“In bonbons, or do you like it best grated into milk?”
“Hmm, it’s lovely in milk. I often have h-hot…chocolate for breakfast.”
He dotted her collarbone with a seductive line of kisses. “I should have known.”
“Known what?”
“That you’d like it hot. Hot and steamy and thick.”
Something deep inside her convulsed.
With the last of her laces undone, he eased off her corset, then cast the whalebone and linen to the floor. Her breasts pressed against her chemise, nipples taut and faintly visible beneath the sheer silk. She trembled, knowing that all that lay between her bare flesh and his bare hands was the pull of a single slender white ribbon.
She waited, her breath shallow, her senses afire.
“What about books?”
“Pardon me?”
“Books? What authors do you enjoy reading, or are you like most ladies and prefer paging through copies of La Belle Assemble?”
Her brows furrowed. I can barely think, and he wants to know about authors and books?
Shifting against his muscled thighs in restless frustration, she fought to stay sane.
“I…like books and the…um…fashion pages too. But why? Why do you want to know?”
He paused and met her gaze, his green eyes blazing with intensity and a wild passion she realized he was forcing himself to hold at bay. “Because I want to know you.”
“But why? Our arrangement is temporary. Why do you care who I am, when you can have me regardless?”
And that was the plain truth. Given their agreement and her undeniable desire for him, he needn’t have spoken so much as a word to her. He had only to lay her down and have his way.
“Because, temporary or not, we’re lovers,” he told her. “For right now you’re mine, and I want to know the woman in my bed. I want to know you. Who Julianna Hawthorne is. What she likes. What she thinks and desires and dreams.”
Her heart squeezed out a quick double beat beneath her breasts, Rafe’s words touching her down to her soul. In a single moment, he’d shown more interest in her, and respect for her, than her husband had granted her in all the years of their marriage.
The knowledge proved a powerful aphrodisiac, her core turning molten, her limbs pliable as warmed wax.
“Jane Austen,” she blurted out.
“Hmm?” he murmured, as if he’d forgotten his own query.
“You…asked who I like to read. Jane Austen. I liked her book S-Sense and Sensibility.”
He smiled, long, devilishly appealing dimples appearing in his cheeks. “And here I thought you’d name a poet. Lord Byron, perhaps.”
She shook her head, rubbing her cheek against his as he bent to nuzzle her throat again.
“Lord Byron is far too t-tragic a figure.”
Rafe moved lower, brushing his lips over the tops of her exposed cleavage.
“F-Far too enamored of himself and his talents…myriad though they may be. I much prefer…Miss Austen.”
“And I much prefer you,” he stated on a purring growl.
Straightening, he clasped a hand against the back of her head, then crushed her mouth to his. All of Rafe’s questions ceased as he demanded nothing less than her full participation, urging her to respond without restraint or hesitation, his arms strong and steady and reassuring around her.
Julianna capitulated on a joyful sigh, giving herself over to the rivulets of pleasure coursing through her veins like lava. Pleasure that only increased when he finally tugged on her chemise ribbon to bare her breasts.
Sweeping the straps down her arms, he cupped an eager globe, thumbing one already taut nipple to an even tighter, aching peak. She moaned into his mouth, his tongue taking advantage to forage between her open lips.
He tasted delicious—of wine and warmth and man, a combination she found both potent and inviting. Kissing him back, she tangled her tongue with his, then surprised herself by conducting her own exploration. Over hard teeth and smooth inner cheeks she roamed, lapping and licking at all the sleek wet heat she found, losing herself to the sensations.
This time his groan filled her mouth. She smiled against the vibrations.
Wanting more, she tried to lift her arms, hungry to run her hands over him, needing to hold him closer. But she couldn’t escape, discovering that her elbows were trapped within the cloth of her gown and chemise.
She twisted, but to no avail.
Apparently realizing her dilemma, Rafe smoothed his hands along her upper arms. Yet when he might have freed her, he hesitated, holding her in place instead.
In a kind of divine torture, he arched her back to give himself more room, then lowered his head, fastening his mouth to her flesh with the voraciousness of a gourmand indulging in a magnificent feast. Suckling deeply, he widened his lips over one breast, circling his tongue around her nipple in a devastating sweep before pressing the nub against his teeth.
She shook in his grasp, feeling every nibble and pull all the way to her feminine core. Alternating, he drew upon one breast then the other until she thought she might shatter apart.
Then, as abruptly as his torment had started, he stopped. Releasing her, he yanked the sleeves and chemise straps off her arms, leaving her clothing bunched at her waist.
Fitting his hand to her hips, he lifted her off his lap and stood her before him.
Now, she thought, now he’ll take me to the bedroom.
She only hoped she could manage the trip, her legs so weak she feared she might fall along the way. Maybe Rafe would carry her.
Stripping off her dress, he tossed it onto the nearby sofa.
She expected him to stand, but he reached down a hand to unbutton his falls instead. Her eyes drank in the brazen sight of him, long and thick, rigid with arousal.
Reaching out, he turned her so she faced away.
She was still adjusting to his actions when he caught the hem of her petticoat and raised it to her waist, caressing her naked thighs and over her buttocks in sweeping strokes that made her tremble and ache. Wet heat gathered in a heavy rush between her thighs, her legs quivering.
“Rafe, please,” she moaned, certain she might fall.
But she needn’t have worried, held safe within his powerful grasp.
“I’ve got you, sweeting,” he said. “Come and have a seat. I promise you’ll like it.”
A seat?
Before she had a chance to wrap her mind around his comment, he walked her back, moving her so that her feet and legs were splayed on either side of his own. Pressing his knees outward, he spread her wider, then wider still, leaving her open and completely exposed.
Even then, she didn’t fully understand his intent until he tugged her downward and fit her straight onto his shaft.
Then she understood everything.
“Oh!” she cried. “Oh, God.”
“Oh, God, is right.”
Taking her hands, he set them on the chair arms and wrapped her fingers around the wood. Pumping his hips, he burrowed himself deeper.
“Hook your feet around my ankles and lean forward,” he commanded, his breath soughing against her neck in a warm, panting gust.
Forward? How could she?
But she saw the way when he looped an arm across her chest and stomach, using the corded strength of his forearm to cradle her. Arching, she leaned out, enough to let him slide fully into her aching depths.
Head hanging, she struggled to catch her breath, her entire body on fire as if she’d been dipped in liquid flame. She felt Rafe everywhere. Inside her and around her. His will suddenly her will, as if they shared a connection of more than the corporeal.
He kissed her neck and cheek, then set his hips in motion, thrusting first hard, then soft. Shallow, then deep.
Eyes closed, she let him take her, allowing each sensation to arc and zing through her, dazzling as a fireworks display. But her body had its own ideas and without even realizing, she began to press back, grinding down eve
n as he shifted up.
Rafe groaned and pumped harder, making her cry out with each and every heated stroke. Her fingernails dug into the chair arms, her fists clutched in a death grip around the carved wood. Gasping and clawing for air, she wondered how much more she could take, already dizzy on a surfeit of pleasure.
As if sensing how close she teetered to the edge, Rafe kissed her neck again, then spread her thighs even wider with his knees. One solid thrust buried him impossibly deep, so deep her inner muscles instantly began to spasm around his hard, hot length.
And she was lost, bliss roaring through her, harsh and earth-shattering as the most fearsome storm. Dimly, she heard herself scream, limbs shaking, her whole body awash in unimaginable ecstasy.
On an oath, Rafe shifted his hold upon her, bending her back against his chest as he reached down to grasp her hips inside his splayed hands. Controlling her movements, he drove himself into her in a wild rhythm, over and over, the power of his thrusts igniting her own need once again.
Rafe gave a rough shout, claiming his release only seconds before her own. Quivering and spent, they slumped together back into the chair, her legs dangling next to his own.
At length, he angled her head onto his shoulder and claimed her mouth, their kiss slow and sweet and drowsy.
“Let’s go to bed,” he murmured. She nodded, but neither of them moved.
Shifting, she curled against him to stroke a palm over his chest, his skin damp from their exertions.
“So, tell me,” she murmured. “What is your favorite color?”
His eyes widened, a smile spreading across his mouth. Tossing back his head, Rafe began to laugh.
Chapter Eight
JULIANNA DRANK A sip of punch, wrinkled her nose, and set her cup aside.
Ghastly, she thought, wishing there was something else available to wash away the cloying aftertaste. But alas, this sad excuse for a beverage was the best Almacks could provide. Or would provide, since the Patronesses—leaders of Society all—certainly had the means to offer better had they wished.
If not for Maris and the official start of the Season, Julianna would have been enjoying her evening elsewhere. But gaining vouchers and attending the weekly dance held at the assembly rooms was essential to her sister’s success in the Ton.
So here Julianna stood, grimacing over bad punch while she watched Maris dance the quadrille. At least her sibling appeared to be having a good time.
I wish I were. Julianna sighed.
If only Rafe was here to keep me entertained, she mused with an inner smile. Although the ways he usually found to bring her pleasure weren’t at all the sort of thing fit for a public ballroom. Her skin warmed at the memory of their last encounter, her mouth growing dry in anticipation of their next, now only a day away.
In the month since their affair began, she found herself becoming obsessed with the man. When she was with Rafe, he commanded her focus entirely. When they were apart, he was never completely out of her thoughts.
Just yesterday she’d ruined the list of household accounts on which she’d been working, rousing from thrilling daydreams of Rafe to find her fingers stained black with ink, her earlier handwriting obliterated by drips from the pen forgotten in her hand.
He even invaded her dreams, leaving her skin damp, her body awash with desire as she tossed against her bedsheets. Most frustrating of all, she would awaken and long to find him beside her, wishing he were holding her, his arms offering strength and comfort.
And does he comfort me? she asked herself. Not entirely comfortable with the answer, Julianna forced herself to shake off her musings.
She was glad she had when she saw the dance end and Maris’s partner lead her sister toward her, as propriety demanded. After exchanging pleasantries with the gentleman with whom Maris had been dancing, he bowed and moved away.
“Thank heavens he is required to mingle,” Maris whispered as soon as the young man moved out of hearing range. “I feared he was about to start drooling on me like one of Squire Newington’s mastiff dogs. During the dance, he would not stop staring at my bodice.”
Julianna frowned. “Well then, I am glad he did not linger. The next time he asks you to dance, find an excuse to refuse.”
“Oh, do not worry. I shall.”
“Other than the Leerer, are you having a good time?”
Maris’s dark eyes came alive with pleasure. “Oh, yes. With but a few exceptions, the evening has been wonderful. The only thing better was my come out ball last week. I’m still pinching myself over how well everything went.”
The ball had gone well, Julianna thought. Splendidly, in fact, with the cream of Society in attendance, including the Prince of Wales, who rarely put in appearances at such events. And the gentlemen were already calling at Allerton House, sending sweetly scented bouquets and begging Maris to go walking or driving with them.
When the time came, Julianna knew her sister would not suffer from a lack of marriage proposals. She only prayed the right man for Maris would be among the group of hopefuls.
She wondered what Rafe would think of tonight’s festivities, imagining he would likely consider everyone here a dreadful snob. And he would be right, she realized, disgraceful as it was to admit.
Sophisticated and suave, Rafe Pendragon could easily hold his own among any of the Ton’s peers. And yet, because of his birth, he was excluded. In the past, she’d never been one to rail against class inequities and social injustices, but then she had never before known anyone like Rafe.
A shiver raced along her spine, wishing again that he were beside her. How magnificent he would appear on the dance floor, holding her scandalously close as he whirled her to the strains of a waltz! Every other woman in the room would watch them, envy and longing in their eyes. And later, during the carriage ride home, he would plunder her mouth with wild kisses, rousing her hunger to a fevered pitch until neither one of them could form a single, coherent thought.
“Jules, are you warm? Would you like some punch?”
Her sister’s question brought her back to the present, real heat spreading upward into her cheeks.
“N-No, I’m fine,” she said, striving to regain her composure. “And the punch is dreadful, by the way.”
Opening her fan, she waved it in front of her face, hoping Maris and anyone else looking would attribute her heightened color to the room’s warmth.
Dear heavens, what is the matter with me? she scolded. I have no business, no business at all, standing at a dance—next to my innocent young sister—fantasizing about Rafe Pendragon! Obviously, he is turning me wanton.
Before she had time to castigate herself further, a new gentleman made his way toward her and Maris—Burton St. George, looking elegant and urbane in a formal black coat and knee breeches, his white shirt and cravat impeccable.
“How do you do this evening?” the viscount greeted, executing a smart bow.
This was the first time she and Maris had encountered him since that night at the theater. She shivered, telling herself the reaction must be a bit of residual embarrassment from her recent musings.
“My lord,” Julianna said, compelling a smile.
The three of them exchanged the usual round of polite small talk before Middleton directed his attention toward Maris. “Miss Davies, might I request the pleasure of the next dance?”
Maris appeared surprised. “Oh, I’d be honored, my lord, but it sounds like the musicians are preparing for a waltz, and I haven’t yet been given permission to engage in that particular dance. Perhaps my sister would enjoy a turn about the floor.”
“Maris,” Julianna replied, “do not be foolish. I am fine right where I am. You know I rarely dance.”
The viscount smiled, appearing not at all disappointed by the proposed change of partners. “Then let this be one of those occasions, madam. I should be delighted to share the next dance with you.” He held out his arm.
“Oh, do go on, Jules,” Maris encouraged.
; “But what about you?”
“I see Sandra Conniver across the room. I shall visit with her for a while.”
Trapped with no polite way out, Julianna agreed. Laying her fingers on the viscount’s sleeve, she let him lead her onto the dance floor.
The musicians soon struck up an energetic tune, setting all the couples in motion.
Tipping back her head in order to see his face, she couldn’t help but notice the viscount’s height. Without question, he was taller than most men, but not as tall as Rafe, nor as broad in the shoulder. And although his movements were smooth and coordinated, she suspected his ability came from practice rather than natural grace. Such would not be true of Rafe, she mused. A confident, physical man like Rafe Pendragon would always know the exact spot to place his feet without having to first consider his steps.
Realizing she needed to redirect her thoughts away from Rafe once again, Julianna searched for a conversational opening. “I must tell you, my lord, you surprise me.”
“Oh? In what way?”
“I would not have thought to see you here this evening. Almacks has never struck me as the sort of entertainment gentlemen of your tastes generally prefer.”
He raised a sandy-colored brow. “Gentlemen of my tastes, Lady Hawthorne? And what exactly would those tastes be to which you refer?”
“Something a bit more lively than tame country dances, bland punch, and the chance to play penny-a-point whist.”
He gave a short laugh. “You have caught me out, my lady, and are quite correct. Almacks, despite its illustrious reputation and elegant company, isn’t one of my usual haunts.”
“Your appearance here this evening has quite set the rumor mill ablaze with speculation, I must tell you.”
“Has it, indeed? A good thing, then, that I’ve never been one to shy away from attention.” After a pause, his face sobered. “I have been a widower for some while now. Four years and three months nearly to the day since I lost my own dear Eleanor. Having lost a spouse yourself, you must know the kind of sorrow I’ve endured.”
“Yes,” she murmured, a twinge of guilt pinching at her.
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