Lucien's Fall

by Samuel, Barbara

  She opened her eyes and looked up into his face. A hand of wind seemed to give him help, for it brushed a lock of his dark hair over his face, easing the hard lines. His mouth was wet from hers, and a sultry darkness changed his eyes to a liquid beauty unlike anything she’d ever seen.

  All the rest of her life, she would make love to the marquess, happily and easily. For tonight only, she would give herself the pleasure of sex with a man who knew what it meant to give and receive pleasure of this sort. For tonight, she could no longer resist him.

  "Yes," she whispered, and kissed him, her mouth wide open.

  A low burning cry came from his throat, and he scooped her into his arms, as if he were afraid she would change her mind. "Oh, God, Madeline," he whispered, and kissed her again even as he moved, striding down the promenade with her in his arms, his grip fierce. He kicked the door into the hallway, and swept up the stairs, kissing her almost helplessly.

  Madeline clung to him, her arms around his neck. With a wildness she did not know she possessed, she gave into the feelings that claimed her, and kissed his jaw and his throat, and the underside of his chin.

  In her room, he put her down and closed the door, but instead of moving away, he pushed her against the wall, kissing her as he shed his coat and waistcoat, and started on hers. "I’m mad with want for you," he said.

  And it was so with Madeline, too. She pushed her hands under his shirt to touch the skin that so tantalized her, and heard him groan. The sound made her bold, and she left his skin to smooth her hands down his buttocks, over the outside of his thighs. "I’ve wanted so often to touch you," she whispered.

  He groaned. "Touch as you wish, my sweet." He pulled her hand around to put it against his organ, and at first Madeline was shocked. It was hot, even through his breeches, and instinctively she moved her hand over it. He made a low, almost pained sound, grabbing her fiercely, sucking at her mouth as if he would inhale her. The wild Lucien, she thought, completely under her power. It thrilled her.

  "I’ve wanted to touch you," he said, reaching behind her to unlace her dress, which came free under his expert touch. He peeled it from her arms and pushed it down. The pannier Madeline unbuckled, still kissing him. It clattered to the floor, and Lucien held her hand as she stepped out of it. She tripped, her toes tangling in the wooden bracing for her skirts, and he caught her, lifting her again to put her on the bed.

  Only the softest light came through the windows, but it was enough. Madeline lay on her familiar bed, watching as Lucien shed his shirt, then his boots, then his breeches. Her heart stumbled at the magnificence of his body, at the wide expanse of his shoulders, the narrowness of his hips, at his strong thighs, furred with hair.

  He came to her, kneeling on the bed to unlace her corset and chemise, helping her out of them one by one. Her hair came loose a little and he reached up to pull free the pins, one at a time, until her hair tumbled all around her naked form. She knelt before him and lifted her arms to the ribbon that held his hair in a queue and took it out. When she touched his hair, her naked breasts touched his naked chest. The feeling was almost unbearably exquisite, and she moved forward to touch him so again.

  He pushed her back, gently, into the pillows, and stretched out over her, letting his body brush hers, their thighs and knees tangled. He moved his arm over her stomach and breasts. And kissed her.

  Naked body to naked body made a kiss a different thing. Madeline felt an almost immobilizing tremble invade her. Lucien moved his hand on her body, lifting her breast, rubbing his thumb over the aching point, drawing circles around her navel, and lower, into the dark curls at her thighs.

  The shock of that feeling made her cry out, and he quickly covered her lips with his own to capture the sound. Not that anyone would hear.

  It made her feel odd to have him touching her that way, and she moved restlessly. He bent and touched his mouth to her breast, and at the same time moved his hand into the folds of her. She stroked his back, moving restlessly, unable to bear the welling sensation that filled her. He kissed her breasts and belly, her throat and lips, and the feeling built in her as wild as a storm, almost arriving and not yet there—.

  He took his hand away, and she cried out in protest, but then he was over her, his lips on her own, his hand in her hair. With one strong thigh, he parted her willing legs and settled himself between them, just for a moment staying just like that, with the heated weight she had stroked nudging the darkest, most secret center of her body. She moved, arching instinctively to put her body against his.

  Then somehow, he was filling her, filling and filling, the feeling deeper than all the oceans. He paused for a moment, and reached between them and touched her and Madeline felt two things—a wild swelling breaking thing, rippling pleasure so deep and encompassing she could not dream it was real, and a sharp tugging pain from deep within her. Together the pain and the pleasure engulfed her, rippling and tumbling, wave after wave, and she heard a low sound, long and sustained, and knew it was her own voice.

  When she thought she could not bear another instant, the pain ceased and there was only Lucien, filling her all the way, wrapping her with himself, kissing her, touching her. His body was against her belly and legs, and under her hands. She found herself smoothing his long, muscled back and touching his firm buttocks, clasping him closer as he cried her name in a hoarse voice and moved against her, inside of her, his hands tight on her shoulders. A cry left him and he went still and she felt the shudders of his body.

  And again her body responded to his and she shattered, holding him close, relishing his presence, knowing it could never last.

  With all that she was, she wished that it could.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In delights our pains shall cease,

  And our war be cur’d by peace;

  We will count our griefs with blisses,

  Thousand torments, thousand kisses.

  ~ Sir Edward Sherburne

  Lucien could not breathe her in closely enough. As the waves of intense pleasure subsided, he put his face against Madeline’s neck, tasting there salty sweat and the nectar of her flesh, a unique and heady flavor. He touched his mouth to the hollow of her throat and the curve of her chin, tasting, inhaling her.

  He didn’t want to leave her. Wanted to hold her this way, their bodies linked, all night. Bracing himself on his elbows to take some of his weight from her, he lifted his head and placed a kiss on her mouth. It gave him a twinge where the cut was still so tender, but that did not matter. Her full lips, firm and giving, nestled against his perfectly. Sweetly.

  "You taste of rainbows," he murmured, "Of all things, of all the colors in the world. I could kiss you forever." He angled his mouth and illustrated, kissing her deeply, slowly.

  When he lifted his head, she gave a whispery little sigh and arched ever so slightly into him. Impossibly, he found himself growing hard again, inside of her, a feat he’d not known since raging youth. He willed himself to be utterly still, willed it to go away, knowing no matter how much care he took, she would be sore in the morning. And yet...

  She opened her eyes and pushed his loose hair away from his face. In the quiet light, her face showed only in round highlights and arched shadows, her eyes pools of unreadable darkness, but her hands spoke for her, pushing the handfuls of hair from his face, stroking his jaw, smoothing her fingers over his chin. "I’ll never regret this night, Lucien. Never." She swallowed, and lifted her hips and he groaned at the heat all around him.

  There was no way she could know what he wanted then, and yet instinctively, she moved. Her breasts teased his ribs, and she lifted her heels to lock him close to her. He rotated his hips, and now it was she who cried out, and he was amazed that she could feel something, too, so much. So much.

  She grabbed his head and kissed him, violently, so violently the cut on his lips split open and he tasted fresh blood between them, falling on her tongue, on his own. Unable to control his urges at all now, Lucien dug his hands
into her smooth, taut buttocks and hauled her as tightly as he could against him. And this time, it wasn’t slow. It was wild and violent, rocking hard, with the kind of savage need he thought impossible.

  Her cry, so sudden and surprised and abandoned, sent him over the edge, rolling into her once more, and his cry joined hers, and they plummeted together into that landscape without end or beginning, where they alone existed.

  Lucien exploded into her and died, and came back to life, music alive and dancing all through him, his soul as black as a tar pit. His soul, which would languish always in eternal hell, because for his own purpose, he had used music to have a woman who would not have fallen to any other seduction. He had broken his only inviolable rule, a rule as holy as prayers to another man, and he would suffer for it.

  And yet, it was done. He kissed her breasts, and her neck, and her mouth, and vowed he would make his damnation worthwhile.

  * * *

  Madeline did not know there were so many things a man and a woman could do to pleasure each other. Nor did she dream there could be so much touching in so few hours, or that she would welcome the many touches with such wonder and joy.

  He kissed her—how he kissed her!—from forehead to toes, and she found there were places that made her shudder and squirm that were perfectly normal most of the time: the back of her neck, the soft indentation in her back above her hips, the circle of her navel, the inner part of her wrist. And elsewhere, too, he put his mouth and tongue, until she nearly wept with the feelings he stirred, the pleasure he gave.

  In return, she learned the tastes and smells of Lucien, learned what to do to draw from him the soft groans and choked cries she found so erotic. His body, too, provided a plethora of surprises—it was lean and curved and hard all at once, and smelled in the very pores of that scent she found so rich. His organ was silky to the touch, the sacs below as intriguing as a new flower. Her very examination appeared to surprise and arouse him. "Is it unseemly for me to look closely?" she asked.

  He swallowed and touched her hair. "Uncommon. Not unseemly." And he brought her close to him again.

  Exhausted at last, they fell together in a tangle of sleep. When Madeline awakened, it was dawn, and yellow fingers of sunlight fell into the room, onto the bed, splashing into her eyes. She did not remember at first what had happened; it was only odd that the curtains were not drawn around her bed and the sunlight came in so rudely.

  With a frown she shifted a little, and felt her nakedness, and smelled her lover, and she opened her eyes.

  Lucien knelt beside her, naked, gazing down at her with a boiling in his eyes. She lay on her back, her hair scattered below her, over her, around one shoulder. He lifted a hand and pulled away some that covered her breasts, exposing her body to his eyes. His gaze, serious and heated, touched her breasts and belly and thighs, sweeping down, then up.

  Madeline didn’t move, but her mouth went dry at the probing heat of his gaze. Her nipples tightened, almost as if he’d touched her.

  In the night, she had learned the feeling of him, and the scent, and the taste. Now she drank of him, as he drank of her, with the gift of sight. His body was beautiful, sinewy and long and lean. The face, bruised and battered, and shadowed now with dark bristles along his jaw, stirred her deeply: the high sweep of bones, the tender firmness of his mouth, the black frame of lashes and winged eyebrows.

  He opened his hand and touched her breast with the very tips of his fingers. "Cinnamon," he said, and his hand slid into the hollow between her breasts. "And cream." He touched her lips. "Strawberry and," he skimmed down to the tuft of hair between her legs, "chocolate."

  Madeline would have thought it impossible that he could make her feel anything again. She would have said her body was too tired. But as he brought his hands forward and cupped her breasts into his palms, and gazed at her nakedness, she clutched the sheets into her fists. When he bent his head over her, she knew she could never look at him again without thinking of the sight: the crown of his dark head, the slope of his nose, his mouth on her breast, his hands scooping her flesh into reach.

  And she touched him, seeing her hands on his body so she wouldn’t forget. Her slim hand on his flat, muscular belly, on his naked thigh, on the urgently pointed organ.

  Face-to-face, eyes open, they joined again. He came into her slowly, a tiny thrust forward each time, so as not to irritate her tender skin, his own tenderness. When he was fully sheathed, he paused. Lucien turned them to their sides and held her against him. "Don’t move," he said.

  Madeline stared at him. "No," she whispered.

  They stared at each other, his blue eyes as vivid as a summer sky, the pain smoothed from his forehead. She kissed the place at the bridge of his nose where a line was beginning to form. The movement jolted their hips and gave Madeline a bright, hot shock of sensation.

  "Promise you will not forget this night," he said, and his voice was oddly raw. He stroked her face with the backs of his fingers. "Promise."

  "I won’t forget." His mouth was too close to resist. She moved forward and touched her tongue to the wounded place, very lightly. "I could not forget," she whispered. A tiny, almost indiscernible pulsing began deep within her, and Lucien shifted a little, just once, jolting the sensation. She made a soft, quiet sound.

  "Nor will I," he said, and Madeline almost believed the night had been as shattering for him as it had for her. He kissed her gently, and his hands moved on her back, down to her buttocks, where he curved and cupped the flesh, then smoothed his hand down the back of her ticklish thighs. She wiggled and the growing pulse jumped another notch in her groin, but still he didn’t move, though she felt his fingers curl into her flesh almost painfully for an instant. His tongue swirled around her mouth, lazily and boldly. He moved his hand upward once more, and rested the heavy, broad palm on her shoulder, and kissed her and kissed her and kissed her—

  And the welling in her built into shivering, deep pulses, higher and higher, and she could not help moving ever so slightly. He grabbed her shoulder and his body went utterly taut, and there was again just the savage pleasure he gave, and she took, and his mouth on hers, and the taste of his cut again broken, and his arms suddenly tight around her, his face in her neck. "Never forget," he whispered.

  "Never."

  He held her so closely she could barely breathe, and there was a trembling in his powerful arms. "Lucien," she whispered. "I will never forget."

  He kissed her temple and hugged her close, and she tasted his hair on her mouth, and his flesh, and knew he was shattering, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  * * *

  Juliette was far, far improved in the morning. The heavy weight in her chest had evaporated, and her cough, which had been a long time with her, had returned to its usual dry, ticklish annoyance.

  It might have been the sun that so cheered her, after so many days of dark gloominess. Or the deep rest she’d known for two days. She took chocolate in her room, and answered several letters she’d neglected, all by eight in the morning. The strange energy amused her—perhaps her daughter’s habits had infected her.

  She peered hopefully toward the gardens several times, but there was no sign of Madeline. Juliette supposed it had been a long few days for her daughter, too. It couldn’t be easy, balancing all the conflicting emotions of the principal players in the house the past few weeks. And yet, with her usual practical attitudes, Madeline had managed to keep everyone and everything on a firm keel.

  What a fine wife she would make the marquess! What a fine, calm life they would find together.

  A small mental disturbance rustled the sunny mood. Jonathan. He had not come to her last night, either, but it wasn’t surprising. He was punishing her—and perhaps Juliette even deserved it. She knew he’d spent the last two nights in Anna’s bed, not out of any kind of lust, but because he’d chosen the one lover Juliette would find most loathsome to forgive.

  But forgive she would, galling as it was. And Jonath
an surely knew it. They would heal this rift, and go on as they had been, so blissfully happy.

  A warning nudged her. What if he would not forgive her? She paced toward the open French door, gazing out upon the sun-gilded landscape. A horse and rider came up the drive. If Jonathan was not inclined to forgive, she would simply do her best to forget him. Given the choice between her lover and her daughter’s well-being, Juliette had made the only choice she could make.

  The rider cantered up the drive and stopped before the wide front steps of the house. With a bright sense of relief, Juliette recognized Charles Devon, dressed in a pale blue coat. For once, he’d left his hair alone, and it shone a bright chestnut in the morning sun. In spite of his rotund figure, he moved with confidence, dismounting and taking the steps lightly.

  Happily, Juliette went down to meet him in the hall. She kissed his red cheek, realizing he was a rather commanding figure after all, like a general, in spite of bearish looks. "We did not expect you back so soon!" Juliette said, taking his hands. "George, bring us chocolate to the salon."

  "I’m afraid I cannot stay," he said. "I’ve more urgent business in London this afternoon, but I could not bear to ride so close without greeting Lady Madeline at least in passing." He gave a quick look toward the gardens. "May I go look for her?"

  "She’s not about yet," Juliette replied. "It’s been rather busy here, and I’m afraid I ran the poor girl into exhaustion. I can’t even remember the last time she slept so late!"

  "I see." It was plain he was very disappointed. "I haven’t time to linger. Please tell her I stopped in and will be back in a few days when my London business is concluded."

  "Oh, no!" Juliette protested, and took his hand. "She’ll be very disappointed if you don’t at least say hello."

  The marquess held back, gazing toward the stairs as if they might be the path to heaven—or hell. "No, thank you, Countess, but I’ll—"