Badly, and for a variety of reasons.
They stood sipping champagne in fluted crystal glasses, flirting under the guise of idle banter. It was making Phineas sweat. Still, he was a man who knew how to bide his time, and use every tool—especially idle banter—to seduce a woman. He was confident that he’d have what he wanted before the evening was over—both the charms of the luscious lady and her identity, should she prove worthy of future attentions.
“Look—Caesar is Sir John Unwin, don’t you agree?” he asked.
“Indeed, but the lady dancing with him is not his wife. I know Primrose Unwin quite well,” she replied tartly.
“So do I,” he drawled. She shot him a quick look, and blushed and lowered her eyes again when he grinned. So she wasn’t an experienced flirt. It made the situation all the more interesting. “I believe Unwin’s partner is Davina St. Claire, though she probably has no idea that her Caesar is Unwin,” he continued. He’d know the heart-shaped mole on Davina’s lush breast anywhere, and her low-cut costume did very little to hide her charms. Unwin was drooling on the mole.
The lady by his side regarded him with delight. “Why, my lord, I do believe you know more gossip than even the best informed tea party of society tabbies!”
“Perhaps, but in my defense I also know how to keep a secret, Lady…um, what should I call you, my dear?” he asked.
She tilted her head and considered, pursing her lips in a way that had him instantly aroused. “Yasmina will do, I think. It is in keeping with my disguise.” She drawled the exotic name, and regarded him with a playful little smirk that he read as a dare. “And what would you like to be called, my lord?”
Phineas grinned. “I can think of any number of things. But since my disguise is minimal, I suggest you call me by my name. I am—”
She put a finger to his lips before he could reveal himself. She had to step closer to do it. So close she almost leaned against him. He tensed. He could slip a hand around her waist, open the door and take them both inside Renshaw’s office in the guise of seduction. It was a ploy he’d often used before. But he could smell her perfume, light, sweet, and exotic. It shot a bolt of pure lust straight to his groin and drove every sensible thought from his brain.
“Not your real name, sir! It would spoil the illusion,” she admonished. Her finger was soft, cool against his mouth, and he caught her wrist to keep it there. He flicked his tongue over the tip of the delicate digit, a light, moist, sensual caress, while his eyes held hers. He watched her mouth go slack, saw how she caught her bottom lip between white teeth. Her eyes drifted shut for a moment, and he noted the way her breasts rose and fell in heated agitation.
If one small touch could do that, one little lick—he felt his body harden in anticipation, and he swallowed a groan. He turned her hand over and touched his tongue to the pulse point at her wrist, reveling in her sharp intake of breath.
“Call me whatever you wish, my lady—Lancelot, or Tristan, or Romeo. Anything will do.” His eyes burned into hers from behind his mask. “I am at your service, and I will be whatever and whomever you wish me to be tonight.”
Isobel stared at him, spellbound. The room wavered and spun, and all she could see was him, all she could feel was the heat from his eyes, his body. She was melting with desire. Surely she was dreaming. She would wake up in her widow’s weeds at Maitland House and realize she’d imagined the whole encounter.
She couldn’t bear to look away, afraid he’d dissolve into mist and leave her shivering in the cold disappointment of reality.
Someone jostled her as they passed and broke the spell. She lowered her gaze to their joined hands, and pulled away, clasping her tingling fingertips. She drew herself up and looked him straight in the chin.
“I know,” she said brightly, attempting to lighten the dangerous situation. “I shall call you Thomas. I once had a cat named Thomas. He would be quite companionable when prevailed upon, but diplomatically absented himself when he was not wanted.” It was certainly a description that fit Blackwood well.
He frowned. “You wish to name me for a cat? You should know that I dislike the beasts intensely, and my price is far higher than a tidbit of fish or fowl tossed from your plate, Lady Yasmina.”
Isobel picked up her champagne from the table and sipped it. Her hand shook, and the sparkling wine did little to soothe her nerves. Had she offended him? It didn’t matter. This was an anonymous flirtation. She could say anything behind her mask.
She teased him with a saucy stare. “And what would your price be, my lord?”
He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. “Your all, my lady, and nothing less.”
Her body throbbed. She was out of her depth. She forced a little laugh, and strove to return to lighter repartee, where she had some control. “If you ask me, most of the gentlemen of the ton live like tomcats. They sleep all day, prowl all night, and fight over mice and females. Their fine fur is of great importance to them, and they are indifferent fathers and inconsiderate lovers.”
He tipped his head to one side and grinned like a cat, wide and slow. She was his nervous prey, and that look offered her no quarter. “On the contrary, sweetheart. I am a very considerate lover,” he purred.
Heaven help her, she was lost. Perhaps it was the champagne. Perhaps it was the disguise. Perhaps it was his heart-stopping proximity, the heat that rose from him, or the faint scents of rich soap, fine wool, and male skin. Or maybe it was her desire to feel loved, if only for a moment. What if this was her only chance?
“Prove it,” she dared him.
The next moment his hand was under her elbow and he was leading her with desperate haste through the costumed throngs toward the open doors that led to the garden.
He didn’t say a word, and neither did she, though she knew where he was taking her and what he intended to do when they got there. She should protest, or pull away, no, run away before she did something regrettable, but she went with him, down the torch-lit pathways of Lady Evelyn’s elegant garden.
They reached a small Chinese pavilion by the fishpond. He let go of her only long enough to seize the nearest torches, pulling them out of the soft earth and casting them into the pond, where they expired with a hiss of protest, leaving the two of them in deep, velvety darkness.
He was beside her, unseen, his arms enfolding her, his mouth on hers, hungry and demanding. She met him kiss for kiss, sparring with his tongue as if she’d done this a thousand times, was an old hand at sexual adventures in dark gardens.
He lifted her off her feet, still kissing her, and carried her into the pavilion. It felt too good to stop, and she surrendered, pressing against the hard length of him, feeling his desire, letting it fuel her own.
A night bird gave a frightened cry as they entered, and flapped away into the night, and she gasped in surprise, sure she was caught, but he captured her indrawn breath in his mouth and laid her on the cushioned bench.
Heavens, she’d taken tea with Evelyn on this very bench only last week. Was it on Tuesday? She couldn’t remember. Didn’t care. He was working on the buttons of her caftan, exposing her flesh to the chill night air and the heavenly warmth of his hands on her bare skin.
He kissed her, devoured her, and her hands tangled in the fabric of his shirt, holding him to her, needing more. His mouth was so hot, so sweet, and she couldn’t imagine anything more delicious than his kiss. She could not have stopped kissing him if she wanted to. She was drugged, intoxicated and bewitched.
He trailed his mouth down her throat while he opened more of the pearl buttons ahead of his questing tongue and teeth. Isobel was hard-pressed to keep up, her own fingers inexpert and shaking as she fumbled with his cravat, trying to undress him as he undressed her.
She gave up with a sigh as he opened the caftan, pushed away the filmy silk undertunic and drew her nipple into his hungry mouth. The sensation drove the last clear thoughts from Isobel’s mind. She wanted him, all of him, all at once.
He might be
a notorious rake who’d done this a thousand times with a thousand women, but at this moment he was her rake. All hers. She felt her power surge, heightening her desire, and she writhed beneath him, moaning and murmuring wicked things.
She let her hands roam over his back until they found the place where his shirt met his breeches. She tugged, needing to feel his skin under her hands. She briefly wondered where his cloak and jacket had gone, but it didn’t matter. It must be magic. She had never felt like this before, never been so wanton, so desperate. She wanted pleasure now, and she meant to have it.
Her hands found flesh, and she explored the damp silk of his skin, the fascinating flex and play of his muscles. His body was marvelous, male perfection. The scent of his skin poured over her, intoxicating her far beyond anything the champagne had done.
She pressed her mouth to his chest, trying to taste him, hampered by his shirt. It was tangled in his breeches, and the sword belt still fastened around his hips. The fabric was caught on one of the ancient jewels in the hilt, resisting her. She muttered in dismay. She felt his heart pounding under her lips, felt the breath singing through his body as his muscles tensed in pleasure at what she was doing. She found his nipple and bit gently, then sucked the hard pebble through the fine linen of his shirt, hearing him gasp for breath.
Boldly, she reached beneath the waistband of his breeches and caressed the hard muscles of his buttocks. His hips strained against hers, his hardness pressing against her body. It felt delicious, even through layers of clothing. She was soft where he wasn’t, yielding where he advanced. She spread her thighs, cradling him between them, welcoming the pressure, the pulsations of pleasure. He fumbled with the sword, cursing it, trying to unbuckle it, failing. With a grunt he shoved it out of the way, still fastened to his hip. It banged against the bench, adding cadence to their rhythmic movements.
Isobel was wild with wanting.
She thrust her hand between their bodies, seeking the opening of his breeches, but the sword belt was once again in her way. Frustrated, she had no memory of how buttons or buckles worked, only knew that she needed to touch him, to feel him without the barrier of his clothing.
She tugged, and the buttons from his breeches clattered on the wooden floor of the pavilion.
She shoved the fabric open, past the damnable sword belt, now clasped around his naked hips, found his erection and took it in her hand, feeling the hard, hot velvet throb of him. He groaned and thrust against her palm, drawing breath through his teeth. He was suckling her breast, murmuring incoherently, his hand exploring the curves of her body, finding places she hadn’t even known existed before he touched them. She arched upward, reaching for the hard, hot shadow of him as he loomed above her.
“Inside,” she muttered. “Come inside me.”
He kissed her mouth, smiling against her lips, as breathless as she was.
“Not yet, sweetheart,” he said. He laughed softly when she whimpered and squirmed restlessly beneath him. She was on fire, desperate for release.
He returned to suckling her nipple in the most annoyingly leisurely fashion. When she moaned, wishing he’d do that forever, he switched to the other side. The night breeze cooled her heated skin, and she gasped when he took the sensitive flesh back into the heat of his incredible mouth again.
She dug her nails into his shoulders, trying to draw him to her, too far gone for words. His hand slid over her body, slipping past the ribbon ties of her loose trousers with expert ease. She writhed as his palm descended over her belly and hips with infuriating slowness to caress the curls between her thighs. Maddeningly, he paused above the place she needed him most, teasing and tormenting her. Helpless, she arched her hips and drew his mouth down to hers, biting and sucking at his tongue and lips, hearing his breath turn to grunts of suppressed desire.
Her hand found his erection again, and she explored a male body with complete abandon for the first time in her life. Slick moisture oozed from the tip, and she rolled her thumb over the head, making him pant. His fingers still hovered, merely tickling the delicate lips of her sex, caressing her with the lightest possible strokes when she needed pressure and friction.
Just as desire was becoming frustration, he touched her. His fingers found the spot where she wanted him most. She arched her back and cried out, but he was ready for that. He caught her moan in his mouth and continued to circle the wild, wet bud with his fingers, taking her beyond madness to a place of such absolute pleasure she thought she would die without it, or perhaps die of it. She had no idea, but she never wanted it to stop.
He plunged his fingers inside her, working her, pleasing her, until she could stand no more. She grasped the damp wrinkled linen of his shirt and sobbed for breath.
He positioned himself and drove into her as she climaxed once more, sending her soaring even higher in that instant. Her body rippled around his, drawing him in, enveloping him. She seemed to fly forever, the hard thrust of his body into hers driving her back to the heavens whenever she began to descend to the earth.
By the time he groaned and arched into her one last time, she was spent, exhausted and sated with pleasure.
Blackwood held her as they caught their breath, and caressed her gently, drawing his cloak over the disarray of their clothing, keeping the cool night air off her sweat-soaked skin. He cupped her chin and turned her head so he could kiss her gently, his movements slow and languid and delicious. She could smell her sex on his fingers, and under his expert tongue she felt desire rising again, against all odds, and she sighed and rolled her hips restlessly against his.
“I suggest we find somewhere more private for the rest of the night,” he murmured in her ear, nibbling on the lobe.
Sanity hit her like cold water.
She shoved him, and he rolled off the narrow bench and crashed to the floor with a grunt of surprise, tangled and tripped up by his sword. She fumbled for the ties of her clothing and searched the dark floor for her caftan and her slippers and her mask. She cast a horrified glance at the shadowy form of him, still sitting on the floor of the pavilion, unmoving. He was baffled, no doubt, but she had to leave. If she were caught—She squeezed her eyes shut.
“Perhaps it’s time we had our own unmasking,” he said from the floor. “I’m Phineas Archer.” She was too embarrassed, too busy fumbling with her clothes to reply. “Well? Don’t you think we should be properly introduced after what just happened?” he prompted.
“No!” she gasped. “Oh, good heavens! This should never have happened!” She could not find her other slipper in the dark, and the clatter of the sword warned her he was getting to his feet.
Startled, she took the single slipper she had and fled in her bare feet back up the stone path as if the devil himself was on her heels. He did not call her back. She slipped into the shadows as near to the house as she dared and straightened her costume with shaking hands, her body still tingling from his lovemaking. She hastily pulled her mask into place as she entered the ballroom, and beckoned a footman to summon her coach.
Phineas listened to the retreating sound of the bells on her costume as she fled. He fumbled for his clothes, tripping only once over the damnable sword. The erotic encounter had been over too soon, but it was still early, and he had time to go inside and find what he came for. She wouldn’t be guarding the door now.
He almost laughed out loud when he realized that the buttons from his breeches were gone and there was no way to close the front of his clothing. Whoever she was, she’d been one of the most passionate women he’d ever had. Unlike most of his lovers, she was ingenuous, eager to please and to be pleased. He would almost say she was a near innocent, though innocent ladies did not allow themselves to be seduced in dark gardens with two hundred people only steps away. Yet, despite the disguise, and the anonymity of the whole encounter, there was no artifice in the way she made love.
He grinned in the darkness. His mission was lost for tonight, and Lord Renshaw’s secrets would remain his own for now. He
wished she’d stayed a little longer. Just thinking about her had him hard again, his cock pushing hopefully through the ruined face of his breeches.
Yasmina. That’s all he had, a made-up name. He shook his head, still dumbfounded, and searched the dark pavilion for his coat and his cloak. He wasn’t usually so easily distracted when he had work to do, but she had been exceptionally diverting.
He found his garments easily, but the telltale buttons took a few minutes longer. A gardener or guest who found one button would hardly remark upon it. A scattering of six buttons in such a secluded spot screamed scandal. Phineas Archer was an expert at avoiding scandal.
Unless, of course, he wished to be caught.
He found the buttons and pushed them into his pocket. He pulled his cloak over his gaping breeches and turned to go, and almost tripped over something. It skittered away to hit the wall with a soft chime. He picked it up and carried it into the light. It was the lady’s shoe, delicate and encrusted with pearls and embroidery, with a curled-up toe that was hung with a little bell.
Phineas tucked the souvenir into his pocket and strolled casually toward the side gate like the seasoned rake he was supposed to be, and slipped out onto Brook Street to find his coach.
Chapter 3
Phineas opened one bleary eye the next morning at the soft rustle of his valet moving around his bedroom. Burridge was holding his ruined breeches in one hand and a handful of buttons in the other. The exotic little slipper lay on the desk.
“I don’t tell tales, Burridge, so don’t even ask,” Phineas said.
The valet grinned. “No, my lord, of course not, but I’d bet this tale would be interesting indeed.”
“Never mind. I’ve been waiting for you to put in an appearance this morning.”
The valet’s eyebrows shot up into his neatly combed hairline. “My apologies, my lord, I had no idea you wanted me. Of course, any time you do, you need only ring the bell,” Burridge said pointedly. He concentrated on deftly folding the ruined breeches, and Phineas knew he was hiding a smirk. Burridge probably thought he had been too drunk to even find the damned bell.
Secrets of a Proper Countess Page 2