He drew her to a stop beneath a willow. She appreciated the shade and glanced around with interest. She loved Little Derrick, but it was exhilarating to visit this bustling town, packed with tradesmen and shoppers and students.
A man approached, carrying a large closed basket. “Here you are, Mr. Evans. Everything as ordered.”
“Thank you, Tait. I’ll have the punt back before sunset.”
The man stowed the weighty basket in the bow of a long wooden boat that Genevieve only now noticed moored nearby. “You’ve paid for the whole day. And a mighty fine day it is. I can’t think of a better way to pass it than on the river with a pretty lady.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Mr. Evans said.
“Miss.” The man touched his hat and turned to leave, whistling.
“Mr. Evans?” she said faintly. “What are you doing?”
He smiled as he placed her satchel and his cane near the basket. “We’re never alone in Little Derrick.”
“Which is a good thing.” She folded her arms across her bosom and regarded him with disfavor that felt, more than usual, manufactured.
“Do you think so?”
She studied him under the brim of her bonnet. She told herself he manipulated her again, but nothing stifled her quivering awareness. Much as she hated to acknowledge it, the need to be alone with him had tormented her too. Here in Oxford, nobody was likely to report them back to Little Derrick.
“You won’t take liberties?”
His lips curved into that cursed appealing smile. “If I get too energetic, the punt will capsize. You’re safe.”
Excitement and uncertainty warred inside her. If she went with him, would he kiss her? She had a horrible inkling that she’d feel disappointed if he didn’t. “On your honor?”
He crossed his heart. “On my honor.”
She stared at him, wondering why fate dictated that she, plainspoken, difficult Genevieve Barrett, got to spend an enchanted afternoon with this gorgeous specimen of masculinity. He met her gaze as if guessing her decision.
Of course he guessed. He saw her trepidation, but he also saw her sensual curiosity. Sensual curiosity won.
“Very well, Mr. Evans. You have a passenger.”
Chapter Seventeen
Richard refused to acknowledge quite how high his heart leaped when Genevieve agreed. He’d devised this scheme last night while he lay awake struggling against his yen to invade her virginal bed. Sleep had been a stranger since he’d kissed her and the added need for vigilance against intruders didn’t help.
He knew Oxford well. He and Cam had been students here. It was simple enough to arrange the boat and picnic basket. Tait had been a well-paid accomplice in Richard’s youthful adventures.
“You’ll be too warm in your coat.”
She unbuttoned the snug green velvet. “It was a gift from Lady Bellfield. I told her it was too extravagant for a mere vicar’s daughter, but I love it.”
Her uncertainty away from her books aroused a tenderness more unsettling than lust. “You’re more than a mere vicar’s daughter.” He damned the betraying huskiness in his voice. “You’re a beautiful, alluring woman.”
He waited for some spiky response, but to his surprise, she smiled with shy pleasure. “Thank you.”
He slid the coat from her shoulders. Beneath the spectacular pelisse, her dress was a becoming pale gold. She usually wore high necklines, suitable for a clergyman’s daughter, but this dress scooped across her lush breasts. It was obviously her best, a fact that touched him too—most women in his circle had so many clothes, they never singled out a “best” dress.
In a London ballroom, her modest décolletage would incite scarcely a murmur. Here alone with her, his reaction to that slope of white skin thundered through him like a thousand cannons firing together.
She watched as he placed the folded coat in the boat. Shrugging out of his own coat, Richard bent to lift the long wooden pole at his feet. He stepped onto the punt’s raised stern, automatically finding his balance.
When he helped Genevieve on board, her hand clung to his, the sun gleamed down, and the rest of the world receded. A warning clanged in his mind. His defenses, fortified through years of countering derision with a careless smile and an elegant shrug, fell dangerously low. Stifling his disquiet, he settled her in the prow against the satin cushions he’d had Tait buy new for today. The rich blues and reds reminded him of the Harmsworth Jewel.
His expertise with the punt swiftly returned. Genevieve removed her bonnet, one hand trailed in the water and a faint smile lifted the corners of her lips. Her legs stretched along the boat’s narrow base, permitting a glimpse of her fine ankles. Her blissful expression as she closed her eyes and raised her face toward the sun made him yearn as he’d never yearned before, even kissing her.
Perhaps he burned so hot because he’d tasted her passion. The need to kiss her again built like lava inside a volcano. He stared at the river, his gaze focused over her head. If he kept watching her, God help him, he’d jump on her. And devil take the risk of the boat overturning.
“I’ve never been in a punt before.” She broke the increasingly taut silence. She studied the way her fingers made lines in the water. “It’s very pleasant.”
Despite his overheated state, he smiled. “You’re welcome.”
She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes. It was astonishingly seductive. He stifled a groan. “I wasn’t thanking you.”
“A pretty girl like you should have been on the river hundreds of times.”
She wiped her hand on her skirt. Briefly the material clung to the subtle curve of her belly and arousal stabbed him anew. Astonishing how even the most innocent movement fired him up. “I’m my father’s assistant. I have no time for dalliance, Mr. Evans.”
Hearing himself addressed as “Mr. Evans” rapidly palled. She’d call him Christopher before the day ended if it killed him. He crushed a longing to hear her call him Richard. Christopher Evans might wangle a chance at Miss Barrett’s charms. The hellish reality was that all of Richard Harmsworth’s lies exiled his true self from her favor forever.
“Your father mentioned young men who stayed as I have, to study. Surely one or two of those invited you on the river.” He ached to banish the wistful note in her smile.
Her voice was low, as if she confessed something shameful. “I rather terrified those young men.”
He only just stopped himself from commending that as a good thing. She needed a lover to match her, not some pimply stripling. “If they weren’t at least half in love with you, they weren’t fit to be called men.”
Her lips pursed to dismiss a compliment that she clearly considered extravagant. “Papa didn’t encourage his students to flirt.”
Hmm. More likely the old fox wanted his daughter concentrating on the scholarship that ensured his fame.
Richard easily located the loop in the Cherwell where as an undergraduate he’d brought many an eager girl. In the dozen or so years since, the willows over the water had thickened, lending the secluded nook greater privacy.
Which suited him perfectly.
He dug the pole into the riverbed and angled the boat through the graceful fronds. Sun penetrated in long golden beams and lit Genevieve as if she were onstage. He was always aware of her beauty—good God, he was in such a lather of desire, he was aware of everything about her—but in the soft light, she was breathtaking.
She sat up and glanced around with the wariness he’d hoped to extinguish with the leisurely boat ride. “Mr. Evans, this place reeks of rakish intentions.”
He didn’t blunt the wicked edge to his smile. “You’re such a clever girl. It’s dashed refreshing.”
She flattened her lips. “You said you wouldn’t take liberties.”
He shrugged. “I meant I wouldn’t ask for more than a kiss or two.”
“Christopher’s Dictionary?”
“Precisely.”
Instead of putting him in his place, she lo
unged against the cushions and regarded him with an unreadable expression. “I hope you’ll feed me first. I’d hate to swoon at a critical moment.”
A vibrating silence crashed down.
Her lips curved in a smug smile that he’d never seen before. “Cat got your tongue, Mr. Evans?”
He cleared his throat and struggled to speak. Where on earth was smooth-talking Richard Harmsworth? This Christopher Evans was a deuced clumsy fellow. “If you swoon, it won’t be from lack of sustenance.”
A teasing light lit her silvery eyes. “I hope you live up to your promises.”
Heaven help him, he hoped he did too. Right now, kissing Genevieve seemed the most important task he’d ever undertake.
“Lunch?” she asked hopefully when it became clear that he was out of witty responses.
He straightened and laughed, feeling like the world’s luckiest man.
Mr. Evans’s confusion was delicious. With a heady mixture of excitement and nerves, Genevieve waited for him to take up her invitation. All day awareness had vibrated between them. Since she’d ceased open hostilities, she’d danced to a symphony of unspoken need.
But true to his word, he kneeled to open the basket, revealing a feast. Chicken and salad and crusty bread and creamy cheese and shiny red apples. Even a bottle of champagne. Nobody had ever taken this trouble for her sake.
The basket contained gilded plates and crystal glasses. Mr. Evans picnicked in style. He filled her plate and passed it across with a damask napkin before serving himself. She waited for him to settle beside her in the prow, but he was more subtle than that.
Once he’d poured the champagne, he reclined against the stern. “Your health, Miss Barrett.”
“And yours, Mr. Evans.” She wrinkled her nose as bubbles burst against her palate. “Oh!”
He smiled. “A day of new experiences.”
She glowered. “I’ve had wine before.”
“Not champagne.” He tilted her glass. “You’ll like it once you get used to it.”
Her stomach lurched on a shocked thrill. He wasn’t only talking about champagne.
She rather liked the wine. It was dry and cool and left a lovely apple taste on her tongue. She took another sip then set her glass down. Only when she’d cleared her plate did she realize that Mr. Evans stared at her much as she puzzled over some difficult translation.
He sat back, one hand cradling his glass in his lap. In his shirtsleeves and with his hair ruffled by activity, he looked delightfully disheveled. “You aren’t shocked.”
Oh, heavens. She couldn’t pretend to misunderstand. Well, she could, but it would make her seem nauseatingly coy. “That you harbored wicked plans? No.”
His lips twitched and familiar desire tugged at her belly. She should be careful with the champagne. It had a deleterious effect on willpower.
Of course it was only the champagne.
She scowled into the glass she held, unaccountably half full. Surely she needed more alcohol than that to feel quite so… heated. She raised her eyes, feeling more daring than ever before in her quiet life. “I liked kissing you.”
While his expression remained grave, amusement lurked in his dark blue eyes. “I liked kissing you.”
“This seemed like a… safe place to do it again.” She paused. “If you want to.” She put down the champagne and smoothed her skirts with an uncertain gesture. “Don’t misunderstand. I want you to kiss me. I don’t want you to—”
One eyebrow arched. “Ruin you?”
Her cheeks were on fire. “I’m not in the habit of negotiating—”
“Pleasure?”
“I can finish my sentences, thank you,” she snapped. “Over our acquaintance, I’ve come to realize that I’ve missed… experiences. Experiences that you’re uniquely placed to provide.”
This time she couldn’t mistake the unholy laughter in his eyes. “I feel like I’m applying for employment. Should I supply references?”
She didn’t smile. “I’ll never marry so no husband will begrudge me a few kisses from a handsome scoundrel. And I trust your discretion.”
For one aching moment, she wished she could trust more than his ability to keep his mouth shut. He kept his mouth shut now, just when she wanted the devil to speak. She’d blithely imagined she’d agree to kiss him and he’d leap like a frog to a mayfly.
“Mr. Evans, this is how a conversation works. I speak and you respond,” she said crossly.
That disconcertingly perceptive gaze focused on her. “I’m thinking.”
He refilled both glasses and started on his meal. Genevieve drank a little more champagne, hoping it might stop her stomach twisting into knots. It didn’t.
Eventually the suspense became too much. “God forbid I force you into anything distasteful,” she sniped.
He smiled faintly. “I can’t enter into a carnal arrangement with a woman who calls me Mr. Evans.”
“It’s not a carnal arrangement. It’s a few kisses.”
The smile intensified several degrees, as if he contemplated deeds beyond an innocent’s imagining. “Kisses can be carnal.”
Oh, dear Lord. A thrill shivered through her as she recalled his mouth ravaging hers. “Will you kiss me?”
“Will you call me Christopher?”
“Must I?” A sly smile lifted her lips. “It’s such fun watching you steam when I call you Mr. Evans.”
She’d been teasing him? Richard slammed down his glass, sloshing wine over the rim. “You little witch!”
Panic flared in Genevieve’s wide eyes as he surged forward, caging her between his arms and legs. “Be careful!” she cried as the boat rocked.
“What’s my name?” He snatched her champagne, spilling it over her bosom as he shoved the glass carelessly behind him.
“Mr. Evans,” she said defiantly, sliding up to sprawl against the cushions like some Oriental fantasy.
“Indeed?” He did what he’d wanted to do since she’d removed her deuced becoming coat. He kissed the slope of her breast. Champagne added exquisite piquancy.
“Mr. Evans!” She flattened one trembling hand on his chest. Through his shirt, her touch seared like a brand.
“For shame, Miss Barrett.” He resisted the thundering urge to rip away her bodice. Instead he ran his lips up her neck to the nerve that set her quaking with response. “Permitting such liberties to a man with whom you’re not on first-name terms.”
“Mr. Evans, you’re too demanding,” she gasped, arching into him.
He studied her from beneath lowered lids. “Shall I stop?”
“Stop?” She spoke the word as if it made no sense. Her eyes were hazy with sensual confusion.
He bared his teeth. He was too edgy to manage a smile. Which for the unflappable Richard Harmsworth said a great deal. “What’s my name?”
He wondered why the hell he was so set on this point. After all, Christopher wasn’t his real name. But in the war they waged, his Christian name signaled her surrender.
“You’re so stubborn.” Need darkened her eyes.
“That’s the pot calling the kettle black.” He surveyed her impatiently. “You’ll let me kiss you, but you address me as if we’ve just been introduced at bloody Almack’s?”
“Don’t tell me you mean to take me back to the Magdalene Bridge.” She sounded disgusted, as well she might. “What kind of blasted rake are you, Mr. Evans?”
Mr. Evans? Still? “You know my requirements.”
She made a low sound like a cat denied a treat and rose on her elbows. “Proceed, Christopher.”
Chapter Eighteen
Christopher’s expression transformed to wolfish anticipation. Thrilling trepidation quivered through Genevieve as he dragged her into his arms. Then coherent thought fled as his mouth crashed down.
There was none of the seeking gentleness she remembered. This was headlong demand. Shock held her motionless, then a dark wave of arousal overwhelmed her. On a broken moan, she raised her hands and buried them i
n his thick, soft hair.
The first time they’d kissed, she’d been untouched. Now she parted her lips for his invasion. His tongue stroked hers, stirring restless heat in her belly. She’d never wanted a man before Christopher. She’d had no idea the experience could be so delicious, yet so frustrating. A sensation of falling, then the cushions were slippery behind her back. His long body came down over hers, cloaking her with passion.
His passion… Hard fullness jutted into her stomach. She arched to test that intriguing weight and felt as much as heard him groan against her lips.
Tentatively, then with growing confidence, she ran her hand across his chest while her mouth danced with his, advancing, retreating, teasing, surrendering. It was a rhythm as complex as any music. Sweeter than the sweetest music. Lingeringly she ran her hands down the powerful column of his neck to his broad shoulders. She loved his shoulders. Their power. Their grace. The way they created their own horizon.
Encouraging his intoxicating rapacity, she turned her face up. She curled her fingers around his biceps then slid her hands across his back, feeling the subtle shift of muscle and bone under the thin shirt. Lower she ventured, tracing the line of his spine. Some distant warning made her pause before she reached firm masculine buttocks, however much she ached to discover all of him. He touched her too, no longer lashing her close as if expecting her to run. They both knew she had no intention of going anywhere, except too far along the primrose path.
Her whole body sang. She whimpered as she tore her lips from his and buried her face in his shoulder. He barely exceeded the bounds of propriety and already she felt overcome. His scent dizzied her. That cursed lemon verbena that should smell like betrayal, and instead promised joy. Beneath it the musky scent of a man’s hunger, astonishingly familiar after those moments by the pond.
His hands cupped her hips, stroking her through her skirts. Heat welled between her legs. She opened her eyes to dazzling shafts of light piercing the graceful willow fronds. This bend of the river was a private, shining world where concepts like sin and virtue held no sway. There was just pleasure, endless pleasure.
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