by Trisha Telep
Without a word, he strode forwards and took her in his arms. Her breasts pressed against his silver-embroidered waistcoat – softness against hardness, woman against man. Her breath swept between her lips, flavoured with passion. When he bent his head, she eagerly opened her mouth.
It was as delicious as she had remembered. His tongue played against hers, sweet and hot, and she felt her fears dissolve into acceptance. A low, insistent pulse began within her, as if she were an instrument responding to his touch.
She slid her hands to his shoulders, then dropped them in frustration to tug urgently at the fingertips of her gloves. She needed to feel his bare skin beneath her palms, the planes of his cheek and jaw, the softness of his dark hair tangled between her fingers.
He helped her strip the gloves off, as hungry as she. For a moment he held them dangling in his hand and gave her a penetrating look.
She stepped forwards and kissed him. By heaven, she had made her choice, and she was going to embrace it with all the long-banked fire in her soul. She tasted his laughter, and then his arms came around her and the kiss deepened.
So sweet and fierce. Embers flickered to flame, scorched to need. His palms smoothed the emerald satin of her gown and she leaned into his touch. There was no doubt he found her desirable – his body proved it, the hardness of him pressing against her centre. He bunched her skirts in his hands, drew them up, cool air caressing her legs.
Wordlessly, she stepped back and let him pull her gown off. Her chemise tangled in her arms and then it, too, was gone. She stood before him, naked but for her undergarments. It was outrageous, and wonderful.
“So beautiful,” he said, his eyes alight with hunger.
He stroked his hands up her sides, then covered her breasts. She sucked in a sharp breath. Little fires quivered beneath his palms, and she could feel her nipples tauten under his touch. She arched into his hands, threw her head back, and sighed. What a picture she must make, wearing only her stockings and drawers, wanton and sensual under the hands of this darkly handsome gentleman.
But he was wearing too much clothing. Her hands went to his cravat, making quick work of the elegant knot. Next, the buttons of his waistcoat, his fine linen shirt. She tugged the fabric free of his breeches and, hands trembling, pushed his shirt open. His chest was firmly muscled; a light dusting of hair tickled her fingertips as she stroked his skin.
He made a sound of longing, then pulled her to him, his chest hot and hard against hers. It was as delicious as she had imagined. Another blazing kiss, and then he stepped back. She helped him pull off his coat and shirt, then he pushed his boots off and removed his breeches.
Diana peeked between her lashes, curious and eager, then caught her breath at the sight of him. He was erect and strong, and she felt suddenly powerful, to bring him to such a rampant state.
Henry had always insisted on taking his husbandly prerogatives with the lights off, the two of them securely between the sheets. He had never made her feel like this, had never openly admired her, or told her she was beautiful. It had been pleasant enough, their marital relations, but nothing like the fire that now seared through her.
And that fire was nothing compared to the sensation that engulfed her when Nicholas took her in his arms and dipped his hand between her legs. This tempest of want scorching her to her soul – this was new. This was passion.
“Ah!” she cried as his fingers stroked and played beneath her drawers. She gripped the strong sinews of his arms – she was going to fly to bits if she did not hold tightly to him.
Nicholas withdrew his hand and she moaned in protest. With a devilish smile, he stripped off her drawers, then manoeuvred her backwards until her legs bumped the settee. They tumbled down together on to the gold velvet cushions and he braced himself over her, setting his member where his fingers had been. Slowly, inexorably, he pressed forwards, opening her. Their gazes locked as their bodies fitted together, imperfectly at first. Then easier as he slid back, and forwards again.
“Yes,” she breathed.
It was lovely and heated and, oh, she couldn’t bear how deliberately Nicholas moved in her. She caught at his shoulders and tilted her hips up, urging him to stroke deeper, faster. His breath hitched as he quickened his pace, the pulse at the side of his neck beating urgently.
More. Yes, and more, until the pressure she felt coiling inside her finally released, exploded like an errant firework to spangle her senses with light and colour.
He let out a muffled shout and pulled free, spilling himself on the fine linen of his shirt. Sweat gleamed on his arms, his chest.
She let out a sigh of pleasure, her body sated, her whole being utterly, perfectly content. She brushed her fingers through his silky hair. Nicholas Jameson – masterful and tender, patient and passionate. The door to her heart swung open.
A smile illuminated his face and he brought one hand up to cup her cheek. “Now that, my Diana, was splendid indeed.”
It was Wednesday.
Diana sat in the music room, waiting for the sound of the knocker to reverberate through the entry. Nicholas would be here at any moment. Anticipation fluttered all the way down to her toes.
Samantha played another run of notes, then glanced at the clock. “Perhaps Mr Jameson has forgotten,” she said. “He has not developed the habit of coming to Waverly House.”
“Nonsense. He’s been our piano tutor for weeks now.” Diana infused her voice with certainty. “He has only been delayed twenty minutes. There could be any number of reasons for it.”
“Perhaps he has been crushed by a carriage, or—”
“Samantha, enough! I’m certain Mr Jameson will be here momentarily.”
After the lesson, she would ask him to stay for tea. She would ask him everything, and have no fear of the answers.
He had brought music and light into Waverly House. He had coaxed her from behind her comfortable boundaries and shown her what true passion was. Every day from now on would be richer because of it. She would be richer. The memory of his touches, his words, flared through her. She had never felt so beautiful.
“It’s half past the hour.” Samantha sounded glum. “He’s not coming.”
Diana bit her lip. Where was he? Anticipation curdled into apprehension. “Practise a bit more, dear. I’ll go check with the butler.” Though of course he would have shown Mr Jameson straight in.
The heels of her boots clicked across the marble floor of the entryway. When she pulled the heavy front door open, the butler raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.
The street outside was quiet. No handsome grey-eyed man striding up to her door, no cabs to be seen the entire length of the block. She stood on the threshold for several minutes, the distant clamour of London washing past her, but the street remained empty.
The butler cleared his throat, and she slowly shut the door. Head high, she re-entered the parlour.
Samantha’s expression lit. “Is he . . . ?”
“No. Not yet.” She couldn’t help but glance at the clock. The entire hour had run. Did she mean nothing to him? An ugly sob rose in her throat.
“Mama?” Samantha sent her a concerned glance.
Diana swallowed. “I suppose something important has detained him. You may go.” She blinked rapidly against the sting of tears.
Samantha gave her a hug, then slipped out of the room. Diana bowed her head. Had she been such a fool to listen to Lucy? It had not felt that way at the time. But it seemed she had made a dreadful mistake.
She had practically seduced him. The piano tutor. He must be too embarrassed to face her, here with her stepdaughter, after what had been between them. He must despise her, think her a woman of exceedingly loose morals, to take such base liberties with her employee.
Yet he was far more to her than that. Her heart ached with lost possibilities.
They had, neither of them, promised more than a single hour of unbridled desire. Their banter about tutoring had hardly been talk of courtship, of love.
If her actions had been spurred by deeper feelings, as she must now admit, what had she been to him? Only a willing female – one whom he evidently had no more use for.
She knew nothing about him. Nothing except that he made her feel more alive, more daring than anyone she had ever met. And now it was ended.
She could not bear the thought.
The servants at Lucy’s mansion knew Diana well enough to admit her without hesitation.
“Is Lady Pembroke in?” she asked.
“She is, madam,” Lucy’s butler said. “She is taking the air in the garden. Shall I escort you?”
“That won’t be necessary.” If, as she feared, she was going to burst into tears the moment she saw her friend, she would prefer to do so unobserved.
“As you wish.” The butler bowed her towards the French doors overlooking Lucy’s grounds.
Diana stepped out and took a deep breath of the late-spring air. Lucy would know what to do. A woman of her experience surely knew all about broken hearts.
Rounding the yew hedge, Diana heard voices. Lucy’s. And a man’s, painfully familiar. Sudden fear knifing through her, she crept forwards.
“Damn it, Lucy, I have to tell her.” Nicholas’ voice was strained. “It’s gone too far. She deserves to know the truth.”
“She’s not ready.” Lucy sounded resolute. “Think up some excuse – tell her you were unavoidably detained. But don’t tell her what you and I have been up to.”
Ice swept over Diana, comprehension settling cold and dreadful against her bones. Lucy’s talk of handsome piano tutors. Nicholas, here in her garden, using Lucy’s given name so intimately. His presence at the musicale last night, his familiarity with Lucy’s house . . .
Anger flared through her. The scoundrel! To use her so, when all along he had been Lucy’s lover. What a contemptible rake, to seduce her – here of all places.
She swept out from behind the hedge. “Unavoidably detained?” She raked her gaze over Nicholas. His eyes widened and he took a step towards her.
Lucy grabbed at his arm. “Diana. We were just speaking of you—”
“Yes,” she said. The word was coated in frost. “And what exactly were the two of you doing while my employee was supposed to be giving a piano lesson?”
Nicholas shook himself free of Lucy’s grasp. “Let me explain—”
“You should have explained before the musicale.” Her voice caught, snagged on memory. “But it seemed you had other priorities. Perhaps you had forgotten you had a music lesson to teach while you were ‘unavoidably detained’. You’ve behaved most unprofessionally, sir.” She fought to speak against the tightness in her throat. Nicholas reached for her and she pulled away. “I no longer need your services, Mr Jameson. You are fired.”
Hot tears blurring her vision, she turned and ran. Dimly she heard Nicholas calling after her, Lucy remonstrating, but she did not pause. She rushed back to her carriage and flung herself inside, slamming the door before the footman could even approach.
It was far worse than she had suspected. And still a part of her had wanted to stay, to listen to his pleas. She was so unbearably weak. As the wheels rattled over the cobblestones, she dropped her head into her hands and abandoned herself to grief.
“Mama?” Samantha pushed open the parlour door. “Are you ill? I had cook make you some chocolate.”
She entered the room, carefully balancing a tray holding the silver chocolate pot and two cups. Diana mustered a smile for her stepdaughter and hoped her eyes were not too red from weeping.
“Thank you, dear. I am not unwell, just a bit tired.” Did heartsickness count as an illness? She did not think so. “Come, sit by me.” She patted the settee.
Samantha set the tray down and curled up close. Diana put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and gave them a squeeze – the re assurance as much for herself as for her stepdaughter.
“I have some unhappy news for you.” She heaved a breath. “Mr Jameson will not be returning as your piano tutor.”
“Oh.” The girl’s shoulders slumped. “That is too bad. He was ever so charming, and smelled much better than Mr Bent.”
Diana smiled – it was the only way to keep the tears from welling up again. “That he did.” She leaned over and rested her head against Samantha’s. All brightness was not gone from her life, no matter how dreary the day might feel.
“My Lady.” The butler bowed at the parlour door. “Forgive me for interrupting. You have a caller. Are you at home?”
She straightened. Nicholas wouldn’t dare – not if he had a shred of sense. It had to be Lucy. One way or another, she would have to face her friend.
“Yes, I am receiving.”
“Very good.” He extended the silver salver, a vellum card centred on it. “Shall I show him in?”
“Him?” Her lips pressed tightly together, she took the card. If it was Mr Jameson . . . “The Marquess of Somerton?” She stared at the unfamiliar name. “I don’t believe I know any such person. Please tell the gentleman I am not taking visitors today.” Particularly uninvited ones. She could not face another stranger in her house.
“Very good.” The butler departed.
“Thank you for the chocolate, Samantha.” Diana gave her stepdaughter another quick embrace. Really, she ought to bestir herself. There was no use sitting in the parlour when it held such memories of Nicholas.
“I’m glad it helped. Chocolate often does.” The girl jumped up and gathered the cups and tray, then paused and kissed Diana’s cheek before bustling out the door.
Voices filtered from the hallway, and then the butler was back.
“I am sorry, My Lady, but the Marquess insists he will see you. He vowed to toss me into the street if I stood in his way.”
Diana rose, then nearly folded back down on the settee when she saw who had followed the butler in.
Nicholas. The breath squeezed from her lungs while a wild, giddy clamour started up in her blood.
“Please go,” she breathed. No matter how much she wanted to remain unmoved, the expression in his familiar grey eyes nearly undid her.
He was carrying an exuberant bouquet of roses, which he handed to the butler. “See to these.”
Clever man – if he had given her the flowers, she would have flung them back in his face. As soon as the butler departed, she turned on Nicholas. Piano tutor, marquess, whoever he claimed to be today. “How dare you?” Her ribs felt as though a band of silk were wrapped around them, pulled too tight. “To think, what we did under Lucy’s very roof! And then you come here, bullying my servants, and—”
“Diana.” He closed the distance between them and took her by the shoulders. Fool that she was, she could not move away from his touch. “I don’t think my cousin begrudges the use of her library. She has done far worse in my best carriage, with never a word of apology.”
“Your . . . your cousin?” She blinked up at him, her heart catching with a wild, irrational hope. “Lady Pembroke is your cousin?”
“Yes.” A mischievous light sparked in his eyes. “Lucy. My meddling plague of a cousin. The one who bribed Mr Bent to take an extended holiday, then suggested I pose as a piano tutor and tempt you out of hiding.” He shook his head. “But it didn’t work.”
“No?” She had been tempted, all too easily. Even now she felt breathless.
He smiled at her, rueful and amused all at once. “My plan was to slowly draw you out. To, as Lucy put it, ‘help ease you from your widowhood’. But falling in love with you made things bloody awkward.”
Falling in love? Happy tears tingled at the back of her eyes. The Marquess of Somerton? “But . . . you make an excellent piano tutor.”
His hands tightened on her shoulders and he drew her forwards. “I assure you, I make a far better suitor.”
She went willingly, lifting her face to his kiss. A kiss that swirled her senses, even as it anchored her fully to herself. A kiss full of passion. Delight. Life.
Stolen
Em
ma Wildes
One
As a partner in crime, Stephen Hammond was an abysmal failure so far.
Lady Sabrina Pearson shot the man crouched next to her a withering look. “Can’t you do this faster?”
He muttered something unintelligible in response, which she had a feeling was not meant for her innocent ears, and his long fingers worked the metal picklock in the door.
Five minutes later, still no success.
“Stephen—”
“It isn’t as blasted easy as it looks, Sabrina.” He hissed the words and almost the minute he spoke there was a clean, smooth click that signalled success. With a graceful, mocking bow, he opened the door for her. “I wish you joy in your burglary, My Lady.”
Dignifying that ironic tone was beneath her, so she swept past him into Lord Bloomfield’s study, adjusting her lantern so it illuminated the space better. The room was cluttered and smelled of stale tobacco smoke, spilled claret and musty books she doubted the man had ever read.
Bloomfield was an academic buffoon, a charlatan of the worst order, and without the papers and notes, he would be exposed as such. His Lordship had stolen her father’s life’s work and she intended to get it back. It was her only legacy and, since Bloomfield claimed the papers had been lost during a fire at their last encampment in Egypt after her father’s death, he could hardly charge her with the theft, even if he knew who had broken in and taken them.
It was really, in her opinion, a brilliant plan. It hadn’t been quite so easy to convince Stephen to help her, but in the end, he’d grudgingly agreed. Now all she had to do was find where the papers were stashed.
“See if the desk has any locked drawers,” she suggested, keeping her voice low. “If it does, go to work on them, please.”
“Whatever Your thieving Ladyship desires,” he murmured in a mocking tone, but did go over and begin to examine the desk. In the dim lamplight, his dark hair looked dishevelled, and a wavy lock fell over his brow as he frowned in concentration. Sabrina, in turn, roamed around the room, scouring the shelves for any hiding place, taking out books, even lifting a painting off the wall to see if there might be a cubbyhole behind it.