The Rake’s Intimate Encounter

by Lethbridge, Ann

  Swallowing, Margaret tucked the silver key into her reticule before Darby reached her side.

  “Now,” he said with a smile sweet enough to make the older lady flutter her eyelashes. “Where is this conservatory?”

  Lady Falstow fanned her face as if suddenly hot, sapphires, diamonds and rubies winking and glittering. “At the back of the house. Run along. The food will follow in a moment or two.”

  They wandered in the direction indicated, and Darby opened an etched-glass panelled door.

  Margaret gasped. A glass cathedral met her gaze. The domed structure ran the length of the side of the house. Air, warm and moist and redolent with fragrance, filled her lungs. Orange trees, lemons and limes too, lined the walks among splashes of red, yellow and blue blossoms.

  “Look at this,” Darby said, indicating a long stem crowned with waxy petals of the palest cream and leopard-like spots. “An orchid. Did you ever see anything so delicate?”

  “Beautiful,” she whispered.

  “Like you,” he murmured.

  She glanced up to see hunger in his eyes, naked and raw. A surge of heat rushed up from her breasts to her face. Blushing like a schoolgirl, dash it. And the color no doubt clearly visible in the light of the torchères strategically placed along the walkway. “La, sir, a compliment indeed.”

  He tilted his head as if puzzled by her coquettish tone. Did he see through her defenses to the rapid beat of her heart? He smiled and waved his bottle. “Let us find somewhere to sit. We can open this and talk.”

  Further on, they did indeed find a loveseat fashioned from bamboo and wicker, and cushioned with chintz, and set in an arbor of vines.

  “How lovely,” she said.

  “A perfect setting,” he replied and led her to the seat. While she settled her skirts, he eased the cork free with a gentle pop. Vapor issued from the neck of the bottle. He filled the glasses, not spilling a drop.

  “You do that with great expertise,” she said.

  “Had lots of practice.” He glanced upwards. “I didn’t dare shoot the thing though that lot.” He grinned with nothing of the cynic about his mouth. Her heart tumbled slowly and pleasurably.

  She raised her gaze to the gleaming arch of glass. “Oh, gracious. No indeed.”

  Their voices mingled in laughter swiftly absorbed by the verdant greenery. A companionable sound. Her stomach clenched. A painful longing within the joy of discovery of a kindred spirit. What would it have been like to marry a man with the ability to laugh? She forced the thought aside. Regret had no place in this evening. Lady Falstow had advised her to live for the moment. After all, she’d paid her full dues as a dutiful wife.

  Darby handed her a glass of wine. Their fingers brushed. Little shimmers of something hot ran up her arm. A shiver of anticipation ran across her skin.

  The quick uplift of the corners of his lips said he, too, felt the spark. “To your beautiful eyes.”

  “To your lovely mouth,” she replied and drank deeply, the champagne cool and tart on her tongue, the bubbles misting her cheeks and the tip of her nose.

  “My lovely mouth?” He raised a brow and leaned back against the cushion, his eyelids lowering a fraction as if to hide the heat in his gaze. Not possible. She was veritably scorched.

  “I like the way it smiles.” Oh, lord, one mouthful of wine and she sounded foxed, when in reality it was he who made her feel giddy. Or perhaps it was the perfume of so many flowers? “You must think me a fool, Mr. Darby.”

  “Please, call me Tony. And no, I find you… delightful. Uniquely charming.”

  Her heart beat a little faster. Her skin tingled. This was how it began, the dance of intimacy. Words and looks and sighs. Only she wasn’t sure she remembered the steps. Still, she would not sit like the proverbial wallflower and let the music pass over her head.

  “Tony.” She shook her head. “I think I prefer Anthony. And I am Margaret.”

  He took her free hand in his large warm one. His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Margaret. It suits you.”

  “Plain and proper is what my father said.” She smiled, remembering her beloved father’s face.

  “I see nothing plain and proper about you, Margaret.” His gaze drifted lower, and once more, betraying heat rose up her neck and blazed in her cheeks. “You cast a hothouse of exotic flowers into the shade.” He leaned closer and breathed in slowly. “You smell wonderful.”

  Carried by his soft outward sigh, the words brushed her collarbone. Her heart picked up speed, a breath caught in her throat, her lips parted. Things were moving far too fast with this man. She knew nothing about him. Yes, she would indeed live for the moment, but only if the moment was right. She sipped at her champagne, using the glass as a shield. A poor one, to be sure, but a symbolic gesture any gentleman would recognize.

  He leaned back with a smile, his hand along the back of the sofa, a hairbreadth from her shoulder. “So, you are recently returned from Russia. How did you find it?”

  “Cold.” She laughed, because she really did not mean the weather. “My husband spent most of his time at courtbut in the summer we traveled to his estate. The country is vast and very different from here.”

  “In a good way, I presume?”

  How did one express five years of homesickness without whining? “I learned a great deal about the land and its people, but I am glad to return to England.”

  Another question lurked in his eyes. She could see him trying to decide whether he should ask it or not. She asked, “What do you want to know?”

  He smiled. “Am I really that obvious? I was wondering if you left ties back in Russia. If you will return there?”

  “A politic way of wondering if I have children, perhaps? And no. I have no ties and no intention of returning. My husband had more than one heir from a previous marriage. His position at court required a hostess. I learned Russian. I can organize a banquet for a thousand people or a tête à tête for two.” Why was she telling him all this? He would think she was looking for another wifely position, when nothing could be further from the truth. “My husband left me a comfortable independence, and I now seek my own amusement.”

  “Was it really that bad?” he murmured.

  The gentleness in his voice cut through her carefully constructed defenses, not something she wanted on a night such as this. “You mistake me. It was not bad at all. The Russian court glitters beyond anything imaginable. The czar is all powerful.”

  “And many of the people are serfs.” He pursed his lips. “I don’t see how it can last. Look at France.”

  The man was talking to her as if she had a brain. She shook her head. “You are right. I do not see it lasting either. And nor did my husband. He advised following England’s lead. Alas, I do not see anyone taking up his standard. Certainly not his heir.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “For your recent bereavement. It was tactless of me to remind you.”

  “Ah, once again you mistake the matter. Konrad died more than a year ago. I mourned his passing, but he was not a young man, he lived a full life, and I fulfilled my duty.”

  He withdrew his hand from the sofa’s back and for a moment she thought she might have given him a disgust of her callousness, but he lifted her hand from her lap. He gently turned it over and bared her wrist of glove with his forefinger, then leaned down to brush the pulse point with his lips. Tingles ran across her shoulders and lifted the hairs at the base of neck. “Now it is your turn for life,” he said softly.

  Footsteps rang on the flagstones. She snatched her hand back. They jumped apart like guilty children. She laughed.

  He grinned ruefully. “Dash it. The food.”

  She arched a brow. “You said you were hungry, Anthony.”

  “I’m starving,” he said. The low growl in his voice did not speak of bread and meat. Her inner muscles tightened pleasurably. She shivered.

  The footman coughed loudly, then appeared round the corner ca
rrying on high a silver tray loaded with several small plates. He dragged a small table from concealment behind the trellis and set the tray in front of them. He unfolded the napkins, placed one on each of their laps. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  Anthony eyed the tray. “Thank you, no.” The footman withdrew.

  He had selected nothing but the best. Oysters nestled in ice, caviar in a silver bowl, mouthwatering frosted grapes, light temptations designed to sharpen the senses. A hedonistic feast.

  Anthony picked up an oyster and held it to Margaret’s lips. Tipping her head back, she swallowed the delicate flesh, salty and sweet and tangy with lemon. She licked her lips.

  He leant forward and tasted the corner of her mouth with a delicate lap of his tongue. “Delicious.”

  A flutter pulsed between her thighs. Wicked man. “Me or the fish?”

  “Both, of course.”

  She smiled and heaped a tiny water biscuit with a mound of blue-black beads. The finest caviar, all the way from the Black Sea. She knew, because she had ordered it, sent packed in ice. When she raised her gaze from her hands, she found his gaze fixed on her face, intent, hungry and hot.

  “Open,” she murmured, the thrumming in her veins growing stronger, more demanding.

  He did, and his grin was that of a wolf about to be fed a small tender morsel. She popped the tiny cracker in his mouth and watched him chew, experiencing the delightful burst of salty flavor in her mind as his eyes closed in pleasure.

  He picked up his wine glass and held it to her lips, watching as she sipped and swallowed, his chest rising and falling with each deep breath.

  How did he breathe so evenly, the wretch, when her heart raced out of control? She reached for her glass, determined not to be beaten. The glass shook only a little as she brought it to his mouth. His eyelashes flicked up as the rim touched his bottom lip, his gray eyes, glinting with more than laughter, met her gaze. Her hand trembled. He grasped her wrist, held her hand steady and drank deep. She felt so weak, he might have been draining her blood.

  He took the glass from her slackened grip and placed it on the table. Fine trembles ran through her body, running deep beneath the surface, an ache in her center, a yearning in her heart. The heart she could do nothing about. The rest? Well, time would tell. She managed a smile.

  He returned his attention to the platters, his hand hovering above the dainty offerings, looking for the choicest piece. For her. She felt like some medieval lady, with her knight searching his trencher for the most tender cut of meat. He settled on a crescent of pastry. It hovered at her lips, and unable resist the gentle urging in his expression, she opened her mouth.

  Dear God. It tasted wonderful. What was in it, she could not tell. Something savory rather than sweet: spiced meat perhaps. The pleasure was all about him, his look of satisfaction, the slight curl to his lips, the scorch of his eyes. He selected again and again, little bursts of heaven filling her mouth, until she put up a hand in defeat.

  He dabbed at her mouth with his napkin. “Crumbs,” he said. He refilled their glasses. They chinked them together and drank an unspoken toast that was all about what would happen next. Her pulse beat faster.

  “Eat something,” she said, her voice husky.

  He leaned forward, tilted her chin with the tip of his finger, and pressed his lips to hers, a gentle brush, a butterfly wing of a kiss, a sweet touch of his tongue. Sweet sensations tingled in her breasts, tightened her stomach.

  She put a hand on his collar for support and deepened the kiss, swept his champagne-flavored mouth with her tongue. Delicious.

  His hand, warm, steadying, strong, came up to her ribs. His thumb brushed the underside of her breast, a tantalizing touch, a sensual promise. A cry of surrender lodged in her throat.

  Too fast. Too soon. She felt thrilled, and wicked and completely out of her depth. Today had simply been a testing of the waters. To meet a man she liked so quickly seemed beyond the realm of possibility. Dare she trust the desires of her body, when it knew so little?

  He must have felt her slight resistance, for he pulled slowly away, his lids at half-mast, his breathing faster than before, she noticed with a surge of heat.

  “There are chambers upstairs where we could ensure our privacy,” he murmured. “Should you wish?”

  He stood and brought her to her feet.

  Chapter Two

  Her gaze searched his face, looking for something. Tony experienced the most anxiety he’d known in his life. The urge to sweep her up in his arms, to kiss her senseless, to drive out all resistance, pounded in his blood like hammer blows. If she turned him down now, he might well end up weeping at her feet like young Radcliffe. Or putting her over his shoulder and carrying her upstairs.

  His groin pulsed approval at the latter vision.

  The deuce he would. An English gentleman accepted a no at face value. While it might not suit his baser nature, he wasn’t about to force the issue. He’d have to find another way to seduce her into his bed. Or perhaps she was one of those women who preferred teasing over a relationship. Or she wanted a carte blanche. He drew back, tensing, as if he sensed the headman’s axe about to fall.

  “Anthony,” she said, her voice hesitant.

  He straightened his shoulders, smiled.

  “Are you married?” she asked softly.

  An unexpected question. He raised a brow. “No.”

  “Betrothed, perhaps?”

  “Not as yet.”

  “The prospect of a betrothal soon, though,” she said nodding.

  “Why don’t you come out and say what is on your mind?” The growl was back. Damn, but he felt as if he’d fallen afoul of the inquisition.

  She waved a hand, her cheeks flushing a shade of pale rose. “I have no wish to engage in anything harmful to another woman. If you have prospects, I prefer to acknowledge our very pleasant conversation and leave it there.” The words seemed to come out of her mouth in a rush, the pink on her high cheekbones turned a deeper red.

  He ached for her obvious embarrassment and adored her principles. He took the fluttering hand in his. “I have no obligations, I swear it.”

  She gazed into his eyes for a very long moment. She nodded, as if coming to a decision. “I accept your word.” She smiled then, openly. “I apologize. I will not blame you if you have changed your mind.” Her gaze lowered to their clasped hands.

  “Badly burned, were you?”

  She shook her head. “It is over and done, not worth repeating.”

  “I suppose, since we are laying our cards on the table I should ask about your expectations, from this evening.”

  “None at all.”

  He experienced a sensation of dismay, followed by shock. He forced a smile. “Nor hopes for the future?”

  “Most definitely not.”

  She was either a very good liar, or he hadn’t made much of an impression. Or was it something else? Why be disappointed when her answers were exactly what he’d hoped? Good grief, an hour ago, he’d wanted to leave.

  Now, he wanted to dive into the warmth of her brown eyes, to kiss her eyelids, feel their lashes against his cheek. He couldn’t resist. He pulled her close, dipped his head and claimed her lovely full mouth. She melted against him, warm and willing and curvaceous and soft. Pliant. Deceivingly yielding for a woman with a backbone of iron. He tasted her mouth, while his hands explored the sloping shoulders, the wonderfully straight back and the swell of her hips. She arched against his erection and he stifled a groan of pleasure.

  Lifting his head, he gazed into her face. “Will you come upstairs with me?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I would like that very much. There are stairs just beyond the door where we entered.”

  Ah yes. An organizoman. She’d forewarned him. “Perfect. Then let us go.” He held out his arm.

  They strolled along the walkway amid the leafy plants. He matched his pace to hers, needing very little adjustment, he noted with satisfaction. A branch droope
d over the walkway, covered in red blossom, an hibiscus. She paused to inhale its fragrance.

  “Very little perfume,” she said, with a disappointed little grimace, her nose and cheek generously dusted with yellow.

  “But lots of pollen.” He took his handkerchief from his pocket. “I know you gave yours to that young puppy, so please allow me.” Grasping her jaw, he flicked the yellow grains away. She wrinkled her nose, and he leaned forward and kissed the delectable tip. His body quickened. A mad vision leapt into his mind of her naked flesh covered from head to heel in pollen and him, feather in hand, dusting her off. It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest it. God save him. He hadn’t had those kinds of visions since his green youth. Nor had his body roused so hard and so fast.

  “This way,” he said, making a break for the door before his imagination took him beyond the point of no return.

  Nearby, a narrow set of stairs did indeed wind its way up. A servants’ staircase, he guessed.

  “One floor up,” she said, her voice husky. She rummaged in her reticule. “I have the key.” She pressed the cool shiny metal against his palm.

  How many other men had she led up these stairs, panting those little breaths, her bosom rising and falling in a tantalizing rhythm of feminine music? He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want to think about it. He’d never cared before, so why this sudden feeling of possession?

  He put his arm around her waist, nuzzled her neck below her ear, gorged on the scent of lavender and needy woman. “Lead the way, Countess.”

  They climbed the stairs like sweethearts, her head against his shoulder, his arm about her waist pulling her tight against his side. Each time she stepped up, she afforded him a glimpse of a well-turned ankle and curve of calf. Slender and shapely. What more could a man ask? Passion? She had that too. The heat of her body burned though his clothes at hip and thigh and forearm. He fought to control his breathing as his blood grew heavy and thick.