"It's all right," he whispered against her tingling breasts. "Much as I hate to let you go, I have to. I want our first time together to be far more than a roll a dank cave. You are so beautiful, such a treasure. Made for loving long and lingeringly."
He laughed, a low throaty sound which had her panting for him anew. "I can't believe it. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. But that's why it's too special. Just tell me your name, sweetest love. Then I shall give you one more kiss and let you go."
"Elizabeth. Elizabeth Eltham," she panted, her hands never still upon him.
He stiffened and stilled for a moment, but the enticing things she was doing to him with her nimble fingers was enough to urge him on once more.
"Elizabeth," the mysterious man murmured, her name upon his lips sounding like a tender vow that the most sensual delights would soon be hers. "I shall see you again soon, my most beautiful Elizabeth. Just promise me, darling, you'll never tell anyone about this place, our secret haven. If you promise, then one day soon, you shall be mine."
She would have asked a million questions, and yet only one: Will you make me yours now?
Her enigmatic lover had stilled, waiting for her answer, one hand now poised around her tender throat.
She whispered, "I promise. You and the cave are mine. I don't want to share you with anyone. I just want to be here with you like this, to revel in this, this magic, and make the whole world go away."
His hand between her thighs stroking her, and his mouth descending upon hers once more, silenced her utterly. She had no urge to ask him any more questions, not even his name. All she wanted was to let the incredible sensations wash over her like the thundering tide.
Elizabeth felt a flood of heat fly upwards to her face, downwards toward her hips. As one of his fingers pressed in deeply, she dug her nails into the bare flesh of his back and mewled like a kitten.
He laughed tenderly against her lips, and moved his finger and thumb. An inward quiver so strong it shook her from head to toe rippled through Elizabeth, causing her to gasp and pull away, open-mouthed with desire.
"Don't be afraid. It's only the beginning. A bit of light loving. I won't damage you or press my advances too far. Enjoy this brief taste of delight for now, and keep it locked in your memory until next we're alone, my love."
His hand moved again, and a rainbow sparkled in her head. Elizabeth gasped, writhed, and panted, her eyes tightly shut, swirling like a feather wafted by a hurricane....
Chapter Three
When Elizabeth at last came to some sort of semblance of sanity, she was lying on her back in the sunshine on the beach. Alone.
She sat up quickly on the damp sand, looking around her. She was on the downward sea-facing slope of a low dune. The ocean sparkled in front of her like a polished sapphire. The wind had stilled to a gentle breeze which whispered across her bare skin.
She could hear the low pipe of a bird in the distance, and could taste the salty tang of the seaside air on her tongue. The sun warmed her languid limbs and breasts. There was not a cloud in the sky. It was almost as if the storm had never been.
Storm. Shelter. The cave. One hand flew up to her bosom in alarm. But no, she was decently clad. Her shoes and stockings lay beside her, and her gown was neatly down around her bare ankles.
She got up and stared at the base of the cliff, but could see no sign of any entrance. She walked up and down for some time, looking for some tell-tale sign, a footprint, scrapings, anything. All was gently rolling, without a trace of any human presence except her own. Soon even the dune she had awakened upon was indistinguishable from all the others as the sands shifted in the sea breeze.
Burning with shame, confusion, and not a little fear, she grabbed her shoes and stockings and fled back to Ellesmere Manor as fast as her trembling legs could carry her. Once there, she took the servants' back stairs, for the last thing she needed was to run into one of her family party. She was wet, covered in sand, crumpled, hatless, shawl-less and barefoot.
She ran into the room, and shut and locked the door. Only when she was in the safety of her small primrose, pale blue, and white room did she dare to think about what could have happened.
But had anything happened? There had been no sign of a storm, a cave. Had she simply lain down upon the beach and dreamed the entire erotic experience?
She blushed with mortification, ran into her small bathing chamber, and began to strip off her ruined gown.
Looking at herself in the mirror, the truth began to dawn on her. She touched her face, dared to touch her breasts, and admitted with another blush that she looked like a woman who had been well and truly tumbled.
She removed her gown and drawers, and with another blush of shame and wonder, touched herself below. It had been real. There was heated moisture but no soreness or blood. He had touched her intimately, but she did not think she had to fear pregnancy. Not through any resistance on her part, she admitted candidly, mortified at the way she had responded to a complete stranger. She hadn't even seen his face, nor asked his name....
Elizabeth padded barefoot into the bathroom and opened the taps, lighting the small oil burner to heat the water as it passed through the tank which was filled from a rainwater trough at the top of the house. It was just many of the conveniences her brother had added to the house since he had become Duke several years before, and one she and the servants never took for granted.
As she swirled some Epsom salts into the running water, she replayed the entire scene over again in her mind, trying to put a face to her shadowy lover. She had no idea what had happened to her at the end. It had been like nothing she ever could have imagined. Her soul had taken flight in his arms. The next thing she knew she had been on the beach by herself.
She touched herself gently once more, and set herself aquiver all over again. She summoned up his presence once more in her mind, his taste, feel, scent, but dragged her hand away when she felt her breath catch in her throat in an impassioned sob.
Good Lord, what had he done to her? He might not have ruined her in the physical sense, but she had lost her innocence almost as irrevocably. For as Elizabeth got into the tub to scrub herself, every part of her body tingled.
Her lathered hands reminded her of his upon her, questing, seeking, thrilling. She dragged her hands away from her breasts, staring in horrified fascination at her peaked nipples and the rosy flush which tinged her skin from throat to knees. She felt as if there was nowhere he hadn't caressed her lingeringly, though he had never even removed any part of her clothing.
She added more cold to the bath, trying to freeze the heated passion from her sensitized flesh, but the contrast between her skin and the chilly water only made her shiver more with longing. Longing that he would come back and warm her with his magnificent huge body, his incredible large hands…
With a dismayed groan Elizabeth finished washing her hair and flung out of the tub. But the friction of the towels only made matters worse. She hurled them from her and reached for her silk wrapper. The soft material whispered over her breast and thighs sensually, and she gasped and hugged her arms to her to try to stop whatever was happening to her.
Was she ill? Had she caught some sort of fever? She couldn't stop tasting him, smelling him, wanting him.
As she lay on the four-poster bed, Elizabeth had to admit to herself she was fevered all right. She had been infected by wanton desire. She wanted nothing more than to lose herself in the extraordinary sensations he had evoked. But how was she ever to find him again?
The trouble was she couldn't. Even if she could, did she want to? For that way lay madness. Elizabeth knew nothing about him, only how he made her feel, the whirlwind passion he had filled her with. That was not exactly the best criteria for selecting a spouse, even if she knew who he was.
And marriage was more than likely not on the cards at all. She knew all too well from the many cautionary tales she had heard about men and their depravities that many just used a woman and
then cast her aside, leaving her ruined and alone, sometimes with a child which would also be shunned by society, called an evil name. It had happened to her own sister, for Heaven's sake, despite them having been strictly brought up.
What on earth had she been thinking when she had let him kiss her, touch her so? It had only been by sheer luck that she had got away.
Well, not luck at all, a little voice admitted. He had been the one who stopped. He had not pressed his attentions to their natural conclusion. Elizabeth had to acknowledge truthfully with a bitter groan that she would have been more than willing to continue onwards if he had.
She sat up, put her head in her hands and sighed heavily. Good Heavens, she was as much of a lewd woman as her sister had been. Worse. For at least Paxton had wooed Jane for weeks with warm words of regard.
A strange nameless, faceless man had kissed her once, and she had spread her legs like a tuppenny whore.
Well, perhaps it had not been quite that bad, she thought with another pang of longing, recalling his tender hands and his whispered promises.
What was wrong with the women in her family? Her brother Thomas seemed to have iron-clad control, never having indulged himself indiscriminately the way many men in their society did. All of the men in his set, the Rakehells, were most deferential toward women, respecting them for their intelligence and character even as they admired them for their beauty. They advocated equal rights for women, and espoused numerous other worthy causes, which had earned them their nickname, due to their rather passionate and devil-may-care way of fighting for social justice.
Clifford Stone, a respectable landlord, and Jonathan Deveril, a dashing young man now turned sober vicar, were Thomas' closest friends, without the least hint of sexual scandal attached to their names. Dr. Blake Sanderson ran Sarah Deveril's clinic for fallen women in London, and was said to be little better than a monk. Several of the other men had served in the war with distinction, such as Michael Avenel and Alexander Davenport.
Even Alistair Grant, one of the greatest barristers in England, could also be numbered amongst her brother's set. Though he was not as involved in politics, given his exalted position in the legal system of the country, he was still deemed a Rakehell for his ardent pursuit of justice for everyone, from king to commoner.
Most of the Rakehells were remarkably restrained, in fact. Only one of Thomas' friends, Philip Marshall, recently back from abroad, was said to be cutting cut a swath amongst the beauties of the Ton. Yet Thomas had said that all gossip could not be believed-appearances were often deceiving.
She trusted his judgment and opinion of Philip, that there was more to him than met the eye. All of Thomas' particular friends she had ever met had been decent, God-fearing men just like him. She sighed. Her brother most definitely seemed to be the only one in their family immune to lust.
But then, her brother had been lucky enough to find a good wife to settle down with. better to marry than to burn, as St. Paul had said.
Elizabeth feared men, feared desire. Yet the man who had almost taken her in the cave had set her afire. Yet surely matters between a man and a woman had to be more than just that? In fact, most couples in her society married for strategic reasons. Certainly not for love, let alone unbridled lust. The Rakehells who had married thus far had all made love matches, but they were the exception, not the rule.
How could she feel so strongly about someone she had never even exchanged a meaningful word with? She had no idea of his background, character, only what his lips had told her as they had run over her fevered flesh, thrilling her…
Elizabeth groaned again and heaved herself off the bed as the lassitude in her limbs threatened to engulf her. Lord, what was happening to her? She was sparking now without even touching herself in any way.
She pressed her palms together to take a deep breath, and then began to lay out a gown for dinner. She pulled out her undergarments from the dresser, and forced herself to think of mundane things like the garden and the account books, until at last she had safely covered her bareness, though she could feel the warm heat rolling off her thighs.
Then she donned her gown, a delicate spotted muslin of white with sapphire to match her eyes. She began to brush out her hair, but that was almost her undoing as she recalled his hot, hard hands stroking down its silken fall to her waist and bottom.
She tugged at the riotous waves almost furiously. Damn the man! How could he have done this to her? He had awakened her desire, swept her away on a wave of passion, then beached her on a deserted island, alone and bereft.
He had said he would find her again, but how was she to know who he was? Even now he could be lurking in the shadows, watching her. He had not known her name, though. So either he had not been able to see her face either, or he had seen her on the beach, but genuinely not known who she was.
As Elizabeth finished twisting her hair up on top of her head to secure it with some pins and combs, she went over in her mind the few neighbors she had met thus far. They had only been at Ellesmere Manor three days, saving it for last on their list of properties as she and her family party had worked their way anti-clockwise around Ireland.
They were supposed to stay at this last house for a few more weeks. Then her brother and his wife would head back to Brimley in time for the harvest and the birth of their first child.
She began to list each of the men she had met since their arrival, but discounted each of them in turn. The vicar Mr. Locke was too old, the verger Mr. Nolan too short and barrel-like in stature. The estate steward Mr. Phelps was married and not likely to be lurking in caves, especially not when she had seen him in the office with her brother just before she had set out on her long walk.
Certainly not Clifford Stone, for though the man had been just as tall and broad, he too was a most devoted spouse and would not have been in the cave. He and Vanessa had been heading off to Cork to shop after morning tea. She doubted it was possible for them to be back yet, let alone separated and lurking on the beach.
No, even if they had been playing some sort of romantic game of hide and seek amongst the dunes, the man had known she was a stranger, asked her name. It had not been Clifford or Mr. Phelps.
At a dead end, she sighed, but was not put off. It would be easy enough to discover how the other members of the household had spent their day.
But most of her clues pointed to the man having been a stranger. In which case, what manner of stranger?
She thought about the voice. Cultured, not much hint of any accent. Deep voice, baritone. Clothes? Heavy linen but good quality, coat more coarse. Locally made? She thought not. The clothes were a bit rough, but suited to the lifestyle of a country gentleman hereabouts.
Shirt open at the neck, no stock or cravat. Surely not a common laborer. Gentleman farmer? Dark clothes, pale hair? Or a glimpse of a snowy white shirt? She could not be sure she had seen him-the movement had been so fleeting. She thought it had been a blond man...
She had definitely seen the cave door. He had said he was sheltering from the storm too. The man's movement into it was what had alerted her to the shelter, and saved her from the tempest.
So, assuming her sense had not been deceiving her, he was possibly fair-haired, and definitely tall. Not much to go on, but better than nothing. How could she ever meet any man's eye again though, just knowing that he might be watching her, remembering how her body had begged him to take her….
Elizabeth let out a steadying whoosh of breath and shook her hands to loosen the tension in her slender frame body. She had to think logically about this. There had been no real harm done, after all, except to her peace of mind and amour propre. For she certainly did not think much of herself after what she had done.
Almost done, she amended. Her only saving grace was that she had never been tempted to do anything like that before, even when she had had ample opportunity during her last trip to Bath in the spring.
But the Earl of Ferncliffe and Captain Breedon had turned out to
be fiends as well. Breedon had nearly killed Sarah and her new husband Alexander, if all that her brother had told her was to be believed.
Hare and hounds! Was every man she was fated to come across no more than a rabid fortune hunter and traitor? For those two men, along with Paxton, had allied themselves with the French, nearly killed her brother and his friends. They would have succeeded were it not for the quick thinking and, some would say, divine intervention by the Deverils, Jonathan and his sister Sarah. Not to mention Jonathan's wife Pamela, who had bravely tried to save her sister Jane and niece Sophie from the evil Ferncliffe, and nearly been killed herself.
She shuddered at the recollection, and determined to write a letter to the Wrights, the kind family looking after her young niece, as soon as dinner was finished. Jane had been killed in a terrible fall, but her daughter Sophie was safe and would stay that way. She, and her brother too, she knew, would protect the little girl with the last breath in their bodies. Hopefully it would never come to that. But with the war so recently over, it was hard to get used to the notion that they might actually all be safe at last.
The Rakehell Regency Romance Collection Volume 2 Page 36