She laughed at that. ‘Do you think that’s wise?’
Dorian grinned. It felt good to make her smile. ‘Maybe not wise, but it’s bound to be fun.’
Chapter Nine
‘We’re not going to the shipyards?’ Elise pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders and stared about the dark pier, a quiet reminder that she’d gone out into the night with a man she barely knew and with no idea of their destination.
‘I told you, no work.’ Dorian waved down a wherry man. ‘The Vauxhall Stairs,’ he called.
‘Vauxhall?’ Elise questioned, taking his hand and stepping aboard. ‘It’s March.’
‘So?’ Dorian grinned.
‘So? You do know Vauxhall is closed. It’s not open until June.’ She hated to ruin his plans, but he’d been gone—perhaps he’d forgotten.
‘I know.’ He gave her a lazy smile, his hand warm at her back as he guided her to the railing of the wherry for the short trip across the Thames. He leaned close, making her acutely aware of his proximity. ‘It makes it more fun. We shall have the place to ourselves and no one shall be the wiser.’
It took Elise a moment to digest his meaning. ‘We’re going to break into Vauxhall?’
The wherry bumped against the wharf, signalling their arrival. Dorian leapt on to the pier, slinging a haversack over his shoulder. ‘In answer to your question, simply yes.’
This would be the perfect time to turn back, her conscience prodded. Before it was too late. This was the height of insanity. He had her lying to her butler about her whereabouts and breaking into pleasure gardens.
‘Well? Are you coming, Elise?’ He turned towards her, hand outstretched, blue eyes dancing with mischief. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got cold feet now? If you’re worried about being seen, I’ve provided you with the perfect outing. No one will even know we’re here.’
‘This is outrageous!’ she scolded. He really meant to do it, really meant to break into the closed pleasure gardens.
‘Outrageous? Well, you should know. You’re the woman who is building a boat.’ Dorian laughed and she was helpless to resist. His enthusiasm was infectious. Her feet moved of their own accord, her hand slipping into his with astonishing ease, even knowing this was poorly done of her. He had taken advantage of her on more than one occasion. She should have dismissed him from the start. But he was still here, still tempting her towards yet another indiscretion, this one larger than the first.
Earlier, she could have taken comfort that she had no other choice. She couldn’t dismiss him. Who would finish her boat if not him? But that logic’s usefulness was long past now. Sneaking into Vauxhall had absolutely nothing to do with finishing her boat and she could take no refuge in the idea that she was forced to endure his company. Tonight she’d turned to him quite voluntarily for reasons she’d care not to explore too closely.
At the entrance, she knew a moment’s reprieve. The gates were locked against them, strong sturdy iron bars. Dorian’s lark would end here. But Dorian merely turned aside and followed the high hedgerow that hid the garden wall. ‘Ah, here it is.’ He stopped and parted the greenery, revealing a door in the wall. Dorian held up a slim tool from his pocket and waggled his eyebrows playfully before inserting it into the keyhole. ‘Watch this, my dear.’ Within moments he had the door open. He motioned her through with a gallant gesture. ‘After you, my lady.’
Dorian shut the door behind them and reached for a lantern to light. ‘This is technically a crime.’ Elise tried one last time for sense.
‘It’s only a crime if we get caught.’ Dorian struck a match and the lantern flared to life, casting its light on the deserted garden paths. She’d been here before with her parents on a few occasions. Then, the place had been thronged with people. Tonight, the gardens were less festive, but far more intimate without the noise of the crowds. Or it might be the company. Elise expected anywhere would be more intimate with Dorian. He could turn the most mundane of settings into something remarkable, as demonstrated by what had occurred in her offices on two occasions.
‘Shall we take in the sights?’ Dorian was all exaggerated gallantry, offering her his free arm, the other one burdened with his sack and the lantern. ‘May I draw your attention to the statue of Handel?’ He held the lantern high, illuminating the sculpture of Handel in his bathrobe and slippers. Elise laughed and let him talk while he guided her through the Grand South Walk. There were no other signs of life except for the squirrels in the bushes and she started to relax. Perhaps Dorian was right and scandal only became a crime if one was caught. This evening could be a moment out of time, something no one else ever had to know about.
‘I must apologise, we have no fireworks tonight or gaslight display.’ Dorian toured her past the rows of supper boxes to the open tables in front of the orchestra. ‘But perhaps I can interest you in a little picnic?’ He set down the sack and began unpacking.
‘This is what you were doing while I got my cloak?’ Elise watched in amazement as he produced a square of white linen and spread it on the table before settling the lantern in the centre.
‘There, we’ll have candlelight for ambience.’ He grinned impishly and continued pulling out items: a loaf of bread, a wheel of cheese, slices of ham. ‘Not nearly as thin as Vauxhall’s famed ham, but your Mary cuts it well.’ There were plates and glasses, knives and napkins and, miracle of miracles, a bottle of wine. The bag seemed seriously depleted once the feast was laid out.
‘This is incredible,’ Elise breathed, taking a seat. She couldn’t believe she was doing this; sitting down to a picnic in deserted Vauxhall with this rather extraordinary, if not eccentric, man. It begged the question. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Dorian pulled the cork from the bottle and poured her a glass. ‘Why not?’ He raised his own glass, blue eyes mesmerising. ‘You’re an intriguing woman, Elise Sutton, and I like intriguing things.’
‘Those are bold words.’ Never had a man spoken so frankly to her.
‘As bold as the woman herself,’ Dorian said in low tones. ‘To you, Elise, and your latest undertaking.’ He drank to her, the words sending a delightful shiver down her spine. He made her sound so sophisticated in her unconventionality. She’d not thought of herself that way.
Elise reached for a slice of bread and cheese. ‘I don’t see my yacht as an act of audacity. It is simply an extension of who I am. Boats are what I do. You make too much of it.’
‘Perhaps you make too little of it,’ Dorian replied. ‘It’s not every woman who knows as much about yachts as you do. May I ask what sparked your interest in the first place?’
Elise smiled. ‘I’ve been drawing designs forever.’ She’d meant to keep the answer concise, but Dorian nodded and cocked his head in interest, his eyes resting on her, intent in her story. Before she knew it, one story became two and soon she was telling him how she’d gone to work with her father when she was a little girl, how she’d sit at the drafting desk by the window and draw, how her father would put her on his shoulders and walk about the yard with her, telling her the names of all the parts of a ship. How, later, she’d begun keeping his books to free up more time for him to conduct business, how he’d started consulting her on the builds and then the drawings. She told him how her mother had scolded that this was no pastime for a young girl, but that hadn’t stopped her or her father. It had become the pattern of their days. Now he was gone and she knew nothing else.
‘Perhaps that’s why I’m so determined to see this ship finished. I don’t know what else I’d do. Even now, having been banned from the shipyard…’ she looked up and gave him a pointed stare ‘…I don’t know how to fill my days.’
‘Having you there is difficult. These are not your father’s men. Surely you understand this?’ Dorian answered. ‘But they were all I could find, given the circumstances.’
Elise nodded. She did understand, she just didn’t like it, especially now with the threat of an interloper stalking the shipyard. She wanted to be there.
Elise looked about the table. The wine was drunk, the food eaten. She’d talked far longer than she’d planned, exposed more of herself than she’d meant to. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to talk through the whole meal.’
‘I didn’t mind,’ Dorian drawled. ‘You’re interesting.’
Charles had said the same thing that afternoon. It was what gentlemen said to ladies, to be polite. But Dorian made it sound as if he meant it and the thought warmed her unexpectedly. She shouldn’t care what this rogue of a lord’s son thought of her or her family. His opinion carried no weight, he was a social outcast by his own admission. Yet, here at their purloined supper table, the words meant the world.
Dorian might have been right. He might be starting to grow on her after all, a thought that both thrilled and dismayed her. He was merely passing through her life. One day in the very near future, as soon as he had his money, he would move on, taking his smile and his seductive brand of flirtation with him. But for the present, it did make a girl think about the possibilities that existed until then.
Dorian gathered up their plates and glasses, stuffing them back into his sack. ‘Come walk with me, there are still some unexplored areas. We haven’t taken in the Rural Downs yet.’ He guided them towards a path that led away from the Grove. ‘We should see Milton’s statue at least before we go.’
‘What about you? How did you get interested in ships if your family was disposed towards horses?’ Elise asked, hoping he’d be more forthcoming than he had been.
‘As I told you, at first I just wanted to be different. I was looking for a way to spite my father and yachting seemed perfect. After a while, though, I was genuinely interested.’ He paused. ‘A boat is freedom. I could go anywhere and everywhere. I could see parts of the world others only dreamed of.’
‘And so you did. Is that why you went to the Mediterranean?’ The Mediterranean sounded positively exotic to her, so far away although she knew British interests extended far beyond the south of Europe.
She could feel his smile in the darkness. ‘Ah, Elise, the Mediterranean is a fascinating place with Europe on one side, Africa on the other and Istanbul somewhere in the middle, a gateway to the Far East and China and all that lies beyond. There are potentates and pirates, beaches and deserts and mysteries beyond imagining.’
She was in his thrall, hanging on each picture his words painted. ‘Tell me more. Tell me about the sea.’ They’d arrived at Milton’s statue, a lead rendition of the author, but she was far more interested in the man beside her.
‘It’s warm, Elise. A man can bathe in it off the coast of Spain. Can you imagine such a thing? Swimming naked in the ocean with dolphins for playmates?’ His eyes danced. He was deliberately being naughty. One did not talk of such things in polite company.
‘Have you really swum with dolphins?’ She suspected he was teasing her. She didn’t dare ask about the naked part. She was certain he had.
‘Yes, once in Gibraltar. I will never forget it. They’re friendly creatures.’
‘I envy you your adventures,’ Elise said softly. The intimacy of the evening and the sweet blur of the wine were starting to conspire. They’d been down this path before. If she was smart, she’d suggest they leave before any damage was done, damage she’d regret once the wine and loneliness wore off.
‘You could have adventures, too. You could feel the Mediterranean wash across your feet; you could bury your toes in the sand of its beaches.’ His voice caressed her as assuredly as the hand at her neck. ‘Do you ever think of it? Of sailing away in one of your creations?’
‘A fantasy only,’ Elise confessed. The practicalities eluded her. A woman alone was at risk even if she could sail a yacht on her own. But she could hardly think of that with Dorian so near, so charming, so seductive. She should not let him touch her. Any touch at all seemed to ignite her.
‘You need a partner,’ Dorian murmured, his mouth at her ear, his teeth nipping gently at her lobe.
A wicked thought came to her. She needed him, this pirate in gentleman’s clothing who talked of far-off places and laughed at propriety, who didn’t care a whit for any of the things that occupied the hours of Charles’s days, who could wield a knife and take on intruders. He would be the perfect partner. She would be safe with him.
That was definitely the moonlight and wine talking! Vauxhall’s vaunted reputation for indiscretions among its many arbours was not unearned. There was magic here aplenty if she was ready to cast aside the hard-learned lessons of her dalliance with Robert Graves and the vow she’d made to never need a man. However, she’d been clear with herself that needing was not the same as wanting. Wanting was voluntary, needing was a necessity. All right, just as long as she understood her own rules, she could want Dorian Rowland.
‘You smell like the lemons in the south of Italy,’ Dorian whispered between the kisses he placed along the column of her throat. She should stop him, but all she did instead was arch her neck, inviting his lips, his caresses. His hands cupped her face, his mouth taking hers in long drinking kisses that nearly made her weep. She was weeping—deep at her core she was hot and damp, desire gathering firm and insistent at the private juncture between her legs, demanding to be assuaged.
She knew precisely what she felt and she knew what she wanted—one night, just one night, out of time. Dorian would be the perfect lover. He wouldn’t raise her expectations with false promises to be dashed later because this time there would be none. This time there would be only pleasure. She was older, wiser, and this time when she played with desire she knew exactly what she was doing.
Dorian knew, too. His hands were at her skirts, drawing them up, finding the slit in her undergarments that gave him access to the weeping centre of her, the wet heat that would not be quenched. She gasped in desperate frustration, urging him to hurry. Dorian’s hand was on her even as his mouth claimed hers once more, his every touch riveting her body’s attention. His fingers searched unerringly, intimately, for the little nub hidden in her folds. He rubbed gently, tantalisingly, drawing his thumb across the tiny, sensitive surface again and again until she thought she’d scream from the delight of it. Very soon everything would be resolved, her body knew it as she arched against his hand, her cries a mingling of sobs.
‘Let go, Elise. Let go for me.’ Dorian’s voice was ragged at her ear, his own breathing coming in pants as he stroked her, his own body rigid against hers. It was all the coaxing she needed. Elise arched one last time and shattered, her world an expanding kaleidoscope of sensations, her body shaking, her knees quivering. She remained upright due only to the strength of Dorian’s arms and the old oak at her back. Dorian’s eyes glittered dark and dangerous in their desire, watching her explode.
‘I think there is no more beautiful sight than a woman achieving her pleasure.’ He leaned an arm against the oak, his hair falling in his face as he bracketed her with his body. He was hoarse, proof that the moment had not moved her alone.
‘And a man? He is beautiful in pleasure, too?’ It had not escaped her that he had yet to find his own release. His muscles were taut against the lines of his clothes, the tension of his own need obvious.
Dorian smiled wickedly, encouragingly. ‘You should judge for yourself. After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.’
The moonlight had made her reckless. She reached for him, cupping him between his legs as he had her. He was hard against her touch, so very long, so very rigid, a potent force beneath his trousers. ‘Or the hand, as the case may be.’
Chapter Ten
Dorian flicked open his trousers in a deft movement. ‘Then by all means, my lady.’ Her hand closed around him, firm and decisive, sliding to the root of him. Dorian sucked in his breath, letting her learn him. The firmness of her grasp was a sign of her confidence if not also her knowledge. There was wide-eyed appreciation in her gaze even as she recognised the power she held in those moments. She was newly come to such intimacies, but not without imagination.
She str
oked up, finding the wet, tender tip of him, a smile lighting her face at the discovery. She stroked downwards and then up again, establishing a rhythm that fired his blood. Her hand was cool and welcome on his heated flesh. He would not last long at this rate, nor did he want to. The promise of exquisite relief waited just beyond the moment. Dorian reached back and dug his hands into the bark of the tree, pumping hard into her hand, uttering a harsh groan as release took him.
Elise was exultant. ‘What are you smiling at?’ Dorian teased.
‘I’m smiling because I was right. A man is beautiful in his pleasure.’
‘I don’t think anyone has ever called me beautiful before,’ Dorian drawled with a nonchalance he didn’t feel. He kissed her then, drawing her close against him so she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see how the comment affected him. He felt the first stirrings of new arousal. There was more he’d like to do with her, this bold princess of his, but not tonight, although his body was willing.
He was no stranger to seduction. He’d seduced women before: married women, widowed women, flirtatious débutantes, the touched and the untouched. He had few boundaries when it came to sex. What boundaries he did have, Elise was provoking. His earlier thoughts about coveting and protecting were threatening to resurface at a most vulnerable time—right after intimacy when he was open to susceptibilities. ‘We need to get back,’ he murmured against her hair.
The walk to the hidden door was quiet, but not awkward. They’d strolled slowly, his arm about her waist, keeping her close. He had no doubt her mind was as full as his was at present. Their spontaneous outing had been illuminating, although probably for different reasons. Dorian found it was easier, less troublesome to his conscience, to think about her thoughts than his. He was not convinced this was her first encounter with raw passion—perhaps with the depth of pleasure the encounter had wrung from her, but not the nature of the encounter itself. Still, first encounter or not, he could guess what was racing through her mind: what had she done? Was there shock or shame over her own audacity? Was she pleased at the discovery of such pleasure? Emboldened by it even? Or did she think herself the wanton for having enjoyed it? And she had enjoyed it, Dorian knew she had. Most of all, she was likely wondering what it meant. Anything? Nothing? Everything?
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