A Gentleman's Honor

by Stephanie Laurens

  Alicia smiled regally. “A stroll in the conservatory sounds an excellent idea—it’s quite stuffy in here.” She nodded encouragingly to Adriana, who smiled and accepted Sir Freddie’s arm. “You go ahead, we’ll follow.” Alicia glanced at Tony as Adriana and Sir Freddie turned away. “If you’re willing…?”

  He looked down at her, then slowly arched a brow. She blushed lightly and glanced away.

  Ignoring Geoffrey and his suppressed displeasure—an emotion Tony had no difficulty interpreting—he tucked Alicia’s hand more definitely in his arm and steered her in her sister’s wake.

  While crossing the crowded ballroom, they chatted of this and that, but once inside the long conservatory, with its glass doors latched open and a wide corridor down the center cleared for promenading, there was space enough to ask, “How lies the wind in that quarter?” With a nod, he indicated Adriana, conversing animatedly with Sir Freddie.

  Alicia humphed. “Much as I feared. Your friend Manningham has stolen a march on all others. However, as the saying goes, true love never runs smoothly.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  “Adriana believes she should be certain of her feelings before she bestows her hand on any gentleman. And how is she to be sure other than by testing the waters?”

  “Ah. I take it Geoffrey isn’t taking well to her testing program?”

  “Indeed.”

  He glanced down; a distinctly satisfied expression was stamped on Alicia’s fine features.

  “It’s only sensible that a lady should be sure of her choice before declaring it, and if a gentleman has problems with that, well…”

  Her gaze was fixed on Adriana and Sir Freddie; Tony told himself she wasn’t speaking of herself. Their conversation drifted to other things, yet as they returned to the ballroom, he couldn’t quite rid himself of the suggestion.

  If she needed assistance making up her mind, he was only too ready—and willing—to supply it. How slowly could slowly be, after all?

  The musicians had resumed; Lord Montacute was waiting to claim Adriana’s hand in a country dance. Sir Freddie nobly requested Alicia do him the honor; to Tony’s irritation, she granted Sir Freddie’s wish.

  Deserted, he went searching for the refreshment room.

  Geoffrey found him there. He eyed the glass in Tony’s hand. “Don’t tell me you’ve been given your congé, too?”

  Tony humphed; through the arch, he was observing the dancers. “Just for this dance.” He sipped, then said, “Incidentally, I was informed you’re being tested.”

  It was Geoffrey’s turn to humph. “So I’d supposed.”

  Shoulder to shoulder, they watched the couples swirl about the floor.

  Geoffrey shifted, lifted his glass, and sipped. He glanced at Tony. “I don’t suppose you’d consider staging a diversion?”

  Tony’s gaze was on Alicia, twirling down the set. “Divert the lioness while you whisk away her cub?”

  Geoffrey swallowed a laugh, nodded. “Precisely.”

  Watching Alicia’s body sway as, hand high, she turned beneath Sir Freddie’s arm, Tony asked, “What’s your interest there?”

  Geoffrey’s tone—insulted, a touch vulnerable—gave him his answer more than the words, “What do you think?”

  Tony nodded. “Done.” He set down his glass. “But I’ll have to move first. If she gets any inkling of your intention, I’ll never get her away.”

  “The field’s yours.” Setting down his glass, Geoffrey followed him into the ballroom. “Just make sure I get at least half an hour.”

  Tony glanced at him, then looked back at his prey. And smiled. “Half an hour won’t be any problem.”

  Getting Alicia out of the ballroom and into the tiny withdrawing room at the end of the east corridor—a room Tony remembered from that long-ago exploration—was the principal difficulty. He managed it by the simple expedient of talking fast.

  His topic was guaranteed to fix her interest—the contrast between sophisticated gentlemen such as Sir Freddie Caudel and backbone-of-the-country types epitomized by Geoffrey Manningham.

  “I didn’t know he’d been in the navy.” Alicia looked thoughtful. “I don’t think Adriana knows that.”

  “Understandably he doesn’t speak much of it, but he served with distinction. And then, of course—”

  He rattled on, borrowing from his knowledge of Geoffrey, inventing shamelessly with regard to Sir Freddie. Her eyes on his face, her mind on his words, Alicia barely registered entering the corridor running alongside the ballroom; when she went to look around, he mentioned Geoffrey’s mother—her gaze immediately swung back to his face. His fingers firmly over hers, resting on his sleeve, he steered her on.

  When he opened the door to the withdrawing room, she swept over the threshold of her own volition, held by the vision he’d painted of Geoffrey’s manor house and the surrounding countryside, the rolling fields leading down to the river with the blue hills in the distance, the lowering plateau of Exmoor stretching to the horizon.

  Gesturing, she turned to face him. “It sounds an almost idyllic place.”

  Much of what he’d described was his own land, his boyhood memories of home; his smile was genuine. “It is.”

  He closed the door; without taking his gaze from her face, he snibbed the lock. The sound broke the spell.

  She blinked, glanced around. A three-armed candelabrum threw a warm glow through the small room. Aside from a chaise and a single armchair, the only furniture was a small table and a heavy sideboard. She looked at him. Directly. “Why are we here?”

  He raised his brows, approached. “Guess.”

  Suspicion burgeoned in her eyes; as usual, she made no effort to hide it. He watched her cast about in her mind for some deflecting comment, yet as he neared…her

  eyes widened, darkened—he could almost see her senses awakening, stretching. Reaching for him. Could almost see her wits start to slow…

  He reached for her, gently drew her to him.

  She came without resistance, her hands rising to rest on his chest. Her gaze dropped to his lips. “I…ah…I thought we’d agreed to slow down.”

  “We did.” He urged her closer, settled her against him, bent his head. “We are.” He kissed her, made her lips cling. “Progressing step by small step.”

  He took her mouth again; she gave it freely, met him, parted her lips, welcomed him in. Her hands clenched, clutched as he captured her senses and drew her deeper into the exchange, into the sensual game they both so enjoyed.

  Lips caressed, pressed, tongues tangled, stroked, probed, mouths melded. Both took, gave, delighted, then explored.

  Sensation streaked through Alicia; warmth welled, pooled, and dragged her senses down to wallow, to luxuriate, to expand and experience a world of sensual delight, of wanton, illicit, addictive pleasure.

  No matter how much a small part of her mind tried to warn her, tried to make her see how dangerous it could be, her body, her nerves, her skin and her senses, and the greater part of her whirling wits, were eager to go forward, to follow the path he opened before her, to seize the moment to learn and feel.

  To learn of herself, of what could be, of all she could be. To feel the welling tide of compulsive emotions—the hunger, the need, the flagrant desire, and most especially the triumph.

  A simple and pure triumph she hadn’t known existed, the confidence, delight, and sheer pleasure of knowing he found her desirable, that he wanted her in the most blatantly sexual way, and the satisfaction that flowed from knowing not only that she could evoke his hunger, but also from the innate womanly knowledge that she could, indeed, sate it.

  He’d drawn her close, fitting her body against his, but once they reached that plateau of more urgent, definite need—one she now recognized—his arms eased, then his hands, hard and demanding, slid over her silk-encased form. Over her back, over her sides, around over her already aching breasts.

  Through the fog of desire flooding her mind, she inwardly smiled. S
he eased back from the kiss enough to murmur against his lips, “I’m afraid this gown has no buttons down the front.” She’d worn her topaz silk for that very reason.

  “I’d noticed,” he murmured back.

  His lips brushed hers, then settled, drawing her into a long, increasingly intimate exchange… as it ended her awareness slowly returned. And she realized the pressure about her breasts had eased.

  Her bodice was loose.

  She drew back from the kiss as he did. Looked down as he raised his hands to her shoulders. Slowly, very slowly, he pushed her now gaping gown off her shoulders, sliding the small puff sleeves down her arms.

  He’d undone the laces.

  Her mind seized; she stopped breathing. She hadn’t thought…

  The neckline caught across the peaks of her breasts. Leaving the sleeves at her elbows, he ran his fingers up, then slipped them beneath the neckline and eased it over and down.

  She shuddered, told herself it was due to the cool caress of the air. Knew it wasn’t. Desperate, she hauled in a breath. Ignored the sudden lifting of her breasts. “Wait—”

  “Lift your arms.” The words were half entreaty, half command. They were reinforced by his touch, fingertips running over her bared shoulders, down the sensitive skin of her arms to her elbows. He gripped lightly, urged.

  She freed her arms from the clinging sleeves. “This—”

  “Is the smallest step I could think of.” His black gaze touched hers; the emberlike glow in the dark depths only heated her more.

  She sucked in a tight breath. “But—”

  “Going slowly isn’t stopping.” He held her gaze, his fingers lightly caressing—so lightly they barely touched the heavy, swelling curves of her breasts. “You don’t want to stop.”

  Not a question, a statement, one verified by the shiver that streaked through her, a silvery sensation that brought every nerve alive.

  His lips curved, openly predatory, entirely undisguised. He bent his head. His lips cruised over hers as his fingers drifted, as his hands followed, then firmed, taking possession as they had before. But before she hadn’t been as aware, as blatantly near-naked. As heated.

  Her breath caught.

  One hand kneaded, the other slid away. His arm slipped about her waist; holding her, he backed her, step by slow, easy step until she felt the sideboard behind her.

  Lifting his head, he fastened both hands about her waist and lifted her to the sideboard’s top. He sat her there; hands clutching his shoulders, she glanced down. Her gown had slid to her hips. Before she could react, he bunched the skirts and raised them to her knees, allowing him to part them and step between.

  Her mind was whirling, wits totally scattered.

  He met her eyes; his lips curved, but it wasn’t exactly in a smile. “For us… the only way to slow our inevitable progression is to indulge in more intensive play.”

  She searched his eyes, instinctively accepted that as truth. Yet…

  He leaned closer, lips swooping, nearing as his hands rose, fingers reaching for the tiny ribbon bows securing her silk chemise. The last flimsy barrier screening her from his sight.

  Dizzy desperation gripped her; she sank her fingers into his shoulders. “I—”

  He hesitated, but when she couldn’t find the words— any words that made sense—he closed the inch between their lips, kissed. Drew back enough to breathe, “You know where we’re headed, don’t you? You know what lies at the end of our road.”

  Her lips were dry, yearning, hungry. She forced herself to nod. “Yes.”

  “Then there’s no reason I shouldn’t see you, bare you, and look my fill. No reason I shouldn’t take what pleasure I wish with you, in you—and you shouldn’t take all you wish of me.”

  His lips closed on hers, warm and beguiling; he didn’t rip her wits away, didn’t send them spinning, but left her aware, attuned, every nerve tight and flickering.

  So she knew when his fingers closed on the ribbon ties, so she felt the tugs as he unraveled the bows, then slowly, gently, inexorably eased the fine fabric down. Exposing her breasts.

  And then his hands were on her, hot skin to hot skin. He caressed, fondled, kneaded, squeezed. Her senses filled, overflowed; sensation rushed through her, down her nerves, down her veins.

  She couldn’t think, no longer had space in her mind for that activity, swept away, consumed by the dizzying splendor, the bone-melting pleasure he pressed on her. His lips left hers; he nudged her head back, skated his lips down the taut tendon to settle over her pulse point, heating her blood still further. Her fingers, until then gripping his shoulders, eased; she sent her hands sliding over and back, found and caressed his nape.

  His lips left her throat and slid lower. Splaying her fingers, she speared them through his thick locks, then clutched. Eyes closed, she held tight as his burning lips cruised the upper swells of her breasts. Then dipped lower still.

  Her world stopped when his lips found one aching peak.

  Splintered when he took it into his mouth.

  Hot, wet, he caressed, laved, licked, than gently rasped.

  Her breasts felt on fire, tight, taut; head tilting back, she gasped, spine tensing as he artfully teased, then openly feasted. Then he shifted, drew the aching, tormented peak deep, and suckled.

  The jolt of sensation rocked her, shocked her, surprised a small cry from her. Her fingers spasmed on his skull. Eyes shut, she struggled to cope, to cling to sanity as with mouth, lips, and tongue, hard fingers and palms, he pressed sensation after sensation upon her.

  Through her fingers, through the tension gripping her, Tony read her increasing desperation. Every sense he possessed was locked on her, watching, gauging…he eased back.

  Heard in her tortured breathing a return from the brink of panic.

  He didn’t take his lips from her skin, but traced, kissed lightly, soothed with gentle caresses. When she’d calmed enough to be lucid, he cupped both breasts in his palms, straightened slightly, shifting between her spread thighs. Bent again to touch his lips to the hot satin skin of the now swollen mounds. “Didn’t your husband caress you like this?”

  Her lids cracked open. From behind the screen of her lashes, her eyes met his. A moment passed, then she licked her lips. Tried to speak, ended by shaking her head.

  When he waited, she dragged in a breath. “No. He…”

  Primitive joy streaked through him. He waited; when she remained silent, he prompted, “Wasn’t inclined to see to your pleasure?” A common enough failing, after all.

  She shuddered. Beneath his hand, he could feel her heart still pounding, but slower. Her skin was still heated; he kept it that way, idly kneading, caressing.

  Again she drew breath, again met his eyes. “I… don’t know all that much about… pleasure.”

  The word came out on a soft exhalation; she closed her eyes as he again bent and savored one tightly budded nipple. He released it, blew gently on it, then soothed it again.

  Lifting his head to examine the effect, he murmured, “It’ll be my pleasure to teach you.” Shifting his hands, he set his thumbs to circle her nipples.

  “I—that’s why…” She broke off, drew in a hissed breath. “Why it must be slow…”

  On his shoulders, her fingers tensed again, but not, this time, with any sense of desperation. He watched her face as he caressed. “Forget about your husband. Forget all you ever knew.” Keeping one hand on her breast, he slid the other to the small of her back and eased her to the sideboard’s edge. His hand still at her breast, he bent his head to take her mouth.

  Before he did, he murmured, his voice low, gravelly, decided. “Start again. With me. I’ll teach you all you should know, all you need to know.”

  Her fingers slid to his nape, cupped as he covered her lips, held tight as he plunged into her mouth and took possession. Plundered, ravished, devoured as he wished; she met him, went with him, followed him deeper. Until the exchange became a flagrant echo of that other intimacy, unti
l hot and heated she clung to the rhythm, matching him, sating his hunger as it rose, learning of her own.

  He’d pressed her thighs wide; her silk skirts lay in a spill covering her knees, but beneath…he knew precisely what he would find when he released her breast and slid his hand beneath the folds of silk.

  The skin of her inner thighs was as fine as the silk, as delicate, but far warmer. She was too deep in the kiss to do more than vaguely register as he stroked, caressed. Deliberately, he let her surface, step by step until he sensed her sudden awareness, felt the gasp smothered between their lips as she realized.

  She started to tense; he deepened the kiss, just enough to distract her, to fracture her attention long enough to let him explore further. To reach higher and find her, swollen and fever-damp, hot enough to scald.

  Slow. Step by step.

  He forced himself to do no more than touch her, to find the tiny nubbin within the folds and caress, but go no further.

  Tiny shivers of sensation coursed through her as he stroked, gently pressed. He knew what he might do, knew the potential, but sensed she wasn’t ready for that yet.

  Alfred Carrington must have been an insensitive clod.

  He continued to touch her gently, undemandingly exploring, letting her grow accustomed to him touching her there, to the intimacy, mild to his mind though it was.

  Step by step.

  He let her surface by degrees, let her awareness rise free from the drugging kisses, until at the last he could raise his head and watch her face. Watch her lips, parted and swollen as he circled, then pressed lightly. Catch her eyes as he stroked, and she shuddered.

  Then softly sighed.

  She dropped her forehead to his shoulder. After a moment, said, “This is all so—”

  She broke off. He stroked again, felt her shiver. “More than you expected?”

  Against his shoulder, she nodded. “Much, much more.”

  Satisfied with the way events were proceeding not just with Alicia but also with his investigation, Tony felt distinctly mellow, a prey to pleasurable anticipation as the next evening he went upstairs to change.

  He’d reached the landing when a heavy knock fell on the front door.