Antonia walked confidently across the large room.
Over the years, she’d become familiar with much of St. Ives house, but she hadn’t ventured into any bedchamber except for that of Sebastian’s sister, Louisa, which was in the west wing. As it happened, Sebastian’s room was the mirror of Louisa’s in placement and size, with a wide bank of windows directly opposite the door through which they’d entered, and a secondary door in the wall to Antonia’s right that she knew would lead to a large bathing chamber. The two doors on either side of the main door would each open into one of the rooms back along the corridor; one room would be Sebastian’s dressing room, with the other the room—very likely rooms—reserved for his marchioness.
His wife.
The massive bed that stood against the wall to the right dominated the room. It was balanced by the huge fireplace in the opposite wall. As she crossed to the windows, she noted a pair of heavy tallboys against the other walls, a desk-cum-bureau against the wall between the windows and the fireplace, and four large, comfortable armchairs—one pair angled before the fireplace, the other pair placed to take advantage of the wide windows.
She reached the uncurtained windows and looked out.
Directly below, she glimpsed the edge of the terrace outside the family parlor; beyond it, silvered by moonlight, spread the lawns and neat shrubs of that section of the mansion’s rear garden.
Curiosity welling, she turned and surveyed the room. Sconces set around the walls had been left turned low, shedding a warm glow throughout the chamber.
The decor was a reflection of Sebastian, of his personality. Expensive, yes, yet a touch austere, with a ripple of reined passion, of innate power, hidden beneath the smooth surface. The creamy ivory of the walls was offset by the richness of old oak, the warm patina glowing golden against the dark forest greens of upholstery and curtains. The frames—of the twin oval mirrors flanking the mantelpiece and of the paintings on the walls—were heavy and strong.
Wilkins would keep the place tidy, but there was a book on the side table beside the armchair before the fireplace, a bookmark jutting at an angle from between the pages, and a riding crop and a pair of riding gloves had been discarded on the low table between the chairs by the windows. The mantelpiece held an eclectic array of odds and ends—scrimshaw, a set of carved ivory figurines, a large ormolu clock, two dueling pistols mounted in a display case, and two lamps—and stuck into the frame of the large, restful landscape hanging above the fireplace were a selection of gilt-edged invitations.
Then there was the bed. Large and heavy—and sumptuously sensual with its forest-green silk coverlet and the mound of ivory-silk-encased pillows at its head.
Sebastian had paused in the doorway, watching her. As he stepped inside and shut the door, the clocks throughout the house struck twelve.
Midnight.
Despite the light cast by the sconces, it was primarily moonlight that lit his face, his long body, as he strolled slowly toward her.
He halted before her; the piercing quality of his gaze muted by the moonlight, he studied her face.
On the two previous occasions they’d come together, they’d been driven, not just by their newly discovered desires but also by a sense of, for one reason or another, needing to seize the moment. Tonight, there was no such blinding imperative; they both knew they could have each other—would have each other—time and again in the days, months, and years to come.
That, they’d already agreed, albeit without any declaration other than their passions.
So tonight, there was no need to rush, no sense of urgency to infuse their touch.
Not yet.
As if he could hear her thoughts—as if he shared them—he raised one hand and, with one fingertip, traced the line of her cheek from temple to jaw. Even as that single finger slid beneath her chin and nudged it upward, she was rising on her toes…
He bent his head and brushed his lips across hers. Once, then again, then his lips settled, and he kissed her.
Gently.
Yearningly.
With an invisible beckoning she felt tug at her soul.
She’d forgotten—overlooked—the fact he was a master, that in this sphere, he was openly classed as an expert.
As the warlock she’d sometimes thought him, with his strange, pale green eyes.
He wove a web of sensuality about her—slowly, with touches that mesmerized, with caresses that burned.
She followed his lead and returned the pleasure, and he allowed it. He proceeded slowly enough for her to take her own time managing their reins. Keeping them relaxed as they ambled along a road they’d already traveled, but this time, they went slowly enough to fully appreciate the landscape on both sides.
While their lips supped, tasting, exploring, reassuring, he drew off her bonnet, languidly tossed it on the nearby chair, then shrugged off his greatcoat and let it fall to the floor before he helped her shed her cloak.
Sometime later, he sank to his knees before her. “Lift your skirts.”
The rumbling order was only just discernible; without rush, she obeyed. She gathered the folds of her carriage dress and ruffled petticoats and raised the hems—high enough for him to reach beneath, glide one palm up the back of her leg, then release her garter and roll her stocking down. He undid the laces of her half-boot and eased both boot and stocking from her foot. Then, still moving to that slow, regimented beat, he repeated the process with her other leg, baring it and leaving her standing barefoot.
Smoothly, he rose, and she let her skirts fall.
Practicing such restraint raised tension of a different sort, of a type she sensed would later break through their control and compel them, but for those moments in which they stood communing in the moonlight, that seemed an entirely reasonable toll to pay.
She pressed against him, her hands sliding up the wall of his chest to lightly grip his shoulders.
His arms closed around her, then crushed her to him.
Their lips met, and hunger leapt.
And she rejoiced.
And the kiss flared.
Hot.
Too hot.
As if both sensed the danger, the threat to their control, they drew back, and together, broke the kiss.
He trailed his lips to her ear, then down along her jaw, planting nibbling little kisses that distracted her senses and helped her to step back from the fiery lure.
Their breathing gradually steadied.
Determined to succeed in this novel endeavor, to maintain the measured tempo of this heady new dance, she drew in a slow, steadying breath and set her fingers to the folds of his cravat. She drew out the heavy gold pin with its large pale peridot, the gem the same color as his eyes. After anchoring the pin in his lapel, she eased the ends of the cravat free of his waistcoat and shirt.
While her fingers unraveled the simple knot, the winding folds, she felt his fingers sliding free the buttons that ran down the back of her carriage dress.
His lips were curved when, in the waning moonlight, they again brushed hers.
Again, left hers hungering.
Needing an anchor, a more definite distraction, and judging from the increasing tension gripping him that he might welcome the same, she murmured, “Once we break the news to our families, all hell will break loose, socially speaking.”
“Mmm.” His lips drifted to her temple, his breath a wash of heat across her cheek. “Do you think they’ll be surprised?”
Wry cynicism colored the words.
She uttered a short laugh. “I doubt it will be any great shock.” The last word turned breathless as his fingertips—just the tips—brushed her bare skin as the back of her tightly fitted carriage dress gaped.
This slowness, this lack of rush, this measured pace, was tensing her nerves and heightening sensation in a wholly novel way—on a plane of elevated intensity.
A fresh challenge.
She felt his lips trail down her throat. She tipped her head back and, in a
n effort to cling to control, gabbled the first thought that came to her. “And yet no one ever tried to steer me your way.”
He raised his head. The moonlight etched his features as he caught her hands and drew them from his now-loosened cravat, then he reached for the shoulders of her dress and drew the bodice forward and down, sliding the sleeves down her arms.
She eased her hands from the tight sleeves, then pushed and sent the dress with its wide skirts slithering to pool in a heap about her feet.
She felt his gaze brush heat over her breasts, over her torso, screened though they still were by chemise and corset.
His voice had deepened and grown rougher when he said, “No one mentioned your name to me, either.”
His gaze remained locked on her breasts. She heard him draw in a deeper breath—all but sensed him tighten his hold on his own reins—then he grasped her waist, spun her about, and set his fingers to the laces of her petticoats. A second later, he said, “It’s curious, now I think of it, that none of the grandes dames we both know ever pushed me in your direction.” He seemed to be concentrating on unraveling the laces, then he asked, “Did your mother or the others ever steer you toward…anyone?”
She frowned. “No. They always seemed to be waiting for me to choose…oh.” She realized what he was suggesting. “You think that they knew all along, and we were the only ones who didn’t?”
That thought wasn’t comforting.
He grunted, and the waistband of her petticoats loosened. “Let’s not think about that. The gloating will be enough to endure if and when it occurs.”
“Indeed.” Between them, they pushed down the froth of cotton and lace that was her multilayered petticoats. Taking her hand, he steadied her as she stepped free of the pile. She would have turned and walked into his arms, but his hands gripped her waist again, and he drew her back until her derriere met his thighs.
She leaned against him, her shoulders to his chest, and tipped her head back. He bent his, and their lips met again in a teasing temptation of a kiss.
Then he raised his head, and their lips parted. He didn’t straighten, but through the shadows, studied her face, watched her reactions as he cruised his palms upward, then closed his hands about her breasts.
Her eyes locked with his. She drew in a slow, tense breath—then couldn’t release it. She felt trapped in his gaze as he kneaded her flesh, then his artful fingers cruised the firm mounds, circling the puckered buds of her nipples, then closing, tightening…
Her lids fell, her spine arched, and she gasped and heard the sound hover in the dimness as if it came from someone else. He played, and her body bowed against his, her breasts pressing into his palms, an invitation he didn’t refuse.
Yet still they danced to that slow, rousing—arousing—beat.
Power of a sort she hadn’t encountered before, strange and compelling, rose and wreathed about them.
His hands possessed, then shaped the lines of her body, her hips, thighs, and derriere barely screened by the fine cotton of her chemise and drawers.
Her breathing had quickened, and her senses had come alive when he eased back an inch, steadied her, then withdrew his supporting hands and set his fingers to the laces of her corset.
Sebastian felt the power driving the desire that thudded, heavy and resounding, through his veins. Through his body, his mind, reaching into his soul. A compulsive beat that held him to its rigid cadence—slow, slow, slow.
The better to appreciate, to know and savor, the beauty before him. Not just the body, but the elemental being held within it.
The other half of him.
Where she was concerned, control was nothing more than an illusion, yet he wanted to give her this—this interlude, this engagement—one perfect moment encapsulating the promise before them.
His fingers were operating largely by rote, unpicking the laces of her lightly boned corset. A distraction seemed wise. He cleared his throat, then ventured, his voice gravelly with harnessed hunger, “When we’re married…” He glanced briefly around and tried not to sound overly diffident as he continued, “We could buy a house somewhere else in town, if you prefer…”
Her head rose; he sensed her draw breath and swiftly scan the room. Then she glanced over her shoulder. He felt her gaze touch his face, but doubted she could read much through the dimness.
After a second, she faced forward. A second later, she murmured, distinctly breathlessly, “Let’s leave such matters aside for now—we can deal with such things whenever we wish.”
The last lace gave, and relief flowed through him. He grasped her corset, drew it from her, and tossed it to join her petticoats. “An excellent idea.”
He closed the inch between them. His hands curving about her hips, he drew her flush against him, then skated his hands slowly upward, possessively reclaiming her curves; she all but purred as she instinctively arched against him.
They’d both, it seemed, accepted the imperative of clinging—for as long as they could—to that slow, rigid, compelling beat. It informed their every movement—their very breaths—as they continued to disrobe, there, in the moonlight before the windows.
She leaned back against him, her hands closing over his as his palms moved over her chemise-clad body, then he splayed one hand over the subtle curve of her belly and held her hips against his thighs as he reached down and, with the fingers of his other hand, found the slit in her drawers, and caressed her.
Her welcome flowed like molten honey over his fingertips. He reached further and slid one long finger into her scalding sheath. She tipped her head back against his shoulder and clutched the hand splayed over her belly with both her hands; her nails sank in as he probed, and she tensed, her body arching.
Slow, slow, slow.
He clung to the rhythm, heard her breathing fracture, felt her rise in his arms.
Then she cried out, the sound pure encouragement to his ears, her shuddering climax a goad to his libido he fought to suppress and ignore.
As she eased in his arms, he stripped the drawers from her, then, still constrained by that slow beat, he eased his hands under the fine material of her chemise and drew it—slowly, smoothly—up.
Her breasts heaving, she moved as if she was—as he felt—compelled by the invisible reins of their joint passion; she raised her arms and gracefully pirouetted as he drew the garment free of her upstretched arms.
Then she stood naked, facing him, bathed in the silver light of the moon as it poured through the windows behind him.
Her gaze was steady on his. There was not an ounce of uncertainty in her as she stepped forward to claim him.
And it was his turn to stand in apparent submission, in willing subjugation to their shared pleasure.
With her pale skin flushed with the warmth of spent passion, a rosy tint just detectable beneath the moon’s pearlescent sheen, she moved like a nymph as she divested him of coat and waistcoat, tossing them aside to join the heap of fabric beside them. Then she drew the long strip of his cravat from about his neck with an artful lack of speed that demonstrated that she was as attuned to the music, to the magic of this moment, as he.
Then her features lighting with a sense of wonder over something that was still new to her—that still riveted and enthralled her—she unbuttoned his shirt, pushed the halves wide, and openly gloated.
Then she set her hands to his chest and—remembering at the last to cling to the beat—caressed.
He clenched his fists, locked his muscles—eventually clenched his jaw, closed his eyes, and tipped his head back—and endured.
The subtle and oh-so-pleasurable torture as she explored.
She stripped the shirt from him, then swiftly dealt with the buttons at his waist.
He sensed her pull up—and force herself to slow. To return to that compelling rhythm as, with sensuous gravity, she slid his trousers off his hips and down his long legs.
She crouched and, with his assistance, stripped away the trousers along with his s
tockings and shoes.
Then she rose.
He brought his head upright and opened his eyes in time to see raw passion light her gray eyes and infuse her face as her gaze locked on the evidence of his hunger for her. Released from the confines of his trousers, his erection tented his linen drawers.
As he watched, one of her hands darted to grasp the dangling cords; he saw her stop, almost swaying as she pulled on her own reins again. She found the beat again and forced her limbs, her eager fingers, to comply.
Slowly, to that rhythm both he and she could feel, she tugged and drew on the cord until the knot unraveled, and the garment sagged about his hips.
She set her palms to his sides, glanced once at his face, then she pushed the fine linen down, letting the drawers fall to his feet, fully exposing all of him to her now-very-avid gaze.
Also to her hands.
Greedy little hands she fought to restrain, to force to their accepted beat. Even so, he had to close his eyes, suck in a tortured breath, and, his head tipping back again, hold that breath while she played.
Not at all innocently.
But he held fast and gave her the moment, one she clearly wished for.
One she transparently enjoyed.
Yet he knew his limits. Before she reached them, he straightened his head, opened his eyes, and set his hands to her body.
In short order, he reclaimed her attention, her senses.
When her hands, forgotten, went limp and eased from him, he stepped into her, and their lips met—in a kiss still slow and steady, but several orders of magnitude hotter. Hungrier.
Increasingly flavored with desperation and wanting.
He bent and swung her into his arms and carried her to the bed.
Kneeling on the covers, he shuffled forward, then laid her in the very center of the expanse, her long, lithe body gleaming like a pearl set on the dark silk of his counterpane.
He stretched out alongside her, set a hand to her curves, then bent his head and savored. He licked, laved, suckled, still moving to the increasingly heavy, increasingly compelling beat that drove them.
That beat might have escalated, yet it remained slow, still reverent.
The Lady By His Side (Cynsters Next Generation Novels Book 4) Page 30