Seducing Eden

by Allison Lane

  “Do sit down,” snapped Eden. “You are driving me mad.”

  He dropped heavily into a chair and stared out the window. Maybe spotting something suspicious would divert his mind. But how could he know what was suspicious? The room overlooked a stream and empty field rather than the stable yard that was the center of activity at this coaching inn, so he would not know if someone approached to question the ostler. Three different men had already wandered back here, seeking a moment of privacy, so merely seeing someone was not suspicious. This was the only place that offered even a hint of seclusion. The inn was packed to the rafters now that the weather had turned savage. Servants lay four to a bed upstairs, with coachmen sharing stalls in the stable with the grooms. The maid who’d brought their dinner reported that four parties would spend the night in the taproom.

  He shifted restlessly, trying to get comfortable.

  “Why do you carry Westerfield’s calling cards?” Eden asked suddenly.

  “Habit.” He shrugged. Perhaps satisfying her curiosity would distract him from her charms. “I often had to watch suspects without being spotted. If someone sees the same person in several places, he eventually notices. But few remember men who appear once, then vanish. For example, if you emerge from a shop to see a teamster hauling his wagon out of a mud hole, you won’t pay much attention. Nor will you think of the teamster when you spot two gentlemen laughing at a street performer an hour later, or a clerk buying his weekly lottery ticket.”

  “Which ones were you?”

  “I could have been any of them, or none, for the secret to remaining invisible is to blend. By the same token, changing roles makes it hard for others to track me, so I always carry several cards when traveling. It is a habit I rarely question now.”

  “But how can using a different name – or even a different voice – prevent someone from following you? Your clothing doesn’t change. Nor do your scars.”

  “They can, if necessary.” Wondering why he was again exposing tricks, he walked to the door, untied his cravat, and replaced it with a colored Belcher he pulled from his pocket. Shaking his head dislodged enough curls to cover the scar on his forehead. He debated reversing his waistcoat, but decided against it. Even without that, her eyes widened when he ambled back, using the gait of a coachman. “Tha’ now, whatcha doin’ in ’ere, Missy? Doncha know this ’ere’s a gentleman’s room?”

  “Dear Lord. It’s like magic.”

  “Hardly.” He raked his fingers through his hair, restoring a semblance of his usual style. “Any actor can do the same. One need only understand the effect of mannerisms.”

  “Like what?”

  “Part of it is movement – each class walks differently, using different gestures and what not. Then there is accent, word choices, clothing—”

  “I know. But you do more than that.”

  “Not always. But it helps if I provide a focus for people’s eyes and ears – a stutter, a limp, an unusual cravat or hideous waistcoat, scars.” He traced his own and shrugged. “A stranger will remember that focal point, but little else. If they meet me again without the focus, they won’t know me.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “Few people do. When we leave in the morning, remember that you are Mrs. Westerfield, manufacturer’s wife. No one will connect you to Mrs. Marlow.”

  “Like this?” She paused, then cast a disapproving look over his Belcher, her expression very much that of a haughty linen draper he’d once met. “I do believe you’ve made a wrong turn, Mr. Coachman. The stables are outside.”

  He laughed, catching her in a quick hug before abruptly backing away. “You’ve quite a talent yourself, Eden.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. A vicar’s daughter is little different from a manufacturer’s wife.” Her hand reached out as if to touch him, but she pulled it back and retreated to the fireplace.

  He had to divert his thoughts. If she would go to sleep, he could put her out of his mind. Unfortunately, she did not look the least drowsy. “Tell me about your childhood,” he tried. “You mentioned that your mother died when you were ten.”

  “She took a fever after Olivia’s birth, then simply wasted away.”

  “Your father must have been horrified to be left with the care of an infant.”

  “Not really. Even before Mama died, he spent most of his time with his books. That didn’t change. Olivia was left to me and the housekeeper.”

  “At ten?”

  “It was a poor parish, so bringing in a nurse or governess was impossible,” she reminded him. “And most children are working by ten. I was no different. Someone had to see that alms were distributed to the needy and that those with problems received help. I was too young to do much beyond reminding Papa of his duties, but he would not have noticed them if I’d remained silent. As the years passed, I took on most of the work myself. It was easier than prying him loose from his books. We rarely spoke of anything beyond his studies.”

  “You said he tutored the squire’s sons. Was that just in classics, or did he cover other subjects, too.”

  “Everything – not that he wanted to. But the squire had an extensive library. In exchange for lessons, Papa could borrow anything he wanted. And it meant I could share lessons with the boys, which gave me a better education than I would have received otherwise.”

  “Because girls don’t study classics?”

  “In part, but without an obligation to the squire, he would have forgotten to teach me anything.”

  He ignored the bitterness in her voice. “John’s father must have enjoyed that you knew enough to appreciate his antiquities.”

  “I never thought of it that way.” She frowned. “Perhaps that explains the looks he gave me at times.”

  “Such as?”

  She paused as if searching for words. But instead of speaking, she sent him an odd look that he couldn’t quite interpret. It seemed made up of equal parts interest, friendship, and guilt.

  “What?” He frowned.

  “I haven’t your skill for interpreting expressions.”

  “It’s a simple enough question. You described Sir George as a melancholic man who slipped into delusions after I last saw him. Did he consider your knowledge interesting or dangerous or helpful or what?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Elements of all three, I suspect. Perhaps he was frustrated to find someone knowledgeable after he’d abandoned his own interest. Or maybe he was torn between liking me as a person and hating that my breeding was so far below his.”

  “No matter.” He was suddenly sorry he’d asked. Her breeding was acceptable, but Sir George would have looked at it askance, and Richard was worse. John’s brother made prigs seem warm. “You mentioned duns. I didn’t think your father’s parish was that poor. What happened?”

  “His studies. Tithes were lower than in neighboring parishes, but we could have managed had he not spent so much on books. I sold what I could after he died, but I had no time to contact London booksellers, so I doubt I realized a fraction of what they were worth.”

  “I wish I’d known. I would have bought them myself.” Not quite true, he realized, recalling the debts that had plagued him ten years earlier.

  “You enjoy the classics?”

  “I read everything.”

  She relaxed, perhaps recalling his library. Candlelight caught the golden highlights in her hair, making them sparkle like a field of jewels. He could imagine all too easily removing the pins to let it down. It would cascade past her shoulders in a silken river, making her seem younger, vulnerable … and even more desirable.

  Tearing his gaze away, he resumed his pacing, pausing briefly on each round to scan the ground outside. With everyone indoors to escape the rain, their stalker could move about unnoticed. Alex had to remain vigilant so no one could harm them.

  “Perhaps you should go to sleep, Eden. I’ll summon Carver, then wait outside until you’re settled.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” She
flushed. “It will be best to sleep in my gown. Safer for both of us, I’m sure.”

  “Of course.” He turned his back while she removed her half-boots and hairpins and crawled into bed. Once she was asleep, he could concentrate on duty.

  But it didn’t work that way. Half an hour passed in growing frustration. Instead of sleeping, she was tossing restlessly, twisting and turning until he nearly ran mad. Every rustle reminded him of soft skin and eager lips. It was likely that her corset made her uncomfortable. Should he offer to unlace it? But that would mean touching her, watching as her breasts slid free, yearning—

  She rolled over, stifling what sounded like a moan.

  He paced the room yet again – ten steps to the fireplace, six to the door, five to the window, back to the fireplace, fisting his hands to keep from touching her as he passed the bed. The torments of the damned raged through his groin.

  * * * *

  Eden was farther from sleep than she’d ever been in her life. And not just because of the lust boiling through her veins. Guilt was flogging her, too.

  She’d deliberately aroused Alex at dinner yesterday, expecting him to seek out a courtesan when she refused him release. But in trying to control her own rampaging emotions, she’d forgotten that someone might be stalking her. Alex was too honorable to leave her in danger or to renege on his vow to recover the stone. So he’d endured. Alone. Last night in his study, all day in the carriage, tonight when circumstances forced them to share a bedchamber…

  Only now did she understand what she’d done to him. It was a well-known fact that a man who failed to obtain sexual release when he needed it courted illness. Serious illness. From an early age she’d heard married women allude to the problem. John had confirmed it, and Peterson also mentioned it in that personal section of his journal. Providing John with that service had helped repay him for taking Olivia in. She’d failed him in other ways, but never in that one. And he’d been sufficiently grateful to make the encounters as easy for her as possible.

  Now Alex was courting the very illness men feared most, for it could rob them of their ability to perform at all. He’d been in need for days without relief. Again he was putting her safety first, refusing to take advantage of the serving girls downstairs. So it was up to her.

  She could not bed him – once she crossed that line, he would never look at Olivia. But Peterson’s journal supplied a way, if she dared. It had been shockingly explicit, describing acts she would never have imagined on her own. The imagery remained vivid, taunting and teasing her in a constant stream of temptation. Could she indulge in wantonness without compromising her reputation? Would exploring the extent of her low-bred nature help her control it in the future? Maybe…

  “Alex?” she said.

  * * * *

  Alex nearly jumped out of his skin as her husky tone sizzled along his nerves. “What?” He stopped by the door, hoping—

  “I’m not sleepy, and you clearly have a problem. Surely you could have it attended to while I keep watch.”

  “No. Lie down, Eden. I’m fine.” He tore his eyes from her tumble of hair and resumed pacing. Yet try as he might, his eyes returned to her on the next round.

  She was staring at his groin. “That has to be uncomfortable. Perhaps—” She paused.

  He held his breath.

  A full minute passed before she continued. “Peterson’s journal is quite explicit.”

  “I know.” The words came out in a croak. He’d alternated between embarrassment and arousal all day as he’d watched her read it, her cheeks turning pink as she devoured Peterson’s collection of fantasies. He knew he should have kept it from her eyes – she was a lady, after all – but imagining her indulging in such acts had aroused him too much. And the book had affected her more than any flirtation. So he’d left her in peace to enjoy it.

  “I won’t bed you,” she repeated. “But there are other ways. Sit down.”

  He collapsed onto a chair, so weak-kneed to find her walking boldly into his fantasies that he couldn’t have remained upright for anything.

  “Let’s see what we can manage.” She knelt, her trembling hand reaching out to touch. “I must say this is quite impressive. Even thinking about it makes me shivery inside.” Her fingers traced his length.

  He groaned, spreading his knees. “You don’t need to do this,” he managed.

  “You mustn’t risk falling into a decline. Besides, Peterson’s book has made me quite curious. I’m looking forward to it.” Licking her lips, she met his eyes.

  He had to be dreaming. This couldn’t be happening.

  As she bent to undo his buttons, her hair cascaded over his thighs in a river of burnished gold. He shoved it behind her shoulders so he could see her face, glorying that her anticipation grew as she worked. She really was curious. And fascinated. And nearly as excited as he was. Her breath came in shallow pants.

  She took her time, pausing to explore his length between each button. Tremors made her clumsy, but from the way her tongue kept licking her lips, he knew she shook from arousal rather than fear. The thought quickened his own breathing until he was lightheaded. And when she finally freed him—

  “Oh, my,” she breathed, running a finger from tip to base. “Very impressive.” Her hand curled around him and stroked.

  “Eden!” he gasped, surging upward.

  “I do believe you like that.” She smiled, stroking again as her other hand cupped his testicles and squeezed.

  He nearly fainted. Like it? Nothing could compare.

  “Do you think this will solve your problem?” she asked lightly – or tried to. Her voice was husky with desire, rasping his nerves and exciting him even more. That she actually enjoyed—

  “Oh, yes,” he choked, surging into another stroke. And thank the Lord it would. He never would have lasted the night with the bed so near. Only half an hour had left him so crazed he’d nearly crawled in with her, which could only have ended in the very ravishment he’d vowed to avoid.

  “Good.” She shifted, rubbing him lightly between her palms, smiling coyly when he jerked against her. She ran a thumb across his moist tip, then leaned forward and met his gaze. When anticipation shuddered through him, her tongue flicked out and licked.

  He bucked.

  “Sweet.” She licked again. “And tart. It is wondrously pleasing.” Her lips closed over the end as her palms picked up speed.

  He was shaking so hard, he nearly exploded, but he held on for dear life. She was enjoying this as much as he, so he must prolong the exquisite torture as long as possible.

  Five minutes. Ten. Only his heels and shoulders supported his tautly arched body. Sweat poured down his back as his fingers dug into the chair so he couldn’t grab her and end it. She’d nuzzled him until his juices smeared her cheek, demanding that he lick her clean. But he couldn’t touch her.

  Fifteen. She nibbled his length, now light, now firm, until he ran mad from the pleasure of it. Never had he flown this high. She’d transformed Peterson’s notes into a symphony.

  Again she raised her eyes to his, smiling that cat-in-the-creampot smile. Her hands accelerated in long, firm strokes, driving him nearer the edge. He writhed in agony, no longer able to muffle his groans. He tried to recall anything that had brought him so much pleasure, but his mind was blank, all that had come before Eden wiped clean. She was his salvation, his—

  “Harder,” he pleaded, gulping air until he nearly passed out. “Faster.”

  She dragged her nails along his length…

  He exploded.

  * * * *

  Eden sat back on her heels, panting. And not from exertion. Her entire body pulsed with energy. Touching Alex was the most exciting thing she’d done in her twenty-eight years. He was easily twice the size of John, rising from a nest of inky curls like Temptation personified. Holding him in her hand had sent liquid heat gushing from her womb. She might not be a lady, as Richard never ceased reminding her, but tonight she reveled in that lack. Wanton
ness was incredibly fun.

  But far too dangerous. She was more aroused than when he’d kissed her in the carriage yesterday. When she found herself again reaching for him, she stood, retreating toward the bed where she would pretend sleep if it killed her.

  And it just might…

  “Your turn,” murmured Alex sleepily from where he’d collapsed back into his chair.

  She swallowed hard. It was so very tempting, but she couldn’t. Not if she hoped to settle Olivia.

  “Don’t worry,” he continued, reaching for a towel. “I promised not to bed you, and I’ll stand by that. But you are too aroused to sleep. I can relieve that little problem.” His eyes were hot enough to melt lead.

  Another wave of lust engulfed her. Was it truly wrong? “You won’t—”

  “No. After your masterful attentions, I couldn’t. But I so very much want to touch you, Eden. You are the most sensual woman I’ve ever met. Let me please us both by pleasuring you.” He held out his hand.

  Throwing caution to the winds, she took it. He was right. She needed help. Excitement skittered along her skin until she was mad with it. And who better to dampen it than an honorable rake? Never would this chance occur again.

  Instead of the fiery kiss she’d expected, he trailed his lips lightly across her face, pausing to nibble her ears, her nose, her chin. Only when she was quivering with impatience did he take her mouth, hotly, deeply, his plunging tongue exploding new heat into her womb.

  Her dress and corset slid to the floor.

  “Yes,” he breathed, bending her over his arm so he could suckle a breast through her shift.

  “Alex!” In moments, she convulsed, spilling liquid down her thighs, then nearly wept that it was over so quickly.

  He saw her distress and laughed. “Oh, no, my sweet Eden. That was just the beginning. You’ve an advantage I’ll never have, for that is not the end for you. And it is but a pale ghost of what I’ve in mind.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Laying her on the bed, he removed her shift to leave her clad only in stockings. Then he kicked off his boots and joined her. “We’ll start here since you like it so much.” His mouth closed around a nipple.