D2D_Poison or Protect

by Gail Carriger

  Without pause, Preshea said smoothly, “Miss Pagril’s form at the waltz. Very poor.”

  Lady Blingchester sniffed. “Well, of course it is – she’s not permitted the waltz! Too risqué. But how should you know to comment?”

  “I saw the young ladies waltzing together down the hallway the other evening. Really, Your Grace, Lady Blingchester, your girls may not be allowed to waltz, but I assure you the dance is here to stay. They should at least know how to do it gracefully, in case of emergency.”

  The Duchess of Snodgrove had joined the conversation. “Waltz emergency?”

  “We are in safe quarters here – perhaps a lesson?” Preshea was nothing if not a mistress of diversion.

  The duchess flipped open her fan and fluttered it about. “Oh, I don’t think…”

  Preshea smiled. “I shall demonstrate, if one of the gentlemen would oblidge me? The two young ladies may dance with each other and Lady Violet with her brother. Thus, no impropriety could possibly occur. If Miss Leeton would honor us with a tune?”

  Although the chaperones clucked in mild disapproval, the young people seemed to find dancing a wonderful idea (anything to relieve the monotony). The furniture was pushed back.

  “I will help demonstrate, Lady Villentia.” Mr Jackson bounced forward.

  Gavin stopped him. “You’re a gruesome waltzer, lad. Think on the corruption inherent in your example.”

  Mr Jackson laughed, not at all upset by the criticism. Since his ladylove was off limits in this endeavor, he allowed the truth in Gavin’s words. “Go on, then, Ruthven. Don’t let him fool you, Lady Villentia. He’s a pirouetting fool, for all he looks like a water buffalo.”

  Gavin snorted, not unlike said buffalo, and scooped Preshea into waltz position.

  Until that moment, Preshea hadn’t understood how intimate the waltz really was. In Gavin’s arms, she finally comprehended the fuss. She was surrounded by his warmth, steadied under his massive hands, forced to look into his blue eyes.

  Lord Lionel took Lady Violet into his arms, joking in a brotherly way. The two young ladies, after some debate, settled on Miss Pagril leading and Lady Flo following. Preshea wondered if this was representative of any other aspect of their relationship.

  Miss Leeton plunked out a waltz. Preshea called instructions while Gavin demonstrated the steps. It was a simple dance and Jack had not overblown his friend’s abilities. Gavin was an excellent partner.

  The others picked it up easily. It was a sedate affair with the eyes of all fixed upon them.

  Preshea was brutally aware of the feel of Gavin’s hand through the clothing at her back. Of the smell of him – musky and spicy and male. Not threatening. Even with his size, she felt no fear. He held her comfortably, supportive, with no attempt to pull her closer than the prescribed distance, offering only guidance as they swirled about the small space.

  Would he partner in all things like this? Preshea coldly stopped herself from that line of thinking. She had exposed her past to him last night so he would understand her choices. She hoped to prevent his falling in love with her. Foolishly, she had once told herself that she ought to break his heart. Now it was the last thing she wanted. She owed him something for showing her that passion between a man and a woman could be good and decent. She intended to pay him back by leaving him alone, and leaving him as intact as possible.

  He would not be allowed to love her. Not if she had anything to do with it.

  Lady Flo and Miss Pagril wafted by, casting frightened glances in her direction. Silly chits. Neither of them had thought to ask why Preshea had been outside her own room last night. Preshea had admitted to seeing Miss Pagril enter Lady Flo’s bedchamber, so she too must have been roaming. Lord save me from innocent girls with no professional training!

  “So, there you have it. The waltz.” Preshea concluded the dance lesson. “Not so bad, is it?”

  “Most refreshing to undertake a bit of exercise. Shall we continue?” Lord Lionel was puffing slightly, rosy-cheeked but enjoying himself, for all he partnered his sister.

  What had begun as a ploy became a pleasant afternoon of light exercise. The Blingchesters even joined for a quadrille.

  Once the waltz was retired for more acceptable fare, Gavin danced with every lady there, including Lady Blingchester and the Duchess of Snodgrove. So did Mr Jackson, although perhaps not so gracefully.

  They ended on another waltz, Miss Leeton having started it unasked. Cheeky lady.

  Gavin took Preshea back into his arms. As had already been established, she was his only option for the waltz.

  “We dance verra well together.” It was not dancing to which he referred.

  “We do, but the music will stop soon.”

  “That doesna mean we should end our partnership prematurely.”

  Saucy blighter. “True. But you know the rules of society as well as I – you may not ask for another.”

  “Na unless we are engaged.”

  “Don’t.” Her steps stuttered.

  He stopped that tactic instantly. “I’ll never ask for more than you’re prepared to give, Lady Villentia. Never. I hope you know that by now.”

  “Yes. I believe I do.”

  “Perhaps you could see yourself taking another spin about the room, later tonight?”

  “Perhaps.”

  * * *

  Gavin wasn’t certain she would come to him again. He was fairly certain sure she wanted to, but not that she would allow herself the indulgence.

  Still, he made sure everything was ready for her. The fire built up, the counterpane turned back. He’d washed thoroughly, and had Mawkins give him an evening pass with the razor, much to his valet’s surprise and annoyance.

  “What need have you for a shave so late? You aren’t going to a ball. Have you gone mad?”

  Gavin glared. “Dinna trouble yourself with reasoning – ’tis not healthy in a valet.”

  With a long-suffering sigh, Mawkins retrieved the shaving things. “You’re getting quirky in your old age, sir. Don’t know how long I can take quirky.” Mawkins was eyeing the banyan with displeasure. Mawkins wasn’t Scottish. He must be forgiven his poor taste.

  Gavin, of course, suspected his valet knew exactly why he might wish a shave before bed.

  Gavin had not lied to Preshea. He was discreet and careful about his liaisons. He had entertained only two ladies since resigning his commission. Mawkins hadn’t known of either. In the past, the valet always shaved Gavin without comment before Gavin left to attend private evening arrangements. But that had been in London; he might well have been going to his club as going to his mistress.

  Mawkins’ annoyance, no doubt, stemmed from his not knowing which young lady had curried Gavin’s favor. What, Gavin wondered, are the betting odds belowstairs?

  “Do you require the claret, sir?”

  “Aye. Two glasses, please.”

  Mawkins bowed stiffly, in a manner that suggested he was gravely put out with Gavin’s keeping secrets. Still, he never shirked his duties, returning promptly with the claret. He took away the last of Gavin’s garments to be pressed with only an exasperated look.

  So Gavin waited, clean-shaven, and hoped.

  Bonnie lass, she did come. Slipping into his room so quickly, he might not have noticed had he not been staring at the door, willing it to open.

  She’d changed into a dressing gown. Gavin was a little disappointed, for he liked the titillation of undressing a woman one layer at a time. However, it was a beautiful silky thing that draped about her in rivers of white fabric.

  She moved across his chamber with a confidence she hadn’t shown the previous night.

  He couldn’t stop the grin. He had given her that at least – a boldness within lust. He could tell from the way she walked that she intended to claim him. He was delighted to let her.

  Having just tended the fire, he stood clutching the poker in one hand like a clumsy gyte. He put it back in its cradle, bashful.

  “I
could grow to both love and hate this thing.” She fingered the shawl collar of his banyan.

  “Why’s that, lass?”

  “It’s quite the eyesore, but it does fit you beautifully, and it is easy to remove.”

  Suiting her actions to words, she stripped him of the offending article. Unashamed, he held out his arms so she could pull it off easily.

  She ran her fingers over him. Her hands were stronger than one might expect. His breath quickened. She was rushing, pulling him along with her, and he was powerless to resist.

  It was sublime.

  She pressed against him, all silk-covered flesh, rubbing like a cat. She stroked him everywhere, over his chest and back, down lower, squeezing both in front and behind. He jerked in her grasp but let her do whatever she wished – touch whatever she liked.

  She wasn’t speaking this time. She was happy to explore without asking and he was happy to let her. He need not give her permission; she already had that. She had all of him, anytime she liked.

  Turning words into mere sounds was easier anyway. Small gasps and moans could not be confessions. There was nothing to deny or avoid. She would not run if he offered her his body; she would if he offered his heart.

  So, he converted I love you to tiny kisses. And I will treasure you forever into long caresses of the kind that made her undulate against him.

  It seemed to work.

  She stepped back, lovely in her confidence. Untying and dropping her dressing gown, she stood before him in nothing but her hair, long and loose about her.

  He waited. His interest evident. Her gaze was drawn there. Her eyes dilated. He would wait like this forever if she wished it of him. He would be the proof she needed of a different kind of man. In the end, she was likely to ignore it, but he had to hope she was strong enough to accept. She was strong enough to have come back to him tonight, although he’d have wagered against himself in Mawkins’ pool. She’d been so confident in her denial when she left his bed, and so cold all day. He thought he’d lost her. The relief at having her back was nigh overwhelming.

  “You said to ask you again tonight.” She spoke at last. Her voice was still clipped, not yet roughened by desire or tears. The moisture he felt was in his own eyes, not hers.

  He let his head fall forward, for he did not want her to see his sentiment. She might discard him for it. Preshea admired strength, not empathy. It made him self-conscious. “I did?”

  “Yes.”

  “About what?”

  “About what you wanted.”

  He relaxed. This was easy territory. He wasn’t afraid to open himself up to her in that way. After all, how much more lost could he be to her? She already had all the ammunition she needed to destroy him, whether she knew it or not. “You hadna guessed?”

  “No. Well, perhaps a little.”

  He blushed, actually blushed. “I want to please you.”

  “What?”

  “Ah.” He cleared his throat. Considering all that they had done and said the last night, she obviously found it amusing to see him embarrassed. “For me, it is about your pleasure. I dinna know the right way of saying it, but I wish it to be for you. This, me, everything.” He gestured down towards his arousal, up towards his heart and head, struggling to explain. “I dinna enjoy it if the woman is unwilling. I canna function if she’s under sufferance or passive. I dinna believe it makes me less a man, although my peers might disagree. Fortunately, they are na privy to my proclivities.”

  Preshea cocked her head, frowning. Her hands, thank heavens, never stopped moving – caressing, testing the weight and heat of him. She clearly enjoyed touching him and took reassurance in it. “Does that mean you wish me to be in charge, give orders? As though you were a servant?”

  “If you like. I wouldna protest. Ideally, I should wish for plenty of time to learn what makes you moan, what makes you wet. I’d as lief please you without your having to ask, although I’m happy to take requests.”

  She seemed to come to some decision, then she nodded. “If I am demanding, I always get exactly what I wish for from the milliner, and the dressmaker, and the cobbler, and so forth. Why should this be any different?”

  He strained to hide a smile. “Why indeed? I’m thinking if we move to the bed, I might start taking measurements?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Scotsman Without His Beard

  Preshea was going to say that, from last night’s endeavors, she already had his measure. Then she noticed something peculiar about his bed.

  He had tied a cravat to each of the posts. It reminded Preshea of something she’d once learned, on the securing of prisoners for interrogation.

  “I will not!” She revealed herself and her fear immediately in a way she would have thought impossible a few days before. “How could you ask?”

  He rested a hand on her shoulder, gentling her like a skittish horse. “Softly, lass. Those are na for you. They are for me.”

  “What?”

  “You are a lass who prefers control. I’m thinking that in this way, you’d see me as no threat. Simply yours for the taking.”

  She tilted her head. “For the asking?” she corrected, not liking the aggression in the word.

  “That, I already am.”

  Preshea was surprised to find how excited she was by the idea. This big man, entirely at her mercy, with no ability to act on his own needs. “You would do this thing voluntarily?”

  “With pleasure.”

  She did not use the knots she’d been taught (the ones that limited blood flow, designed to be cruel). She tied him firmly, but in a pretty bow. That way he could, with a little dexterity, pull the tail and be free without her aid.

  He lay spread before her and under her gaze – passive, eager, and uninhibited. As if he had waited for this all along. She did not wish to think of him as different, but there seemed no way around it.

  Preshea explored at her leisure. She used her hands mainly and her teeth a little to nip here or there. She applied lips and tongue sparingly, unsure but eager. She found herself delighted by his noises. How close the sounds of pleasure are to those of pain.

  She crawled over him on her quest, not concerned about her weight, so slight compared to his.

  She adored that she could watch and see if what she did appealed. There was obvious evidence when she aroused him. He enjoyed the licks a great deal, her use of teeth slightly less so. Depending on how she moved, what he could see of her body also caused a reaction. She found herself playing him like an instrument, to see the way he jerked and moaned, the moisture beading at the tip of his cock.

  “Lass,” he said. “You’re killing me here.”

  “Now, now, I promise things would feel a great deal different if death were in play.” She was straddling him, faced towards his feet, exploring the length and texture of him with long, tight strokes.

  “Just a taste, please?”

  Again, she was amazed that he would want such a thing. But his eagerness was genuine, for when she backed up and over his face, he strained his neck up to taste her, using that wicked tongue exactly as he had previously to drive and torture her. She ground against him without thinking, chasing the tingling sensation, and he drove her towards it. He struggled against the ties as if he dearly wished to touch her, to hold her against his mouth. When the explosion came, it surprised her with its suddenness and intensity. She had been so delighted with her explorations, she had not realized how aroused she was.

  She moved off and turned, collapsing back against the pillows, feeling wet and replete.

  “You shaved. It’s nicer, less prickly.”

  He turned to look at her, eyes heavy-lidded. “My valet couldna countenance the request.”

  Oh, dear lord. “He knows!”

  “He’s no snitch, and he’s no notion which lass I might be entertaining.” He paused. “Or lad, I suppose it could be. He’s sour with ignorance.”

  Preshea let out a relieved sigh. “Oh, well, then, if you’d risk
a hanging offense simply to divert attention from me…”

  “Dinna think as I’d go that far, leannan sìth.”

  She was inspired to be devilish and twist his meaning. “You’re ashamed of me as a lover, keeping me secret from your valet?”

  “Daft lassie. You’ve a reputation to protect. One that doesna, so far as I’ve heard, include being one of those widows.”

  “No, I’m considered too dangerous for dalliance. Except by foolish Highland captains.”

  “Exactly so. Now, am I risking much if I ask to be untied?”

  She evaluated him. He was still fully aroused and no doubt eager to seek his own satisfaction.

  She was not averse. But she was not willing, just yet, to cede control either.

  “No, I like you captive.”

  He gave a plaintive wiggle. Which caused certain parts of him to flop about in a ridiculous and highly unthreatening manner.

  “I’ve plans, sir,” she instructed, tone severe.

  He brightened. “Aye? Weel, I’m at your mercy, then.”

  He was indeed. Preshea elected to take ruthless advantage of that fact.

  She rode him again, the ties allowing her to set the pace with little influence from him, although he was straining and growling near the end and the bed frame was creaking in a most alarming manner. It was wonderful, all that coiled muscle vibrating under her with nowhere to go, and no means of release except what she permitted.

  In the end, she dismounted and used her hands; far gone into lust though she might be, children, as she had said before, would be a liability. She found she enjoyed watching him spend himself to her will, at her dictate, under her touch.

  Afterwards, she untied him. Feeling warm with release and delight and flushed pride at her new skills. She was also disconcerted by her decision to return to his bed. She’d no excuse for loving him a second time. So, why did I?

  Preshea Villentia refused to lie to herself. To others, all the time. To herself, never.

  I wanted him. Simple as that. And he made it plain he was available to my desire. Already I want him again. And I will want him tomorrow. And the night after.