Only now, as he draped his leg over her thighs and his hands rubbed her sleeves, did she remember her prudence had never discouraged him before.
His habitual harshness had diminished, she didn’t know why, and his lips seemed unusually full and soft as he formed the words, “I suppose you’ve been kissed before.”
It seemed best to keep it brief. “Yes.”
He stiffened. “Did you return the kiss?”
“No.” But she’d learned that an umbrella stand, skillfully applied, would discourage a lustful nobleman.
He relaxed again. All lazy and sensual, he blinked. “Let me show you how, then.” He brushed her lips with his.
She tensed at his touch, but it wasn’t really a kiss. More of a fluttering, really, a hospitable invitation to explore should she chose to. She didn’t, but she liked the warmth of his body sinking closer to hers. The experience seemed almost friendly, more comforting than threatening.
Then his rough-textured hands moved up past her sleeves, past the neckline of her dress, and settled onto the bare skin of her shoulders.
She shivered as panic flared.
Bare skin to bare skin.
Not friendly.
Excruciating intimacy.
She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t bear this. He’d lifted her, carried her, and she’d told herself the promised kiss could be no worse, but he took advantage. Each stroke of his fingertips reminded her of those moments in the study when he’d stripped away her glove in an elaborate charade to fool the Fairchilds.
Fool the Fairchilds. His goal was to fool the Fairchilds. He was merely rehearsing.
“Thank you,” the new-made heiress said. “I’ve enjoyed quite enough.”
His palms moved in slow circles. He lifted his head. “You have beautiful skin. When I press it”—he did—“the color seeps away, then rushes back in a rosy wave.” He watched as if such a pastime could actually occupy his devious mind.
Righteous, sure she could end this torture now, she said, “You said we would only kiss.”
“Thank you for reminding me.”
He leaned toward her, but she brought up her arm and put it at his throat. “We already kissed.”
Putting her palm to his mouth, he kissed again, and each nerve in her hand absorbed the heady sensation of him. As he trekked up her wrist and toward her inner elbow, the scent of him wafted toward her, and without volition, she relaxed.
At the end of each traveling day, he’d taken her from the carriage, and she’d laid her head on his shoulder and breathed in the scent of horses, fresh air, and soap. Right or wrong, that particular combination had come to mean solace and compassion to her, and she used it to reassure herself.
He was persistent, not dangerous. Not in this way. Not to her. She was a Fairchild.
She closed her eyes against the sight of him nuzzling her tender flesh. A Fairchild. Surely he could never forget that. God knew she couldn’t.
“I watch you and watch you, and you guard your moods as if they were the rope that would hang you.”
Her eyes flew open. What did he mean?
“I feel sometimes I could ensure your complete cooperation in everything I demanded, if only I knew your secrets.”
He did know them, or at least the most important one. He knew about the murder.
Or perhaps he didn’t. Perhaps she’d misinterpreted a simple phrase…but she didn’t dare ask, did she?
As his mouth descended, she removed her arm’s barrier and did as he indirectly demanded. She kissed him.
Lips puckered, she tried to be as sophisticated as she had been years ago when she’d practiced nightly on her pillow.
Apparently she didn’t succeed, for he chuckled, and his breath caressed her cheek. “Not like that. Let me show you.”
She tensed, waiting for another umbrella-stand event, but it didn’t materialize. What did was another one of those feather-wing touches, so tender as to be almost kind. No brutality marred the act; did he always cherish murderesses with such sensitivity?
His fingers crept along her collarbone, feeling his way to her neck and throat, and he stroked the hollows. His hand was cool against her warm skin. He traced the length of her collarbone, and when he touched her so delicately, she had to struggle to remember he was blackmailing her.
His tongue soothed her lips, and she recognized his desire. He wanted to shove his way inside until she choked from his attentions. She tensed.
Massaging the cords of her neck, he said, “It’s just a kiss.”
And William the Conqueror was just a bastard.
He touched his lips to hers again, deepening the pressure so her nerve endings sang—or at least hummed. Mary didn’t recognize the tune, but if she wasn’t careful, she would be learning the lyrics.
He touched her with his tongue again, probing to the depth of her teeth, and she tasted him. Tasted the spices of the bread pudding and an indescribable flavor that must be him alone. Cautiously she eased her tongue toward his, enough to get the savor of him, and he met her halfway.
If he hadn’t been lying on top of her, she would have flown from the mattress. As it was, only his mouth muffled the little chirp she gave, and her hands came up of their own volition to grab his arms and push him away.
He sat back obligingly. “What’s wrong?”
“You did something to me. When our…” Trying to talk about it made her feel stupid. Why should she explain this to the very man who’d been there?
“When our…?”
“When our…tongues”—was she supposed to talk about tongues with a man?—“touched, it almost hurt.”
“Like…I bit you?”
“No! Like…” She tried to subdue her thought, but irrevocably it formed. As if I caught a shooting star and put it in my mouth.
The two of them had created a spark.
No, wait. That wasn’t right. The spark had always been there, but they had given it fuel to make a fire.
Looking into his dark, knowing eyes, she realized he had fathomed the attraction from the beginning.
“Let us test this.” He kissed her. The spark and light flared between them at once.
He drew away, but his hands still cupped her face. “Any pain? Or pleasure?”
What could she say? That she had now identified the source of her discomfort? He would be amused. Worse, he’d be pleased. So she stared into his heavily lashed eyes and nodded.
“A virgin mouth, too.” He smiled, all white teeth and rough, tanned skin, and she noted that his broad nose had been broken. That one feature had escaped his dominion. He couldn’t control it as he did his smile and the expression in his eyes. His nose told plainly of his past, of the fights he’d been in, but his jaw said that he’d won every one. He was a fighter, was Sebastian Durant, and she resisted him at her peril.
He brought his mouth back to hers. His hands explored her chin, her cheeks, her ears, then delved into her hair, and he massaged her scalp with his fingertips. At the same time her hands tightened on his arms and her fingernails kneaded the muscles in sentient demand.
She had observed those muscles when he had lounged in his godmother’s library. Now she experienced the ripple of their movement beneath her palms, and that stirring heightened the notion that this man was created for her, and her alone.
Then he moaned as if he experienced the painlike symptoms, also.
She shivered as he shared his breath, pouring himself into her in a primitive symbol of possession.
Where was her housekeeper’s discipline? She willingly—no, eagerly—explored his mouth with her tongue and let his hands roam her ribs. Then his fingers passed the high waist of her frock and nudged the underside of her breasts.
She should be shocked. She was shocked. She tried to get away, but not too hard, because she wanted…more.
“Shall I touch you?” he murmured. “Would you like that?”
He knew! How embarrassing that he knew that she wanted him to touch her bosom. All
of her bosom. Most especially her nipples. They had clenched tightly. They ached. They needed to be soothed, and illogically she thought only he could soothe them.
“Like this,” he said, and engulfed each breast in his fingers.
Tears of forbidden craving rose in her eyes as he rubbed her, paying special attention the peaks. The lace of her chemise rasped her skin, but it didn’t irritate, it aroused—not only her, but him.
His compulsive delicacy seemed driven, wild, insurgent, and a faint anxiety nudged her mind.
Was he in control? Yes, of course. He had to be. He was the mighty Lord Whitfield.
But his body spoke of urgency—his? hers? He shifted; she paid only passing heed. The delights of his hands on her breasts, his breath on her skin, masked her anxiety.
Then his knee moved her legs apart.
She shoved his head aside. “Wait!”
He waited until she eased the pressure, then impatient, imperious, he nuzzled her neck.
“My lord, you must stop.” She grabbed his hair, pulled his head back—and saw his face.
There would be no stopping. Passion had pulled the muscles taut. His gaze blazed so intensely, he shielded her from it by half shutting his eyes. Worst of all, he was smiling. Not his cutting smile. Not his too knowledgeable smile. But a smile that told her he was addicted to this pleasure.
He wasn’t in control. His kiss had become a rampant creature. A dangerous creature.
But a housekeeper never panicks or shows anxiety. “Lord Whitfield!” she said clearly.
He heard her, for he focused on her, and she saw clear to the seething depths of his soul.
“Sebastian.” His lips barely moved.
She shook him. “We’ve got to…You must halt immediately!”
Intently he watched her speak as if he could see the words. Could he hear her scent, and taste the feel of him on her hands?
“Sebastian,” he repeated.
“If I call you Sebastian, will you stop?”
“I’m not a fool. What kind of merchant would I be if I agreed to that pact?”
Did he know she trembled on the edge of succumbing? He touched her ear tenderly, then followed with his tongue.
She tried to scramble back, but he was heavy. She didn’t have a chance, unless an umbrella stand stood nearby. Or unless the domed silver tray cover remained on the end table where she’d placed it.
But how could she hit him with that? She could hurt him.
He kissed her chest, and the sensation tickled. Tickled and made her want to press against him. She shuddered and clutched him, whimpering. Perspiration glowed on her skin as the heat of the shooting stars rained down on her.
Then he stopped, and she realized he’d used her neck as a distraction to accomplish his real objective. He’d worked her skirt up, and now his hand slid over her knee toward the edge of her stocking. Toward the place that had grown damp. The rough skin of his palm snagged at the silk. She tried to press her legs together, to hide her vulnerability, but he was there. Everywhere, he was there. If she didn’t do something now, he would touch her bare skin again, and this time the shooting stars might turn to ashes. This time Mary Rottenson might totally lose her battle, and Guinevere Fairchild would take her place.
And once Sebastian had experienced the irresponsible Guinevere, he would mock Mary until all of her maturity and authority shriveled and died.
His head thrown back, his eyes closed, he looked like a man on the verge of ecstasy.
She stretched her arm toward the silver cover.
Now.
His hand found her garter and released it.
Now.
Her fingers slipped on the slick silver. She tried again, and caught the handle.
“Now.” His eyes opened, blazing with triumph. His finger stroked her between the legs, unerringly finding that place.
She arched up, stars exploding in a tumult of fire and sparks, of passion and pleasure.
And frantic, she brought the cover around with a full swing of her arm. It clanged loudly against the back of his skull.
“What the…?” He clambered back, freeing her for another swing.
This one cracked against his cheek. With a roar of pain, he grabbed his face and rolled off onto the floor.
She leaned forward to swing again.
He backed away.
Furious, humiliated, aroused, she held the cover like a shield before her. “Get out!” she whispered, afraid that if she spoke aloud, she would shout. “Get out and don’t come back.”
He took his hand away from his face and looked at the blood on the palm. Then he looked up at her.
Civilization? Control? What had possessed her to think he comprehended even the concepts? In the force of his dark gaze, she saw the savagery of an animal deprived of its right to mate. She saw the promise of future encounters. Fighting a mix of fear and excitement, she tried to duck behind the safe facade of Mary Fairchild—and failed.
He came back toward the bed.
She raised the cover.
“Put it down,” he said in his normal cold tones. His mastery had returned. “If I wanted to, I could take it, and take you. But this isn’t the time.”
A knock sounded at the door. How long had someone been trying to get their attention? Stupidly she said, “There’s someone outside.”
A particularly frantic pounding sounded through the room, and Lady Valéry’s clear tones called, “Sebastian!”
He simply glanced at the door, indifferent to the concerns of propriety and society, and Mary clutched the cover tighter. She didn’t care what he said. She didn’t believe that he would care if the king himself knocked on the door, and she wasn’t putting down that cover.
“You know now what’s between us.” The skin on his cheek was bruising as he spoke, swelling, purpling, and blood trickled out of a cut. “I want you to remember, Mary, what happened on this bed. Tonight when you slip between the sheets, think of me. Think of what we almost did. Imagine how good it would have been.” He went to the door and pulled the chair away, then turned back and looked at her. “It’ll be that good again. That good, and better.” He sketched a bow. “Until next time, Mary.”
Chapter 11
Jill squealed. “Miss Rotten—I mean, Miss Fairchild, you look fairy-bright.”
Mary forgave her maid the unflattering exhibition of amazement. Jill had viewed Mary as Lady Valéry’s drab housekeeper for so many years, she couldn’t contain her wonder now, when that same housekeeper was…Mary stared into the mirror. When she was dazzling.
She reined in her own incredulity.
Vanity. All this staring into the mirror fostered pride in her remaining beauty, and she knew well enough how fleeting youth had proved. Turning away from the reflection of a maiden dressed in white satin, diamonds, and gold glimmering at her ears, wrists, and neck, she said, “Beauty is as beauty does. And do remember, without your skill with the hairbrush, I would still be plain Miss Rottenson.”
Jill wrapped the now cool iron curler in the quilted pad she used to protect her hands. “Nay, Miss Fairchild, ’tisn’t true. We ladies’ maids used to talk about it in the servants’ quarters, saying as how we’d like to get our hands on you. We knew you’d dress out fine. I can’t wait until I get back home and tell them we were right.” She shut the dampers on the brazier she’d used to heat the round steel bar. “And that one of us is a rich heiress!”
Silenced, Mary took the lacy handkerchief and put it in the purse that hung off her arm, then let Jill help her draw on the long, diamond-seeded gloves. She picked up her ivory fan. Jill pretended to busy herself, but Mary cleared her throat and held out her hand. Silently Jill handed over the shoulder scarf, disapproval implicit in her stance.
“I am not going out in public with a neckline as low as this,” Mary said.
“As you say, Miss Fairchild.”
Mary did say, and Jill would not have her way on this, at least.
Jill had refused to allow Mary
to wear formal hoops, insisting instead on a cambric petticoat, for the newest mode demanded a tubular skirt. Jill had refused to allow Mary to wear a wig, for only those who clung to the old ways wore a wigs. Jill had dabbed her lightly with the subtle fragrance of damask rose, for fashion emphasized cleanliness with only a subtle fragrance.
When Mary had inquired with irritation why she must ignore custom, Jill had smiled wisely. Mary needed to establish herself as a style leader from her first appearance.
And who was Mary to disagree? She had paid fashion little heed in the last ten years, and besides…she liked the lighter perfume. Her hair gleamed like polished gold, and she hated to cover it with a wig. And if she found the lack of hoops disconcerting, well, she could hide her blushes behind her fan, and her bosom beneath her lacy scarf.
Once more she tugged her neckline up, then tied the scarf in a loose knot over her chest. “I’m ready.”
“Aye.” Jill picked up the discarded hoops and stacked them in the bottom of the wardrobe. “Just remember—don’t let Lord Whitfield take you into the garden. Grass stains are monstrously hard to remove.”
Mary drew herself up to her full height, which was only a little greater than Jill’s. “Are you being insolent?”
Jill looked surprised. “No, Miss Fairchild.”
Deflated, Mary reflected Jill probably was being truthful. It was Mary’s fault she’d tamely allowed Sebastian to remain in her bedchamber with no chaperone. She had foolishly thought she could handle him, that his discipline never slipped, that he despised the Fairchilds too much to wish to couple with one.
She knew better now. She knew, too, he would be at the party tonight and she would have to face him for the first time since that magnificent—no, that humiliating scene yesterday. She never would have guessed his revenge would take this form.
What would he say? What would he do? And how would she respond? Never had she dreamed she would allow a man to be so familiar.
Allow? She mocked herself. Encourage would be a better word. She’d let him kiss her, fondle her, and she’d kissed and fondled him in return, searing the tang and taste of him deep into her very being. Just as he’d instructed, she’d awakened last night and thought of what they’d almost done, imagined how good it would have been.
A Well Pleasured Lady Page 10