by Bryn Donovan
“Did you have a pleasant ride here?” she asked.
“Certainly. Lovely landscape.” He surveyed her form.
“I have always thought so.”
“Where is your maid this evening?” he asked. “Flora, isn’t that her name?”
“Yes, Flory Tate. She’s visiting her sister. She has Tuesday nights off.”
“No wonder you thought Tuesday would be a good choice.” Will stretched one arm behind her along the back of the settee.
She jerked forward. “Quite so. Will you have some brandy?” She poured a generous glass.
“Certainly.”
She startled him by setting the full glass in front of herself, then filling another and handing it to him. A true lady served her guests first. A true lady would have had sherry, not brandy, and she wouldn’t take more than a few sips, at that. Will watched as she gulped a healthy swig of the amber liquid, seeing her throat move as she swallowed.
Here was a woman who knew what she liked, and wasn’t ashamed to take it. Some people would call it selfish or wicked, but to Will, it seemed very refreshing.
He took a drink himself. “It’s excellent,” he commented. The rich liquor was actually much better than he expected.
As she set her glass down, he thought he saw a slight tremble in her hand. “You’re cold,” he said and impulsively clasped her hand between both of his own.
Her green eyes widened, as if he surprised her. He looked down at her hand, with its slender, graceful fingers. “I was mistaken.” He half-laughed, releasing it. “You’re quite warm.”
“Yes. I am, thank you. I...what was it you were saying?”
“What? Oh, nothing. I was just saying it’s good brandy.”
“Ah.” She looked pleased. “I guessed that you would have refined tastes.”
“I flatter myself that I do.” He enjoyed the look of her.
“You flatter me, I think.”
Will loved the way she flirted without being simpering or silly. On the contrary, she had an intelligence and self-possession that one hardly expected from a woman in her walk of life. “I don’t know about that. I think I’m just being honest.”
“While we are being honest,” she said, “I think I best tell you that I do have certain conditions if we are to proceed with lessons.”
“Conditions?”
Jack mentioned some of his mistresses asking for extra gifts besides the money. If that was what Miss Bell wanted, well, he supposed she could have them. He had more money than he needed; he didn’t spend it on art and antiquities the way Coventry did, or have Jack’s habit of running up gambling debts.
“Yes. Just so you understand, I’m going to have to set the pace.”
“Very well,” Will agreed—then wondered what the Devil she meant.
Was she concerned about his stamina in bed? It had been a while, but he was fairly sure she wouldn’t be disappointed on that account.
“Excellent,” she went on. “Because you see...Well, I mean no offense to you, of course. But I cannot abide going to bed with a man who is not even well-versed in the preliminaries.”
Will didn’t like her serious tone. “The preliminaries. I’m not quite sure I follow...”
“Mr. Creighton. Do you realize how many men do not even know how to kiss properly?”
Did her cheek flush? No, of course she wasn’t blushing; she was the last woman in the world who would blush. Her complexion naturally held a hint of pink, something he noticed about her before.
“I don’t think you need to worry about that with me.” What a strange conversation to have. He hadn’t expected to discuss anything they would do. He supposed he thought they would just go off to bed.
In fact, that still seemed like a fairly good plan, but he was curious to see what she’d say next.
“Nonetheless, Mr. Creighton. It seems to me that in their rush to get their trousers off, men often pass by the first, more...subtle expressions of sensuality.” She looked at him sidelong, as if to ascertain whether he comprehended her.
“You mean...kissing. Touching,” he said.
“Precisely.”
Will shrugged. “I think that men simply don’t enjoy those, what did you call them, preliminaries, as much as women do.”
“I think you’re wrong.” She gazed at him. “I think it’s a lack of education and refinement.”
“How so?”
“Think of it as a meal.” She really did sound like a schoolteacher. Strangely enough, her academic tone did nothing to dampen his heightened awareness of her body. His mind still fixated on the feel of her thigh through the deep green damask of her skirts and the wool of his trouser leg.
“An uncivilized man reaches right for the main course and devours it,” Genevieve explained. “A gentleman of refinement, on the other hand, takes his time. He samples every course, from the appetizer to the dessert, and savors it. Now, which man do you think enjoys his meal more?”
“I take your point.” The logic of the argument impressed Will. He was even more affected by the pleasure of hearing this bewitching woman talk about sampling and savoring.
Had she expected him to be a brute? “I assure you, I have every intention of sampling each course.”
Her face went hard. “You misunderstand me. Tonight is to be a preliminary lesson only.”
Damn. This wasn’t what he’d bargained for.
“I don’t know,” he said, after a pause. “As you can imagine, Miss Bell, I was expecting a different sort of evening.”
“The choice is yours, Mr. Creighton. I need to be sure about who I take on. I’m very particular.” She shrugged. “Why should I not be?”
“Well...”
“And as I say, it takes a certain kind of man to enjoy every stage of lovemaking. Not every man even has the patience.”
The vixen. Is that what she thought? That he was no more than an eager schoolboy?
Well, she would learn differently, damn it. He’d kiss her like she’d never been kissed in her life.
“I think you will find, Miss Bell,” he leaned a tiny bit closer to her, “that my patience will last far longer than your own.”
Genevieve straightened. “Well, then. I suppose we may begin.” She drained the rest of her brandy in a prodigious gulp and set it down.
“Lovemaking,” she told him, “begins with the mouth.”
“I fully agree.” Will pulled her to him and captured her mouth in a kiss.
He heard the whimper at the back of her throat, a sound of surprise and sudden response.
His tongue explored and reveled in the taste of her, of expensive brandy and her own indefinable taste, almost like an autumn pear, spicy and sweet. Pleasure flowed through him at the sensation of her full lips under his, her warm body up against his own.
Will had almost forgotten how soft a woman felt. How welcoming.
She pulled back, her mouth in an indignant frown.
“I meant,” she said, slightly breathless, “that lovemaking begins with speech.”
“Indeed,” he said dryly. He thought there’d been quite enough speech already.
“Mr. Creighton,” she chided him. “Do you not want to know how to make any woman...even the most proper lady...warm and willing to do anything you might desire?”
Well. “I suppose so.”
“You may not think much of words. But if you’re wise, you will know that a woman lives for them.”
For a moment, she had a faraway, almost wistful look in her eyes. But then it passed so quickly that Will wasn’t sure he’d seen it in the first place.
“One or two well-placed compliments,” Genevieve went on to say, “a declaration of affection...and you’ll find that a lady will melt like wax.” She shrugged. “You may begin.”
“Just like that?” Annoyed to be put on the spot, he snorted. “I have no talent for empty flattery.”
“Then it’s well we’re having this lesson. You seem clever enough. Can you think of nothing to say?�
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Her green eyes fixed him in a challenging stare.
Beautiful eyes.
Hardly thinking, Will said in a low tone, “A man could get lost in those green eyes of yours, as easily as getting lost at sea.”
Genevieve blinked. Her lips parted as though she was astonished. Her gaze took on a soft intensity.
“That was very good,” she said.
Well, it had been easy enough, only the merest truth.
This wasn’t so difficult. He could say whatever came into his head. Here he’d no chance of being betrayed, rebuffed, for any romantic feeling he put into words.
After all, it was only a game.
“When I first saw you in your white dress, in the art gallery,” he told her, “you looked like an angel among the mortals.”
His new mistress said nothing in reply. She stared at him as if rapt.
“Though my thoughts were far from pure,” he added.
She clucked her tongue in indignation. “Is that the way one wins a lady’s heart?”
“Is it?”
She looked uncertain.
This was not the look of a worldly mistress.
“I knew right then I had to have you,” he said in a lower voice still. She leaned forward, perhaps unconsciously. “I want you, Genevieve. Do you not want me?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
Then she straightened up again.
“Yes,” she repeated, but in a brisk voice. “That is excellent. Pray continue.”
Pray continue? Good God, this woman was enough to make one mad. Will reminded himself that they only play-acted. He tried to think of some other glib compliment. Then they could move on.
“I wanted to know you were not just some romantic vision of mine,” he said. Once the invented words passed his lips, they had the ring of truth, even to his own ears.
What were they doing, exactly? God help him, he did feel a bit at sea. He wanted to throw her down on the settee, tear off her clothes, and end the confusion.
“I wanted to lay my hands on you and know you were real.”
“Touch me,” she murmured.
Her voice was so soft he wasn’t sure he heard her. “What?”
“We can move on to the next step,” she said. “Touching.” Her throat must have been dry, despite the brandy she drank, because her voice cracked a little.
She looked out the window, as if thoughtful. “You may begin with my hair. Women love to have their hair touched. More than men realize, I think.”
Will didn’t hesitate. He leaned in to do what he wanted to when she first opened the door: take out one of her hairpins and let a lock of her red-gold hair tumble down.
He sat very close to her, close enough that he felt her breath on his cheek. He reached toward her chignon, but then paused, curiosity getting the better of him.
“Women love to have their hair touched?” he asked in an undertone. “Or do you in particular enjoy it?”
Her head still held up proudly, she dropped her gaze, so that he couldn’t read the expression in her eyes. He saw heavy lids, feathery lashes.
“Both.”
Will scrutinized her a moment longer before turning his attention to the task. His hands went to either side of her head, his fingers reaching around to the back. Her mouth was only a couple of inches from his—he used all his self-restraint not to cover it with his own.
He found something arousing in focusing his attention on such a specific thing. Will worried that it might feel forced, awkward, to play this game. But it seemed the most natural thing in the world.
With care, he located and plucked out a jeweled hairpin. She licked her lips. He removed another pin and another, until her hair cascaded down, loose and free.
No wonder ladies weren’t allowed to go around with their hair down in polite society. With someone like Genevieve, it looked practically indecent. Will imagined what those waves would feel like against his bare chest, or tickling his thighs if she were to lower those luscious lips to his…
“Yes?” came softly from those lips now. “Go on.”
He tucked the hairpins in his coat pocket, so that they wouldn’t get lost. His fingers stroked at her temple, drawing back the silken curtain of hair that brushed against her face. He released it and watched, absorbed, as strands fell softly to grace her cheek again.
She didn’t move. With her he was free to take his time and explore. He leaned closer to lift the luxurious wealth of hair up and away from the nape of her neck, coaxing it to fall forward over one shoulder. His fingertips traced light circles at the hairline where short, lighter tendrils, as wispy as gossamer, curled.
His gaze slid to her face again. Her lips were half-parted, her eyes half-closed. As he touched her, her head inclined gracefully to one side. An almost involuntary movement, it seemed, to give him better access, inviting further attentions. God, she was lovely.
Without even thinking, Will bent to touch his lips against the sweet curve of her exposed neck, a feather-kiss close to the ear.
Genevieve started, her eyes darting to him.
“I assumed that was the next step?”
“Yes. You’re quite right,” she said. Her voice sounded softer now. “Kissing in—other places is an excellent precursor to kissing a woman on the mouth.”
Will sat back and looked at her, taking her face gently between his two hands.
Her gaze cast downward again.
He understood the intimacy in moving slowly, so deliberately, and gazing in one another’s eyes. She was his mistress, not his lover; she didn’t owe him any glimpses into her soul.
And yet he couldn’t help it. He wanted to look into her eyes again before they went any further.
“Look at me,” he commanded. Genevieve raised her wide green eyes to meet his.
She still had that same expression on her face, controlled and challenging. But as she blinked, he thought he saw a glimmer of something else—something more fragile, secretive.
He leaned over to touch his lips to her temple. One of his hands slipped to her shoulder and rested there as he bent to kiss her earlobe. Then he couldn’t resist capturing that bit of tender flesh gently between his teeth, flicking his tongue against it even as he released the lobe again. She moved, her thigh rubbing against his own.
His mouth went lower. For a long moment he pressed his lips to the place just under the hinge of her jaw. He felt her pulse there and was surprised to find it racing beneath her skin. He thought he felt a tremor in her breath.
His own heartbeat quickened in response. Was it possible for him to elicit such a reaction so quickly? Surely she’d grown accustomed to such things. Then again, perhaps passion was in her nature; sensuality dictated this path that she’d taken in life.
Will saw the creamy swell of her bosom, delineated so precisely against the bodice of glossy dark damask. To his delight, he noticed a faint smattering of freckles in the cleft between her breasts. She was no alabaster statue; she seemed as full of warmth and life as the sun-dappled countryside where she made her home. Did she have more freckles elsewhere, in places he couldn’t see?
He drew the backs of his fingers across the peachy softness there, the lightest of caresses, as he placed an almost reverent kiss at the hollow of her throat. He felt her whole being shiver in reply. Her head tilted back in abandon. For Will, awe mingled with greed, an intoxicating combination.
His mouth went to the side of her neck again. Now his kiss was open, rougher, the scrape of his teeth against the smooth flesh articulating his urgent but deep-rooted hunger. He coaxed his fingers just underneath the fabric of her bodice to sample more of the ripe curve there.
His arm clutched around her, his fist behind the back of her head, as though he feared she might be taken from him. He reached his hand lower, along the lovely contour of her breast as he trailed demanding kisses down her décolletage. She seemed to undulate against him, bringing herself enticingly closer to his mouth.
Thumbing the fabr
ic out of the way, he exposed most of her breast. Freed from the constraints of the corset that urged it up and in, the flesh spilled outward. The perfect satiny weight seemed created to fill the cup of his hand, or perhaps his hand had been created to cherish it.
The tip of his thumb swirled around the pink nipple. He realized now, the nipple was rendered faithfully in the painting he’d seen at the art exhibition a few weeks ago. An irrational thought, but the idea of someone else seeing her nude irritated him, so he put the picture out of his mind.
She responded to his touch and the rosy tip grew tauter, as firm as a berry not quite ripe. He lowered his head to take a taste.
Then he felt her grip his wrist. “No, wait,” she said, pushing his hand away and covering herself up again.
Will pulled back as if burned, closing his eyes for a moment. By the time he lifted his head to look at her, he simmered with anger.
“Why did you stop me?”
Her eyes flashed, a temper to meet his own. “I believe you agreed that I would set the pace.”
“Bloody hell,” Will muttered. “What did I come here for?”
The color rose in her cheeks.
For all his frustration, he didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. It never occurred to him that he might upset such an experienced woman of the world.
Her face looked vulnerable and he regretted what he’d said.
Yes, she was his mistress, and it wasn’t so unreasonable to expect her to act like it. But all his life Will had been trained to be a perfect gentleman, and prided himself on the same.
“I am sorry,” he said at once. He wanted that stricken look off her face, wanted them both to be at their ease again. “You are in the right,” he added grudgingly. “I agreed to your way of doing things.”
“Perhaps you were mistaken to agree. If that’s the case, I understand.” The coolness returned to her voice. She moved as though to shift away from him, but the settee had little space to spare. “If you would like to find a more—conventional mistress, Mr. Creighton, I suggest you do so.”
“No.”
He didn’t know why that came out of his mouth. Maybe he did need a girl whom he could simply, well, fuck, as so many of the men in Crimea put it.