Swear by Moonlight

by Shirlee Busbee

  Dispensing with Tillman's efforts to announce him to the ladies, Patrick strolled into the room where the ladies were sitting. He looked, Thea decided, far too handsome and self-assured for his own good. One would have thought that after the events last evening—both at his mother's house and in the carriage—he would have at least had the decency to appear somewhat diffident. But no, he walked into the room, her sitting room, like a conquering king and behaving as if she should be delighted to see him. Which she was, if the sudden flutter in her stomach was anything to go by, but which had nothing to do with the situation.

  He greeted Modesty first, and they exchanged a moment's conversation. Turning to Thea where she sat in an overstuffed chair near the window, his gray eyes teasing, Patrick brushed a warm kiss across her wrist. "I trust that you slept well, my dear."

  "Is there any reason why I shouldn't have?"

  "Well, usually, upon becoming engaged," he said with a smile, "young ladies are rather excited about it."

  Despite her best efforts to wrest it away from him, he held her hand in his, and she glared at him. He grinned, and Thea's wayward heart beat faster.

  Not knowing what to expect, she had dreaded this first meeting after their abrupt parting the previous evening, but if his manner was anything to go by, she need not have worried. He was being his usual irritating self. She tried again to free her hand, but, with a mocking gleam in his eyes, he kept a firm hold on it.

  As she gazed up into that hard, dark, handsome face, particularly that wide, smiling mouth, a small tremor of carnal awareness slid through her. Memories of the passionate interlude that had taken place in the coach flashed through her mind. Those intimate, erotic things he had done to her last night had never been far from her thoughts, and she was horrified to realize that she would very much like for him to do those same things again—soon.

  Furious with her weakness, her jaw set. "I am not, if you will recall, a young lady. You cannot have forgotten that I was once on the verge of marriage."

  "I would take issue with you on the young part, and as for the other..." Patrick lifted her hand to his lips and gently bit one finger, sending a stimulating shock through her.

  "Being on the, er, verge of marriage to another man is nothing like being engaged to me." He kissed the tips of her trembling fingers. "Remember that, won't you, sweetheart?"

  Indignation roiled in her breast, but she contented herself with jerking her hand away from him and saying stiffly, "With the announcement in the Times this morning, I assure you, it is rather difficult to forget."

  "Excellent! I wouldn't have it said that my bride forgot to attend her own wedding."

  "You have nothing to fear, sir," Thea muttered, "having been part of one ugly scandal, not even to thwart you would I leave my family open to that sort of gossip and speculation again."

  "I never doubted it, my dear."

  "Was there some particular reason that you came to call?"

  "Actually there was—besides wishing to see my charming fiancée for my own selfish reasons, I have come at the behest of my mother," he said. "She apologizes for her highhanded methods, but she has made arrangements with her dressmaker for you to come in for a fitting this afternoon at four o'clock. She trusts that you will forgive her—and not find it terribly inconvenient to make the appointment. I came in the Caldecott carriage and shall escort you there."

  "That won't be necessary," Thea replied. "I am sure that if you leave me the dressmaker's name and direction, Modesty and I shall have no trouble finding it."

  "Actually, I think it would be best if Patrick did escort you to the dressmaker," Modesty said quickly. The blackmail threat was in her mind, and she didn't trust Thea's resolution in the matter. "And while you are gone, I shall visit with Lady Caldecott and see how she is coming along with the arrangements for the wedding."

  Patrick looked at her, a gleam in his eyes. "More plotting, my dear Miss Bradford?"

  Modesty appeared flustered, and a distinct blush stained her cheeks, but she met his gaze, and asked, "Plotting?" Her eyes opened very wide. "Why, whatever do you mean, sir?"

  She held her breath waiting for his answer, counting on the fact that he seemed to have accepted the situation and, more importantly, bore her no ill will, to bring her safely about. She breathed easier when he chuckled, bowed extravagantly, and murmured, "I believe this round goes to you, Miss Bradford."

  Modesty dropped her lashes, a small smile playing at the corner of her lips. "Your mother warned me that you had a most, er, peculiar manner about you—I see what she means."

  Aware of Thea's puzzled expression and not wanting her to think too deeply about the situation, Modesty glanced at the gray-marble clock on the mantel. Noting the hour, she stood up, and said, "It is nearly time for your appointment. Shall I have Tillman bring you your russet-silk pelisse? Or would you prefer the blue-velvet one?"

  With the ground cut out from underneath her, Thea gave in gracefully. "The russet silk, please."

  There was little conversation between Patrick and Thea while they waited for Tillman to bring the pelisse, or during their ride to the dressmaker's establishment on Bond Street. Thea was too conscious of what happened so recently in this carriage and far too aware of Patrick's broad form seated across from her to utter anything but the most inane comments. She decided she preferred silence to silliness.

  But with no conversation between them to distract her, her thoughts wandered, and too easily she recalled his kisses, the feel of his hand on her breast, and the deliciously erotic slide of his warm fingers up her thigh. A languid heat curled in her belly, her breasts tingled, and her lips ached to be kissed by him again in that same hungry manner.

  Patrick was just as aware of Thea and just as aware of what nearly happened the previous night. So aware in fact, that by the time they had traveled a mere block, he was as hard as iron between his thighs and wondering how he was going to step down from the carriage without everyone knowing precisely what was on his mind. He moved uncomfortably, trying to convince his unruly member to behave. He forced his thoughts onto the mundane and was relieved when they reached the dressmaker's address that his designs were deflated.

  But the thoughts that bedeviled them both did not go away, and even when Thea was being greeted and fussed over by Mrs. De Land, she was always aware of Patrick in the background. Patrick was no less conscious of Thea. Unknowingly his gaze caressed her, a hungry light springing to those heavy-lidded eyes as he watched her confer with Mrs. De Land.

  Mrs. De Land's establishment was considered one of the best in all of London, and her clientele came exclusively from the wealthy, titled class. While it was her skill with design, color, and fabric that brought the wives and daughters and sisters of the gentlemen to her shop, it was her discretion that brought the gentlemen themselves with their highflyers and mistresses. Mrs. De Land's dressing rooms were noted for being private and spacious, with comfortable chairs and tables; refreshments were even served. But most notable of all was the soft, wide sofa in each room, which served as a resting place for young damsels during a long complicated fitting and a place where randy protectors could, if the mood so took them, swiftly sample the charms of their latest lady love.

  Shown into one of the dressing rooms, Thea waited for Mrs. De Land to return with a sample of the fabrics and the drawing of the design Lady Caldecott had chosen for her. There was a mulish cast to her features as she waited; the sensation that she was being propelled willy-nilly down a path not of her own choosing growing stronger by the moment. It was her wedding. And her gown. Surely at least that decision should be hers?

  When Mrs. De Land returned with a swath of lovely figured white satin and a bolt of palest rose gauze for the overdress, Thea's resentment vanished, and she applauded Lady Caldecott's excellent taste. The design chosen was precisely what she would have selected herself—demure without being girlish. The high-waisted gown consisted of a bouffant skirt topped with a square-cut bodice, which would be t
rimmed with a profusion of Brussels lace, as would the tiny puffed sleeves. The filmy overdress of pale rose gauze would save the gown from being considered plain and also still any tongues that might have objected to Thea wearing white on her wedding day.

  The fittings did not take very long, Mrs. De Land and her assistants quickly measuring and cutting a pattern as they went.

  While Thea was being seen to, Patrick was enjoying a glass of port and reading a copy of the racing news in one of the private waiting rooms, well away from the main portion of the shop. Mrs. De Land was, after all, very discreet. It would never do for a wife to arrive for a visit and discover her husband already there... with his mistress.

  Thea's visit did not take long. Once the measurements were done and she approved of the material and design, there was nothing else to be done. After pointing out the urn of warm water for her use should she wish a brief wash and accepting Thea's refusal of further help, Mrs. De Land departed. Left alone, Thea did not begin to dress immediately, but instead, wearing only her chemise beneath the pale yellow silk robe that had been provided, she poured herself a glass of lemonade from the pitcher that had also been provided and stared into space.

  She was confused. She felt trapped and elated at the same time. She was going to marry Patrick, of that there was little doubt, but there was a stubborn part of her that wanted to expose her impending marriage for the deceitful sham that it was. She sighed and absently sipped her lemonade.

  She wanted, she realized with a start, for Patrick to love her. She knew that she loved him and that it was a far different emotion from the one Hawley had aroused in her innocent, young breast so many years ago. Hawley had been an infatuation, she could see that now, but Patrick... Patrick was everything she had ever dreamed of in a man, in a husband, and on Saturday she would marry him, but his motives worried her. He wanted her—that was plain enough—but was it enough?

  She stood up and put down her glass. It was going to have to be enough. And remembering those torrid moments in the carriage last night, her heart thumped.

  Thea had just untied the sash of her robe, when there was a tap on the door. "Yes?" she called out. "Come in."

  When Patrick appeared in the doorway, they were both stunned by the sight of the other one—Thea, because she had been expecting Mrs. De Land, and Patrick, because the sight of Thea garbed in only a chemise and a half-opened, soft silk robe sent a missile of sheer lust right through him.

  For a long moment they stared at each other, Thea's mouth half-parting and her breath coming faster, Patrick frozen in the doorway. His eyes were locked on her, especially the rapid rise and fall of her bosom, enticingly displayed between the lapels of the robe and her low-cut chemise.

  The small, intimate room was suddenly filled with tightly leashed emotions, powerful, primitive emotions that fought for freedom. Raw desire floated in the air between them, and Patrick felt his body's instant reaction; he was erect and ready, the scalding pressure in his loins demanding release. Thea was as enthralled as he; the sweet ache of anticipation swirled through her, her blood racing and her body yearning for his touch.

  Without thought Patrick locked the door behind him, another sign of Mrs. De Land's excellent discretion, and slowly walked toward Thea. There was both question and demand in his gray eyes as his gaze searched hers. Thea could not look away, could not hide that she felt the same electrifying hunger.

  His hands closed around her shoulders, and his mouth snared hers. The touch of his lips on hers was like a torch to summer-dry straw, instantly combustible, and Thea shuddered as her whole body turned to fire. Patrick's kiss was not gentle, but Thea reveled in the almost bruising pressure, in the blunt force of his tongue exploring her mouth. Each stab of his tongue, the very scrape of his teeth on her bottom lip sent a shock of dazzling desire shooting through her. Mindlessly, she pressed closer to him, hunger for more clawing through her.

  Her arms went around his neck, and she kissed him back as passionately, as boldly as he was kissing her. Nothing mattered, only that she be in Patrick's arms and that he continue to wreak this carnal magic upon her.

  They were melded together, seeking mouth to seeking mouth, breast to breast, thigh to thigh. Thea could feel every ridge and muscle in his body... especially the rigid shaft that rubbed so insistently against her stomach. A shiver went through her at the knowledge that if all else was wrong between them, at least they had this... this incredible wizardry of the senses.

  His hands slid to her hips, and he moved her lazily against that solid rod, exciting them both, arousing both of them unbearably. Somehow his jacket was discarded, his cravat askew and his shirt half-unfastened; her pale yellow robe fell to the floor, pushed impatiently aside by Patrick's searching fingers.

  Patrick found that for which he was searching, his hands cupping her breasts, pulling down the chemise so that they fell into his hands like ripe, sweet peaches. He could not resist tasting, and when his mouth left hers, Thea was consumed with disappointment, disappointment she hardly remembered when his lips closed around one hard nipple. He suckled and bit lightly at that sensitive flesh, sending naked pleasure streaking through her, pleasure that streaked unerringly to the blooming ache between her legs. She moaned, her head falling back, as she offered herself to his ravening mouth.

  Blind with passion, his own blunt demands driving him, Patrick urged her backward, following her body down as she fell upon the green-satin sofa. He feasted on her breasts, kneading them, pulling on the nipples with his fingers, using his mouth on them. She was fire and silk under his lips and hands, her response intoxicating him and making him nearly mad for their joining.

  Thea's blood ran thick and warm in her body, every inch of her skin seemed to be on fire, but it was the loveliest fire she ever experienced, and she wanted more, wanted this fire to burn hotter, brighter.

  She had her wish when his hand slid up her thigh and he touched her, really touched her between her legs. She went up in flames at the first gentle brush of his hand against those tight little curls, and she trembled from the force of the emotions that racked her. Her hands clenched his hair and she arched up when he parted her thighs and stroked and explored that soft, secret flesh. She was wet and hot and achingly ready for his probing caress, the sensations he aroused by his blunt invasion, the slick slide of his fingers against her satiny flesh, forcing her toward the edge.

  He could not wait. As awkward as a boy with his first woman, he fumbled at the opening of his breeches, groaning when his erection sprang free. Kneeling between her thighs, he slid his hands beneath her buttocks, positioning her to accept him. The brush of her crisp thatch against the tip of his shaft was exciting, but nothing as exciting, as mind-explodingly sweet as sinking inch by inch into her tight, slick sheath.

  They were joined, their bodies one, and Thea lay beneath him in stunned compliance. She wanted this, but wanting did not prepare her for the ecstasy of the moment. Though she was crushed beneath him, her body invaded, impaled by his, it was magic. Wizardry. It didn't matter that he was still half-dressed, that her chemise was pushed up around her waist like some servant girl's, or that her breasts had been dragged free of that same chemise, or even that this was taking place on a sofa in a dressmaker's shop. All that mattered was that he was in her arms, that his body possessed hers, that his mouth worked its dark power on hers....

  Patrick shuddered at the sweet sensations that rifled through him as he lay embedded within her. Her flesh clung so firmly, so tightly to his that he feared he might have injured her.

  With an effort he tore his mouth from hers. Gazing down into her dark eyes, he muttered, "Did I hurt you, sweetheart? I did not mean to."

  Thea shook her head, her dazed expression filling him with tenderness. He kissed her, kissed her so gently and tenderly that Thea thought her heart would burst.

  The shake of her head was all the answer he needed. His mouth swooped down on hers, his hands tightening on her hips as he began to move, his body thru
sting into hers.

  Desire and heat welled up within her, the feel of his body on hers, the taste of him on her tongue, hurling her into a world of stunning sensation. It was a world shared only by the pair of them, the sweetness of their joining, the power of the emotions that drove them, blotting out everything but what they were feeling, what they were doing to each other.

  Thea writhed beneath him, moaning her delight when he lifted her hips to deepen his possession, to fill her more fully. Suddenly she clutched his shoulders, her fingers digging into him as a sensation akin almost to pain gripped her. She twisted wildly, seeking succor from the sweet, sweet pain that grew and tightened within her. It was unbearable; she wanted it to end; she wanted it to go on forever, and just when she was certain she could not stand the pleasure/pain another second, ecstasy, ecstasy such as she had never envisioned, erupted through her. The world blurred, and there was only that incredible explosion of pleasure shattering her into a thousand pieces.

  Patrick knew the instant she found release, her inner muscles clamping around him, milking him, and pitching him headlong into the same dazzling universe.

  Chapter 12

  It was several moments before reality returned. Limp and astounded, Thea lay on the green sofa. Nothing in her life, particularly the ugly night she had spent with Hawley, had prepared her for the pleasure of Patrick's lovemaking.

  She felt weak, so relaxed that she could hardly move. Patrick was not much better—he slid bonelessly from her body to sprawl beside her on the wide sofa. He kept one arm flung across her as if he needed to keep her anchored at his side and could not help himself from brushing soft, lazy kisses across her cheek and the corner of her mouth.

  Eventually, reality did intrude, the faint knock at the door galvanizing both of them. Feeling foolish and for a brief, paralyzing second like a schoolboy caught in a scandalous endeavor by the headmaster, Patrick leaped upright. Brushing back his disordered locks, he closed his breeches, refastened his shirt, and did what he could with his cravat. It all took him but a moment, a moment in which the enormous stupidity of his actions raked across his mind.