Caleb jerked his gaze to her in alarm. “Dear God, are you quite all right?”
That only caused Sophie to snort with more laughter; she instantly covered her mouth with one hand, waved the other one at him as if to convince him she was all right until she managed to get a grip of her hysteria.
When she at last stopped laughing, he arched one brow. “Better now?”
She nodded.
“Do you think you might be able to speak?”
She nodded again and held her breath, raising one finger in a silent request to wait until she was certain the next gale of laughter had subsided. “There,” she said at last. “It’s quite gone, I think.”
“Then perhaps you might share what you find so amusing?”
She reached for his hand, squeezed it affectionately. “What I find amusing,” she said with deliberate care, “is that you find me beautiful …”—the laughter was bubbling in her again—“or charming …” She giggled, clamped a hand over her mouth again.
Caleb smiled wolfishly. “Do you doubt me?” he drawled. “Then I must be allowed to convince you.” He caught her by the wrist and pulled her across his lap, into his chest and arms, dousing her laughter quickly and fluidly with his lips.
Sophie was lost in the moment before it had even begun. His lips were soft and full, gently gliding over her mouth, molding hers. His touch was so light yet so heated that she felt as if she were floating, her body suspended somewhere just beyond his lips, anchored only by the weightless pressure of his hand on her back. He touched her with his tongue, languidly slipped inside her mouth.
Sophie couldn’t help sighing with pleasure; that seemed to turn his kiss molten—she could feel it dripping down, pooling in her breasts and her groin. Never had she felt a kiss to the very tips of her toes. Never had she felt a yearning run so quiet and deep within her, stirring the chaos.
He reluctantly lifted his head, stroked her cheek. “Have I convinced you?”
Oh, he had convinced her, all right. Convinced her that she had never desired a man so thoroughly. Her mind was racing with wickedly provocative thoughts. She leaned deeper into the circle of his arms, longing to know his weight on her, feel him move inside her, feel his warm breath on her breast. It was a lust that was beginning to consume her, one she thought of constantly when she was with him, constantly when she was not. A desire so strong that it made her weak, impossibly weak. Who was she? What sort of woman felt such prurient yearning? And how was it possible for her to feel it? Had she not all but shriveled up in the last eight years? Was there anything left of her but this craving?
Caleb stroked her cheek. “Well then? Are you convinced?” he murmured.
Who was she? “Not entirely, sir,” she said in a low voice she did not recognize. “I think it will require greater effort.”
Her response took him aback—she felt her smile go deeper, and a slow, lopsided grin graced his lips. “Then please, madam, allow me to make a greater effort,” he said, and drew her down beside him.
He kissed her gently, feathering her eyes and cheeks with a rain of kisses, moving then to her ear, his tongue darting inside and out, his lips suckling her lobe. But his tongue quickly became a flame, licking and tantalizing her beyond explanation, leaving a trail of fire down her neck that burned in her groin and built to an intolerable pressure inside her.
Sophie was keenly aware of the dampness between her thighs, the ache of her breasts as his hands explored her body through her brocade gown. His kiss grew more urgent; he was delving deeper, plumbing her depths. With his hands, he cupped her breasts, squeezed the round of her hip.
She wanted him. She wanted to feel his hand in her dampness, his mouth on her breast. Her thoughts were wildly lustful, sinful—but she felt herself out of control, pushed into the well of longing and drowning in it, sinking deeper and deeper into its depths.
It did not seem to be her who suddenly pushed up onto her knees and shed the jacket of her walking dress. Nor did she feel herself when she untied her chemise, then lifted his hand and pressed it against her breast.
Caleb’s gaze pierced hers; he must have seen the passion boiling beneath her surface, for he released his breath in one long agonizing sigh and tenderly kneaded the flesh of her breast. “Perfect,” he murmured. “God in heaven, you do not know what you do to me, Sophie. You do not know how desperate is the passion you create within me. I cannot touch you like this and not have all of you … I might very well perish from the wanting of it.”
With his hand on her breast and the thirst so clear in his eyes, Sophie could almost believe she did that to him. She arched her back, pushing her bare breast into his palm, and whispered, “So might I.”
Caleb’s breath was ragged as he reached for her chemise and slowly, deliberately, pushed the straps from her shoulders, his fingers singeing her skin, his eyes feasting on her breasts. The peaks of her dark brown nipples stood rigid, and when Caleb brushed the pad of his thumbs across them, she felt the draw from deep within her belly. Unsteadied by it, she caught his arm, held tight.
“I feel so … so desirable in your arms,” she murmured. “You make me feel like a woman.”
“Sophie, God, you do not know, do you? You do not understand … you are the most desirable creature I have ever chanced to behold.” His voice fell away as he drew one rigid nipple into his mouth, sending another dizzying wave of heat spiraling downward. As he suckled one breast, Sophie closed her eyes, felt herself floating again, adrift on a sea of erotic sensation.
“I want to make love to you,” he muttered against her skin. “I want you to know just how mad with passion you have made me, show you how a man might pleasure a woman. Let me make love to you, Sophie. Let me come inside you.”
His words were so beguiling that Sophie could not seem to catch her breath; she gasped softly as he shed his waistcoat and shirt. Free of the garments, he gathered her in his arms and pulled her into his chest, pressing her body against his as he buried his face in her neck. One hand dropped free, groped for the bottom of her skirt.
The touch of his hand on the soft, bare skin of her leg was electrifying. His hands, roughened with the labor of building his house, created a sensuous friction that left a burning trail on her skin. He moved higher and deeper beneath her skirts, scorching her when his fingers brushed her damp undergarments. His breathing quickened; using both hands, he pushed the drawers down, and unthinkingly, Sophie maneuvered out of them. Guiding her with his hands on her waist, he pulled her forward, until she was straddling his lap. She could feel his erection straining against his trousers beneath her, and she moved slowly across it, tantalizing herself.
“How radiant you are,” he whispered as he lifted one hand to her face and slipped the other beneath her skirts again, cupping her fully this time, and slowly, agonizingly so, slid his fingers between the slick folds of her sex, watching her eyes as he carefully explored her. Sophie gasped at the raw sensation; her head lolled helplessly to her shoulder. His fingers slid into her tight sheath while he continued the gentle, swirling assault over and around the nub of her arousal.
She listed on the waves of pleasure he gave her, bracing herself against his shoulders, her fingers digging into his flesh to anchor herself as her body writhed on his hands. Such pleasure was not part of this earth; it was wildly carnal, shimmering in every fiber of her with a furious fever.
“I want to be inside you,” he said hoarsely. “I want to feel you shudder all around me.”
His hoarse utterance pushed her over the brink; her climax erupted in his hand, rippling through her body. She cried out, threw her head back, felt the pieces of her raining down around them.
“How beautiful you are,” she heard him say, felt his hands on her waist, felt him lift her … felt him gently, slowly, impale her.
In the lush cloud that surrounded her, Sophie heard herself laugh as he slid deep inside her, a guttural sound of pure pleasure. Burying his face in her breasts, he began to move. It was an exquis
ite feeling, both emotional and physical all at once. The joining of their bodies, the feel of his hard cock deep inside her made her reel. All her defenses had been shattered with the first silent explosion; she began to move on him, wanting to feel him deeper, feel him harder, feel him melt into her, become part of her.
“Sophie,” he muttered raggedly as she lifted her breasts to his mouth and moved up and down along the rigid length of him. “You are an inspiration, a dream …” Sophie moved faster, sinking as deep as her body would allow before rising again.
Caleb moaned deeply, then grabbed her around the waist and smoothly maneuvered her onto her back. Suddenly he was above her, gazing down at her, slowing the tempo of their primal waltz to a smooth glide. He lowered his head, touched his forehead to hers, slid gently in and out of her in long, patient strokes, prolonging the experience and torturing her with the sheer pleasure. Moaning softly, Sophie’s knees came up around his waist; she arched into his body, silently begging for more, for another explosion within her.
He shifted his weight, the stroke and pace lengthened, reaching for the very core of her. He began to move with the urgency that she felt, thrusting deep inside her, reaching for her womb, releasing all the hope that had lain dormant in her for so many years, until it filled her and strained to the point of bursting. Sophie clawed at the muslin sheets; her hips rose to meet him. Caleb groaned deep—he was past the point of gentle strokes, was now swimming in the current she had created, moving harder and deeper, and then he was stroking her, his fingers once again dancing upon her sex.
Desire and longing spiraled tighter and tighter, building to a dangerous, mind-numbing release that crashed over them in one tremendously violent wave.
She heard Caleb cry out, felt him convulse inside her.
Then she felt his ragged breath on her neck, the staccato beat of his heart against her own. He lay with his forehead against her shoulder as he sought to drag air into his lungs, his fingers blindly searching for her, his hand caressing her arm.
They lay silently that way for several moments before Caleb spoke. “You have stolen my heart, Sophie.” He pushed himself up onto his elbows, brushed the loose hair from her face, kissed first one eye, then the other. “I am yours. Irretrievably yours.”
Too spent to speak, she cupped his square jaw in her palm and smiled into his pale green eyes, and hoped to God he spoke true, for he certainly had her heart.
They lay entwined in one another’s arms, caressing each other, speaking low. Neither of them wanted to leave, but Caleb at last insisted, fearful that someone might turn a search party out for her. They dressed quickly and solemnly; Caleb made every attempt to fix her hair, but in the end, he stuffed Honorine’s bonnet down over her head with a soft admonishment to comb it before anyone saw her.
They paused at the door of the ballroom, shared one last, long kiss, then walked hand in hand out of his house, down the path and to the edge of the park, oblivious to the world around them. At the park entrance, Caleb kissed the back of her hand, made her promise once more that she would meet him again on the morrow, and slowly, reluctantly, let her fingers trail through his before dropping her hand completely.
She was smiling, her hand tapping absently against the side of her skirts as she wandered back to Maison de Fortier. Their lovemaking tingled throughout her body with each step; she recalled every place his fingers had touched her, every breath he had drawn, every moment he had looked at her with those pale green eyes. Every thrust, every drop of his seed in her belly. It had been a highly volatile experience—after eight years, her body had been primed, had quivered at the mere touch and had come quite undone with the feel of his body in hers.
The world as she knew it ceased to exist the moment he had put his hands on her body. He had lifted her to some higher plane, and on that plane, she could truly believe he had a mad passion for her, could even believe she was beautiful. It was not a state of existence she ever wanted to leave again, and strolling lazily along as she was, she amused herself by imagining more lovemaking.
As she walked into the foyer, she smiled at Roland and scarcely noticed that he held an umbrella in each hand. He looked at her curiously and demanded, “What is this look of yours?”
Sophie chuckled quietly to herself and shook her head.
Roland shrugged. “Madame Fortier, she awaits in the salon for you,” he said, and with another intent look at her, walked away in the opposite direction with his pair of umbrellas.
Carelessly tossing her bonnet onto a console, Sophie made a halfhearted attempt to repair her hair, then shrugged, and glided on her cloud to the salon.
But she came crashing back to earth the moment she opened the door.
It wasn’t that every conceivable surface was covered with her fig tartlets, biscuits, and some sort of ill-shaped little meat pies—it looked as if Honorine intended to feed an entire army in her festive attire of a purple turban and peach caftan. No, what shook Sophie from her dreamy state as Honorine came hurrying forward was that Trevor Hamilton was a step behind her.
And behind them, Lord Hamilton and the boy, Ian, who looked up at Sophie with a sullen frown.
Trevor was the last person Sophie wanted to see at the moment. The mere sight of him marred the tremendous sense of happiness she felt and gave reality entry to creep back into her world.
“Bonjour, bonjour!” Honorine said happily, and grabbing Sophie by the shoulders, kissed her roughly on both cheeks. When she reared back, she looked at Sophie strangely, her blue eyes peering deep.
“Lady Sophie,” Trevor said warmly. “How do you do?”
How did she do? Ooh, quite wonderfully, thank you, very well indeed … “Ah … very well, thank you,” she responded, reluctantly extending her hand. Trevor instantly brought it to his lips, glancing up at her hair as he pressed his dry lips to her knuckles.
When he let go, Sophie resisted the urge to rub the feel of his lips from her hand. “I … I did not expect—Have you tea? Might I offer you tea?” she asked, ignoring another curious look from Honorine as she turned back to Lord Hamilton.
“That would be lovely. I believe some has already been brought round.”
Aha, so it had. Sophie motioned dumbly to a settee, unconsciously smoothing her hair as she preceded him and sat herself gingerly.
“How fetching you look in rose,” he remarked as he sat next to her. “A sprig of violet for your hair would complement it well.”
It was an innocent comment, meant nothing … but it sounded so very much like William Stanwood that it made her feel suddenly unsteady. Sophie faltered; ancient feelings of inadequacy bubbled up from the murky depths to which she had buried them. William had never approved of anything she wore. It was never bright enough, pretty enough, fashionable enough—
She caught herself and turned away from Trevor, pouring a cup of tea, amazingly, without very much clattering.
“I have looked forward with great anticipation to being in your presence again,” he said as he accepted the cup from her. “I very much enjoyed our walk in Regent’s Park.” He smiled strangely and purposely brushed her hand with his.
Sophie’s face flamed. “Ah,” she mumbled, and hastily poured a cup of tea for herself, anything to avoid his gaze, and most certainly his touch.
“I don’t suppose Madame Fortier keeps up her gardens, hmm?” he asked, sipping his tea.
In a moment of panic, Sophie looked at him. He was gazing at the bodice of her gown. “Ahem. She does.”
“She does what?”
“Keeps a garden,” Sophie said, raising her cup so as to obscure his view of her chest. “The Fortier vintner, Roland, is here with Madame Fortier, but of course there is no wine, so he has undertaken the occupation of gardener.”
Trevor glanced up at that; when he saw she was serious, he snorted. “Rather ridiculous, isn’t it? A vintner in London?”
“In truth, they are friends,” Sophie clarified. “Fabrice and Roland have been with Madame Fortier fo
r many years.”
Trevor placed his teacup firmly on the table and leaned back on the settee, casting one arm casually across the back as he shot Honorine a glance across the room. “A rather peculiar arrangement. I cannot imagine befriending someone in my employ to such an extent, but then again, I am not a Frenchman.”
His tone seemed harsh, too harsh. But Trevor suddenly laughed. “My father always said the French were a colorful lot. He spent quite a lot of time there as a young man—I am sure that is why he so enjoys her company.”
The way in which he said French sounded slightly hostile, too. Please, what was the matter with her? Why was she finding fault with everything he said? He might not be Caleb, more was the pity, but he was hardly the Devil. Sophie forced a bright smile, held up a plate of tartlets. “Honorine Fortier is nothing if not colorful.”
“I suppose,” he said, shifting his gaze to the windows. “The weather is awfully dry for this time of year, wouldn’t you agree?”
Dry? The only thing Sophie had noticed was how glorious it was—bright sunshine, deep blue skies, crystal clear air.
“We’ve better weather in the country, all in all,” he added.
Sophie sipped her tea, tried not to smile at the unexpected image of Caleb at her breast.
“In spite of the early spring rains, which of course we need for the growing season, it seems to me better suited for the body.”
“Ah.” In a valiant attempt to not focus on the realization that her petticoat was hopelessly twisted, she attempted to concentrate on watching his lips move as he spoke.
“It can be rather dry in summer, although we did have quite a lot of rain in eighteen and forty, as I recall …”
Her mind inadvertently drifted back to the image of Caleb holding himself above her, the curve of muscle in his shoulders and arms. Her struggle to maintain her composure was hopeless. As Trevor droned on, she nodded intermittently, but she heard nothing he said—she was too occupied with hiding a half-dozen little smiles behind her teacup as she relived every moment of her extraordinary, beautiful afternoon.
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