"Well, my lady?"
His warm breath touched her cheek, igniting her skin. Answer … she needed to answer him. Before he concluded she was a bird-witted mute. She searched her mind for something to say and grasped at the first thing that entered her brain.
"The ghost." The two words exploded from her mouth like twin pistol shots. "I … I wish to discuss the ghost with you." She barely swallowed the horrified ack that rose in her throat. Dear God, what was she saying?
"What ghost?"
Botheration, now that she'd embarked upon this perfidious path, there was no turning back. "The one I u C. "1emnderstand you're trying to find."
"You mean the murdering thief I will find."
"Er, yes."
"What about him?"
Yes, Julianne, what about him? her inner voice taunted. "Well, I, um … believe he tried to rob my household."
Another horror-stricken ack vibrated in her throat. Good God almighty, her mouth had totally run amok. It was as if she had no control over her own words. Her lips parted, and lies spewed forth like steam from a boiling kettle.
His gaze narrowed. "When?"
I haven't the faintest idea. "Last night."
"What happened?"
I lay alone in my bed. And thought of you. "I…I was awakened by strange groaning sounds."
"Did anyone else in the household hear them?"
"Not that anyone said." That much at least was true.
"Did you report these noises to your father?"
"No." As he seemed more interested than suspicious, she warmed to her fabrication and improvised, "I'd assumed what I heard was the wind and actually didn't think of it again until…" just now. "Until I read the story about Mrs. Greeley this morning in the Times. I checked our valuables and found nothing missing."
He was silent for several seconds, tiny spaces of time during which she wondered if he could smell the stench of her lies rising from her skin like a noxious cloud.
"What made you decide that the sounds you heard weren't actually the wind?" he asked.
The question felt like a bottomless chasm yawning in front of her. One misstep on her part, and she'd fall into the depths of hell—and he'd realize she was lying faster than a horse could trot.
After considering for several seconds, she said, "Upon reflection, I realized that the sounds came from the direction of the corridor rather than outside."
"Did you enter the corridor to investigate?"
Good heavens, the man was full of questions. Not wishing him to picture her cowering beneath her covers like a molly-coddled milksop, she raised her chin and said, "Of course I investigated. I'm not a coward."
"I see," he said, his tone so dry it was clear he didn't believe her claim—which only served to irk her and make her want to prove him wrong. "Was anyone in the corridor?"
"No."
"What if there had been?" He leaned a bit closer, and she drew in a sharp breath. Dear God, he was so … large. Broad. Tall. Had the sun been out, his sheer size would have cast her in a shadow. "What if you'd happened upon the murdering ghost robber absconding with your jewels?" he whispered close to her ear.
Heat sizzled through her, and she had to swallow to find her voice. "I … I would have screamed. Coshed him with my candlestick. As I said, I'm not a coward."
"Brave words from a brave woman. What if he'd coshed you first?"
Unlikely, as I'd have swooned at the first sight of him. "Unlikely as I'd have… stabbed him first with my embroidery scissors." Yes. That's what a brave woman would have done.
"Oh? Like you did to me?"
"Naturally I don't carry my embroidery scissors to formal gatherings."
"But you carry them in your nightclothes?"
Blast. He had a point. Thinking quickly she fabricated, "Except for formal occasions, I always carry embroidery scissors. I leave them on my night table before retiring. When I heard the noises, I slipped them into my robe's pocket."
"How resourceful, although I feel it my duty to inform you that such a puny weapon, yielded by such a pu—petite woman, would prove little or no use against a man. Especially one who caught you unawares."
The silky timbre of his voice wasn't lost upon her, nor was his nearly calling her puny. Clearly the man was making sport of her. And clearly he didn't believe she was brave. You aren't brave, her annoyingly honest inner voice informed her.
Very well, she wasn't brave. At all. Never had been. Indeed, the bravest thing she'd ever done was follow him into this garden, and look how that had turned out. Obviously she was far from the adventurous, confident woman she longed to be. Her one chance for an adventure, and she'd mucked it up and made a total fool out of herself.
To her horror, her bottom lip trembled. She bit down on it, hard, and blinked back the tears threatening to flood her eyes. Yes, her first adventure had proven naught but a lie-filled calamity. He obviously thought her a foolish, senseless chit, and at the moment she felt like one. Anger—at herself for not listening to her common sense and for starting this crescendo of falsehoods—filtered through her with disheartening humiliation. It was time to abandon this disastrous outing and return to the party. Before she made an even bigger bird-wit of herself.
Before she could move, however, he continued, "Do you know what I think?"
That I'm a liar. And a fool. And you're correct. Some modicum of her shredded pride made her hike up her chin a notch. "No, but based on your tone, I'm certain you're going to tell me."
"I think you'd have swooned at the first sight of an intruder and would have lain on the floor until one of the maids happened by and saw you."
How annoying that he was most likely correct. But she wasn't about to confirm his suspicions. And what was one more lie at this point?
Stretching up to her full height, she said in her iciest tone, "You clearly don't know me as well as you believe, Mr. Mayne. However, if your scenario were correct—and I assure you it is not—then I can only surmise a doctor would have been summoned, and at this very moment I'd be nestled in my bed, rather than here, listening to you laugh at me."
"Assuming the intruder hadn't killed you."
"Yes. Now, if you'll excuse me…"
She made to push away from the tree but found herself caged in when he slapped his other hand on the massive trunk next to her head. "So the rose has thorns," he murmured. "Interesting." Then he shook his head. "I wasn't laughing."
"You most certainly were."
"Then I can only deduce you don't know what laughter sounds like."
"I most certainly do, although I have to wonder if you do. Has anyone ever told you you're very dour?"
Although his expression didn't change, she sensed his surprise at her boldness. Indeed, she surprised herself. But since he already held her in such low regard, she at least could regain some respect for herself by standing up to him.
"Dour? No one who's lived to repeat the sentiment. Has anyone ever told you you're a spoiled princess?"
His question instantly deflated her, draining her momentary bravado. Of course he would think so. He'd only see what everyone else saw. He wouldn't see the daring adventuress lurking beneath the surface who desperately longed to break free from the constraints of her position in society and soar from her gilded prison. He wouldn't perceive the urgency that had driven her to enter the garden or the courage it had taken for her to walk alone into the darkness.
Feeling utterly defeated and suddenly exhausted, she said quietly, "Yes, I've been told I'm a spoiled princess. Actually, it is but one of several similar endearments I'm subjected to every day." Again she made to push from the tree, and again he stopped her, this time by shifting closer. Now no more than six inches separated them.
She leaned her head against the rough bark and looked up at him. She couldn't decipher his expression, but it was clear he wasn't happy.
"You shouldn't have come out here." His voice resembled a growl.
"Yes. That is obvious."
His gaze bored into hers with a heated intensity that burned her from the inside out. Dear God, the way he was looking at her… as if he were a starving beast and she was a tasty morsel he'd happened upon. And the way he made her feel … as if she were gasping for air and he was the last bit of oxygen on earth.
Holding her breath, she stood in an aching jumble of desperate want, need, apprehension, and anticipation, unable to move, waiting to see what he'd do next.
Just when she thought his hot scrutiny would incinerate her where she stood, his gaze shifted to study each of her features. When he came to her mouth, he lingered for several breath-stealing seconds before slowly raising his gaze back to hers.
"You should return to the house."
Julianne had to swallow twice to locate her voice. "Yes," she whispered.
She should return. She knew it. But apparently her feet did not, as they remained firmly rooted in place. Perhaps she might possibly have convinced her feet to move, but then he lifted one hand from the tree trunk and touched a single fingertip to her cheek. And the only thing fleeing the garden were any thoughts of her leaving.
His finger followed the same path his gaze had just traveled, painting featherlight strokes over her face. The tip of his finger was hard. Blunt. Calloused. Yet infinitely gentle.
She watched him as he touched her, noting the avid way his gaze followed his finger. The muscle that ticked in his square jaw. With his finger lightly circling the outer curve of her ear—a bit of skin she'd had no idea was so sensitive—he leaned in. Brushed his cheek against her hair.
In an agony of anticipation, Julianne remained perfectly still, terrified that if she so much as breathed, he would stop. End this wondrous adventure. She heard him take a slow, deep breath, one he released in a ragged stream of warmth against her temple.
"Delicious," he muttered. "Bloody hell, I knew you'd smell delicious." The last words ended on a low groan. "What is that scent?"
How could he possibly expect her to answer questions? With an effort, she managed to say, "Vanilla. It…it's my favorite flavor, so I commissioned a perfumer on Bond Street
to make it into a fragrance for me."
He pulled in another deep breath. "You smell like the bakeshop: warm, sweet, scrumptious." His lips brushed over her hair, and he groaned again. "You really need to go back, Julianne. Now."
The intimacy of that gravelly voice saying her name, without the formal use of her title, touched something deep inside her. She could no more have left the garden at that moment than she could have held back the tide. She'd longed for a moment like this, and nothing her common sense or conscience screamed at her could deter her.
"No," she whispered. "Not now."
"Don't say you weren't warned."
Perhaps she'd been warned, but she certainly wasn't prepared. For nothing could have readied her for the onslaught of his mouth capturing hers. With a hunger beyond anything even her darkest imaginings could have conjured. His tongue swept along the seam of her lips, demanding entrance, and with a gasp of shocking pleasure, she complied.
The delicious friction of his tongue tangling with hers rendered her light-headed. She'd read of such intimacies, most recently in The Ghost of Devonshire Manor, had imagined such a kiss, but the reality… the reality yanked her from her moorings, setting her adrift on a stormy sea of sensation, battering her from all sides.
Heart pounding, knees shaking, she opened her mouth wider, desperate to taste more of him. She'd known he looked like adventure, smelled like adventure. Now she knew he tasted like it as well. Like a foreign land she'd always longed to explore but never thought she'd have the chance to visit.
His hands came forward to cradle her face, holding her immobile while he kissed her senseless. Breathless. She mimicked his every gesture, gliding her tongue over his, reaching up to touch her fingertips to his face—only to lament the fact that she couldn't feel his skin through her gloves. Any worry that her technique was lacking dissipated when he growled low in his throat and pressed his lower body into hers.
Heat whooshed through her at the feel of his hardness pinning her to the tree. Her entire body felt as if it had been awakened from a deep, cold sleep, and for the first time in her life she knew the overwhelming power of desire. She began to tremble, shake with this heady, incredible assault on her senses.
Engulfed in a haze of lust, Gideon deepened their kiss, his mind empty except for the single word pounding through him with every rapid thump of his heart. Julianne. Bloody hell, she tasted so damn good. Felt so damn good. Smelled so damn good—like a sweet treat he wanted to gobble up in two big bites.
A shaking sensation worked its way through the fog of want enshrouding him, clouding his better judgment, and he realized it was her. A small corner of his mind had noted with grim satisfaction her initial gentle shivers, but somewhere during their kiss they'd clearly grown into full-fledged shakes. He could feel them vibrating against his thighs, where his body pinned her against the tree. Beneath his hands, which held her head immobile. Against his lips that roughly ravaged hers.
With a groan of self-disgust, he broke off their kiss and stepped back. The instant his hands fell from her face, she slid several inches down the elm's trunk. Muttering an oath, he clasped her shoulders lest she slither all the way to the ground.
Bloody damn hell, now he'd done it. One touch, and he'd completely forgotten the sort of gently bred hothouse flower she was. Scared her to the point she couldn't stand up. What the devil had he been thinking?
Problem was, he hadn't been thinking—a constant difficulty around this woman. Bad enough he'd been such an idiot as to kiss her at all. But then he'd kissed her like a pillaging barbarian. No finesse, no gentleness—just taking. It had gone exactly the way he'd known it would if he were ever stupid enough to touch her: ten seconds of tenderness touching her face, then a total loss of the control he prided himself upon. And now he'd clearly frightened the bones from her knees.
He peered at her through the darkness, hoping to hell she wasn't going to fall victim to the vapors, and another groan rose in his throat. Rapid breaths puffed from between her kiss-swollen, moist, parted lips. She just looked so damn… kissable.
Yet her eyes remained closed, and tremors still racked her body, arousing his conscience—an inner voice he'd thought long dead—which lashed him with recriminations. For not sending her back to the party the second he found her. For that instant of weakness, of giving in to his overwhelming desire to touch her, taste her. For allowing himself to be drawn into an impossible situation.
That kiss, the feel of her softness pressed against him, her sweet scent surrounding him, her delicious taste flooding his senses, had all but brought him to his knees. That kiss had done nothing to appease his hunger for her. No, instead, his previous cravings paled to nothingness compared to the ravenous appetite for her now scraping at him.
What a bloody idiot he was.
Her eyes blinked slowly open, and she gazed at him with a glazed expression. She was still shaking, but at least she hadn't swooned. Yet. She slowly moistened her lips, a leisurely lick that tightened his fingers on her shoulders and swelled him against his breeches—something he wouldn't have thought possible, as he was already harder than a brick.
"Why … why did you…"
Ruthlessly pushing away the desire clawing at him, he braced himself for a barrage of outraged recriminations—which, in spite of his warning to her, he deserved for the way he'd all but mauled her.
"Stop?"
He blinked. "Why did I stop?"
Again she licked her lips—a fascinating gesture he longed to study at length—and gave a limp-necked nod. "Why did you stop?"
"You were shaking. I frightened you."
"I was shaking … but you didn't frighten me."
Realization dawned with another swift stab of lust. She hadn't trembled with fear but with desire. Before he could fully wrap his mind around the idea, she reached out and grabbed his lapels. Yanked har
d, but certainly not hard enough to move him had he chosen to remain in place.
But the knife-sharp desire to feel her again cleaved through his common sense, and he stepped forward. His body brushed against hers, and if he'd been capable of levity, he would have laughed at how profoundly that whisper of a touch affected him.
She tilted her head back and looked at him with those beautiful eyes, glowing with what he now recognized as arousal, and whispered, "More." The word was half tremulous request, half impatient demand.
"Given my penchant for summing things up in one word, I must admit that more is an excellent choice."
Indeed, perhaps there was a living, breathing man capable of refusing her, but Gideon sure as hell wasn't that man. And even if desire wasn't compelling him to this madness, his own pride would have done so. He simply had to kiss her again if for no other reason than to redeem himself—to prove to himself that he could do so without losing control. And to teach this temptress a lesson: that dangers lurked in the dark. That in the future she needed to remain within the safe confines of the drawing room.
Pulling her away from the tree, he turned them so that his back rested against the rough trunk. Spreading his legs, he drew her into the V of his thighs, a place where she fit so perfectly and felt so damn good it seemed as if she were molded precisely for him. He ran his hands down her back, pressing her closer, then lowered his head.
He brushed his lips over hers, once, twice, forcing himself to gently explore where last time he'd simply plundered. He circled her full, parted lips, drinking in her breathy sighs. Shoving back the urgency nipping at him, he slowly sank deeper into the kiss, his tongue savoring the sweet taste of her. Her arms slid over his shoulders, and she seemed to simply dissolve into him, wax melting from the inferno burning inside him.
She squirmed, and his erection jerked, effortlessly breaching the control he'd only seconds ago thought fully reinforced. His hips thrust slowly forward, a movement he was helpless to stop—a fact that irritated and alarmed him. Bloody hell, what was happening to him? What was this woman doing to him?
SEDUCED AT MIDNIGHT Page 5