerful. Feminine.
Her mouth moved on him inexpertly at first, and then more confidently, as the stroking rhythm built. Still cradling the back of her head, David let his other hand clutch at her shoulder, his fingers flexing spasmodically against her skin. “Oh... love, have mercy,” he whispered, choking out the words. David’s buttocks had drawn tight, his pelvis had thrust urgently forward.
Suddenly, the fingers which had so gently cradled her head fisted into her scalp, pulling the pins from her hair. “Stop!” he hoarsely rasped. “Oh, God, stop...!”
Cecilia lifted her eyes to see that David’s head was thrown back, his mouth open in a silent, strangling cry. In one swift, demanding motion, he hauled her up and against his chest. Awkwardly, the heel of her shoe caught in her skirts. Cecilia stumbled and fell against him. The sound of rending silk tore through the room.
And then, Cecilia could never remember quite how, David dragged her down and onto the floor. His elbow struck the walnut rack, sending a pile of white cambric cascading, unnoticed, onto the carpet. Urgently, wordlessly he shoved up her skirts, fumbling for the slit in her drawers. David’s need was primal and ruthless, his impatience palpable. With a primitive male grunt, his fingers speared into her. At his touch, she shuddered, opening for him. Wildly, his eyes flared.
Instinctively, Cecilia threw one leg about his waist and pulled him down. Her slipper slid off and tumbled down his back. David entered her on one hard stroke, roughly shoving himself inside, bracing himself over her with one hand. The tendons of his arm and neck went taut as he thrust himself inside her like a man possessed.
And then, his eyes squeezed shut. His head went back, jerking repeatedly. “Ah, Cecilia... oh, Jesus...” he rasped, furiously pumping himself inside her, driving her backward. Cecilia felt the top of her head bump against something hard. Behind them, the rack of walking sticks rocked wildly, then clattered against the hip-bath and onto the floor. A hatbox tumbled, fell open, and rolled across the carpet. David shoved himself home one last time, then collapsed limply, trembling against her.
Cecilia pressed her lips to the damp skin of his throat. Convulsively, he swallowed. “Oh, love,” he rasped. “I am so sorry. So sorry.”
Soothingly, Cecilia stroked the palm of her hand down his back. “Why?” she whispered.
David buried his face in her hair, now tumbled into wild disarray. “I have never—” he panted. “Oh, God—never lost myself so dishonorably.”
Cecilia brushed her lips across the base of his throat. “I think I’m flattered.”
Clumsily, David lifted himself up, staring down into her face for a long moment. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Cecilia,” he finally confessed, his breathing still ragged. “I apparently cannot touch you without losing control. Perhaps... well, perhaps it really is old age. I was once accounted quite skilled at this.”
Cecilia grinned. “Oh, David, you’re still quite skilled.”
With a grunt of resignation, he shifted his weight slightly to one side, as if to make her comfortable. “It’s not supposed to be like this, Cecilia,” he gently explained.
Cecilia let her fingers skim down the wall of muscle which formed his chest. “But what if—” She paused for a heartbeat. “What if it is supposed to be like this?”
David closed his eyes and shook his head. “Good sex is like music or ballet,” he softly insisted. “It should have grace and rhythm. But most important, it should be equitable.”
“And what if you are wrong?” she asked, stroking back the heavy, dark hair which shadowed his face. “What if it is supposed to be raw and untamed? What if it isn’t always equal? Or graceful? Of course, I realize I’m merely a novice,” she softly added, “but did someone write rules I know nothing of?”
David stared down into Cecilia’s wide, innocent blue eyes and felt his heart lurch. Slowly, he lowered himself, resting his forehead on hers. “Cecilia,” he whispered. “I’m scared.”
She looked at him in astonishment. “Of what, pray tell?”
“You. Us. All of this.”
Cecilia returned his gaze unflinchingly. “David, just make love to me,” she said, her voice soft and certain. “Undress me slowly as you did last night, and take me to your bed and love me—”
“Cecilia—” But there, words failed him. Just as his body had done. What in God’s name was he going to do? His world was turning upside down. “Cecilia, darling, I can, but... it will take some time. That’s how it is. For a man. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
Gently, Cecilia urged him off her. “And we have all night,” she reminded him. “Or most of it. And I would have you show me ways in which we may pleasure one another.”
David levered himself onto one elbow, then stood to help her from the floor. He drew her up into his arms, gathering her against his chest. “You know too much already, Cecilia,” he reassured her, speaking softly against her ear. “That trick that you pulled on me just now—I know perfectly well where you learnt it. I know perfectly well what has made you so curious, and it is not necessary for you to do or even to know of such things.”
Cecilia pushed herself away from him and stared straight into his eyes. “I want to know,” she persisted. “Don’t treat me as if I am some fragile bit of Chinese porcelain which you might smash to pieces were your emotions to overcome you. Don’t treat me as if I am less than a flesh-and-blood woman. That is hardly fair to me.”
They still stood in the middle of his dressing room. David released her, viciously jerking up the close of his trousers. “Cecilia, I’m trying to treat you like a lady,” he said, sliding his free hand anxiously through his hair. “Not a whore.”
At once, she returned to him, brushing her hands over his chest and tilting her chin to look up at him. “I have been alone
for a long time, David,” she said, her voice soft and throaty as she lowered her lashes. “I am tired of living without passion. Teach me—and I promise I will satisfy you as you have never been satisfied before.”
God help me, David thought, but she already does...
He bit back the words before they were spoken, but he was beginning to fear that that was the very problem. He had no notion what he would do if she learned anything new, for he was already lost. And yet, he knew that he was being unreasonable, even harsh. Perhaps the truth was that he feared what she might become. To someone else, if he could not win her heart.
Yes, and the truth hurt, did it not? Gently, he took her by the hand and led her from the dressing room to the bed. As he had done last night—dear Lord, had it only been last night?—David pulled the remaining pins from her hair. Slowly, David began to undress her.
As he gently eased the teal silk down her shoulders and over her hips, he remembered his dark, erotic fantasies of the afternoon. How desperately he had wanted to see her hands on him, how seductive he had found the ivory lace which draped across her fingers. But it had been a fantasy. Nothing he had ever expected to happen. Not with a woman as artless as Cecilia, for it seemed he had already stripped away far too much of her innocence.
And yet, he could never have imagined how her touch would feel—or how he would react to it. Like an untried boy with his first woman. It had been all he could do not to spill himself in her mouth, or across her beautiful dress. All he could do to restrain his lust long enough to thrust himself inside her.
And now she wished him to teach her about passion? It would have been laughable, had her question not been so earnestly asked. With his trousers still draped loosely about his hips, he stood behind her, unfastening bits of lace, ties, and stays, until Cecilia was naked in his arms. He held her an arm’s length away and let his hungry gaze drift over her.
“You are so beautiful, Peaches,” he murmured. “So ripe. So womanly.”
And she was. She was all woman, from her fine, full breasts, to the elegant turn of her waist, right down to the generous swell of her hips. Her mouth was already love-bruised and swollen, her pink nipples hard, her hair down about her shoulders in a cascade of fiery golden curls. David sucked in his breath, long and slow.