A Lady of Distinction would definitely not approve of this nightgown. It was so flimsy and immodest, she felt his mouth on her almost as though the garment wasn't there. But it was there, and she wanted it gone. She wanted his mouth on her skin. This was torture. Pure torture. Her fingers dug into his shoulders, but he just switched to the other breast, lavishing it with similar torturous attention.
She really couldn't take it.
She tunneled her fingers into his hair and lifted his head, noting his look of stark surprise. "Here," she whispered, pulling one end of the black satin bow that secured the nightgown's tiny bodice. It fell open, baring her to him, and she held her breath.
After a moment, she raised her chest, offering her breasts to him like they were some irresistible sweet.
Not, however, a sweet there was a recipe for in her family's cookbook.
His lips quirked in a half smile, and he moved down, skimming his mouth across her nightgown-clad stomach instead.
More torture. He kissed across her waist and down her belly, tender kisses she could feel, but not the way she wanted. He kissed his way down one of her legs, slowly and sensually, and even more slowly and sensually up the other.
She was melting. She was dying, and she was melting. She was melting into the bed, and if he didn't touch her skin—bare skin—she'd dissolve into a puddle of need.
"Tris," she whispered.
"Hmm?" He spread her legs, pushing the nightgown down between them to kiss the insides of her thighs. Each kiss sparked a thrilling spurt of pleasure, not only where he was kissing, but also higher. Where a hot ache was building to unbearable proportions.
"I want this nightgown off," she told him. "I cannot stand this."
He raised his head for a moment, his smile one of masculine pride. "Ah, then I'm doing my job," he said. And he returned to it, spreading her legs even wider to place a kiss in the most intimate place imaginable.
She shuddered and gasped, and he kissed her there again. This was wicked. It was more wicked than the nightgown. It was more wicked than the most wicked thing A Lady of Distinction mentioned in her entire, pedantic book.
And it was making that hot ache escalate to something all but unendurable.
Then he inched the nightgown up to her waist and kissed her in the same place without it between them.
And that was more wicked than anything she'd ever imagined.
"Oh!" she breathed as she felt his mouth caress her, wet and hot, his tongue soft and slippery sweet. She wanted to say more—her mind shouted You cannot! and You shouldn't!—but all she could seem to manage was that little mewling oh!
He widened her legs with his hands, releasing a hum of pure enjoyment that vibrated all the way to her core as his tongue found the secret place her fierce ache was centered.
And then she quite simply couldn't say anything, couldn't form anything more than incoherent little moans. But that oh! must have made an impression, because he flicked that place again and again until she sobbed with pleasure, arching against his mouth as waves of exquisite passion rippled through her.
Only when the last tendrils of sensation had faded did he finally lift his head and draw the nightgown farther up and off.
Still trembling with the aftermath of his loving, she thought she might expire from utter bliss when his warm weight came over her, when he slipped inside her to join his body with hers. She wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tight, wanting more than anything for him to find the same pleasure he'd given her.
And she was shocked to find the feelings building in her once again.
He moved slowly, reverently. "Look at me," he whispered, and she raised her languid lids to see him gazing into her eyes, the familiar silver darkened with desire. He bent his head to take her mouth, and she tasted herself on his lips. The blood rushed faster through her veins.
Tristan took his time, deriving joy from her reawakening, the warm slide of her skin against his, the sweet shudders as his tongue swept her mouth. He could feel warmth turn to heat, feel her wrap herself around him, feel her quiver as the passion spread through her supple body. And when they were both ready, her beautiful low moan sent him hurtling over the edge.
It was, without a doubt, the most gorgeous span of time he'd spent with any woman, ever.
And now he had to end it.
Their bodies still joined and clinging, he kissed her forehead, both cheeks, her nose. "I need to leave you now," he whispered before settling full on her mouth.
"Hmm?" she murmured when he finally allowed them both to draw breath.
He hated this. But he had no choice.
"I'm going to sleep in the Queen's Bedchamber. Vincent will lock me in."
She blinked hard, and her soft mouth dropped open. "You're going to leave me?"
He eased out of her, wincing at her little sound of loss. "Just until morning," he promised as he levered himself to her side. "For your own protection. If I sleepwalk again, I don't want to be able to leave the room. I don't want to be able to get to you or to anything that might harm you."
"I don't want your protection, Tris." He'd never heard such hurt in her voice. And disbelief. "I want you here with me. How can you make love to me and then just…leave?"
"How can I not? How can I keep endangering you night after night? What kind of man would that make me?"
She offered no answer, but her eyes were pleading. They were going to destroy him, those eyes. Destroy his resolve, and destroy everything he was trying to be.
Before that could happen, he climbed from the bed and went to fetch his dressing gown.
FORTY-FOUR
ALEXANDRA LAY in her marriage bed, stunned.
And alone.
She could scarcely believe Tris had left her. Not after the evening they'd just spent. Her gaze went to the filmy lavender nightgown pooled on the floor, to the silver basket and the beautiful book beside it. Gifts, she knew, from his heart.
Perhaps he couldn't bring himself to say he loved her, but men—especially enterprising men like Tris—didn't care to visit shops. Only love could drive him to spend his day choosing such perfect presents for her. Presents that demonstrated thought. Presents that showed he understood her. Presents that fit her, specifically, not any other woman.
Well, with the possible exception of the wicked underthings. But she didn't want to think about other women those might fit.
Of course, he'd left for Windsor before learning she'd gone off to interview three former servants. Perhaps he wouldn't have bought her beautiful things if he'd known that. Had he really left her alone in bed as a precaution to protect her? Or was he drawing away because he was angry she wouldn't call off her investigation?
She didn't really believe it was the latter, especially considering the way he'd made love to her. She blushed just thinking about that. Those hardly seemed like the actions of an angry man. But she wasn't sure…because perhaps he'd been angry but then found himself lost in temptation when he saw her in that wicked nightgown.
She just wasn't sure. And she wanted answers. And she wasn't the type of person to sit and wait for answers to come to her. Or lie in bed and wait for answers to come to her, either. She was the type of person who went out and found answers for herself.
One would think Tris would have figured that out by now.
If he thought she'd just meekly go to sleep while he locked himself in another room, he'd best think again.
She rose and washed up, then retrieved the lavender nightgown, hoping he'd still find it tempting enough to entice him to talk. A few more kisses wouldn't be unwelcome, either, she decided as she wiggled back into it. Her pulse quickened at the thought.
After covering the nightgown with a very modest wrapper, she took time to brush her tangled hair and pin the front off her face. Feeling she looked as well as she could for a woman so recently ravished, she made her way from the room.
No sooner had she opened the door than Rex came trotting up and followed her down the
corridor to the Queen's Bedchamber.
She knocked briskly on the queen's fancy gilded door. "Tris?"
Rex barked.
"I'm sleeping," Tris lied.
She knew he was lying—because if he were sleeping, he wouldn't have answered her, would he? Besides, he quite obviously wasn't in bed. She could hear him on the other side of the door almost as clearly as if it wasn't between them.
"I want to talk to you," she said.
"We'll talk in the morning."
She wondered whether he was sitting or standing. Whether he was upright or leaning against the door. Was he wearing his dressing gown still, or was he stark-naked?
That image made her heart skip a beat. "I want to talk now."
Rex barked again, adding his own demand.
But Tris was having none of it. His heavy sigh emanated from the room. "The door is locked, and only Vincent has the key."
"I'll get it from him, then. I want to talk. And I want you to come back to bed." She pictured him lying beneath the turquoise and gold canopy with the absurd ostrich-feather poufs at its four corners. "You hate this room."
"I'd hate hurting you even more. Vincent has gone to sleep—you're not to bother him. Go to bed, Alexandra."
"No," she said. She needed the door opened in order to tempt him again with the wicked nightgown. But she wouldn't bother Vincent. For one thing, she hadn't the slightest idea where the man slept. She needed to schedule another appointment with Mrs. Oliver to learn where everyone was lodged.
In the meantime, she pulled a pin from her hair and stuck it into the lock, poking it around.
"What are you doing?" Tris asked after a moment.
"Picking the lock." She'd seen Griffin do this more than once, and she'd read of many a protagonist doing it in books. Surely it couldn't be that difficult. But despite the fact that she heard many clicks, nothing seemed to actually move.
Rex barked his encouragement, slapping the wall with his tail for good measure.
"Are you giving up yet?" Tris asked, sounding amused.
"No." She dropped to her knees in order to get a better angle.
"Now?"
"No." Clenching her teeth, she rooted around harder.
"Now?"
"Drat," she gritted out. This wasn't going to work. She plopped to sit on the floor and leaned sideways against the door. "This is ridiculous, Tris. You belong in our bed."
"It's only one night. A few hours. I'll see you in the morning. Good night, Alexandra."
"Good night," she returned, but she didn't move.
Rex gave her a disgusted look and padded away, his huge paws thudding on the wood floor.
"The dog gave up," Tris pointed out. "It's time you did, too."
She never gave up. Perhaps that was a character flaw rather than a trait to be admired, but regardless, there it was. She didn't go back to bed. If she couldn't tempt him into more kisses, perhaps she could at least get some answers.
"Are you doing this because you're angry with me?" she asked.
"I'm doing it to protect you."
"Are you certain? Because I know you're unhappy that I won't give up the investigation."
"That has nothing to do with this," he insisted—rather patiently, she had to admit. "Except in a peripheral way. If you'd stop your investigation, perhaps I'd stop sleepwalking, in which case I might not fear doing you harm in the night. But it isn't anger driving me to do this. It's concern and sheer fright. Can't you understand that?"
She could, damn him.
If she hadn't been blinded by hurt, she'd never have thought any different. He'd convinced himself he was a danger to her, and unless she proved otherwise, he would stay convinced. But he didn't want her to prove otherwise.
What an impossible mess she found herself in.
But she did understand. And she also understood that, in his own, twisted way, he was doing this because he was honorable.
Damn him.
"I love you," she said.
He didn't answer that. Not that she found that surprising.
She shifted to sit with her back against the door, her knees drawn up toward her chest. She wrapped her arms around them. Just because she understood didn't mean she didn't find his attitude exasperating. "You're acting like your father," she said.
That elicited a response. "What the devil do you mean by that?" A rather hostile response. "A single glass of port hardly makes me a drunk, and I rarely gamble."
"You said he was so convinced love would never happen for him again that he never bothered trying to find it."
"I also said I don't believe each one of us has a perfect person."
"You didn't mean that."
"The hell I didn't. We're not all of us destined for bliss, Alexandra. The sooner you accept that, the happier you'll be."
"Like you're happy?" she countered softly.
He was silent so long, she wondered if he'd fallen asleep. But then he shifted against the door, and she knew he hadn't.
She'd have to give him more time. Three women he'd loved had left him. No, make that five—his mother and his sister had left him, too.
The women he'd loved had been leaving him since he was seven years old.
She laid her head on her bent knees, hugging herself. "I'm not going leave you, Tris. No matter what I do or don't learn tomorrow, I'm not going to leave you. Ever. Not next week or next month or next year. You married me, and you're stuck with me. If you open the door, I'll be right here. Always."
As it turned out, she was right there for only part of the night. As the tall-case clock in the round gallery struck four in the morning, she woke, stiff and sore, and took herself back to bed.
FORTY-FIVE
"GOOD MORNING, my lady." Peggy bustled into the bedroom and threw open the drapes. "It's nine o'clock, and I brought your breakfast." She placed a tray on the bed. "Shall I have the carriage brought round for your visit today?"
Nine o'clock? Alexandra blinked in the harsh light, wondering where the night had gone while at the same time happy those long, uncomfortable, restless hours were over. She struggled to sit up against the pillows and took a slow, bracing sip of hot tea. "I wish to ride again today. The sooner I complete this final interview, the happier my husband will be."
"I've been thinking, my lady. Perhaps, since you enjoy riding, it may be time for me to learn."
"That's a fine idea." Alexandra spread jam on her toast, checking first to make certain it was cherry. "We shall arrange for a groom to give you lessons."
"I meant today. I believe I should start riding with you today."
"Oh, I don't think so." Picturing middle-aged Peggy mounting a horse for the first time, Alexandra hid a smile behind her teacup. "I shall be in quite a hurry today, and you'll need a few lessons before you go galloping off. I believe I shall just take Ernest with me and get this done."
She'd quite enjoyed riding with Ernest yesterday. Unlike Peggy, who talked her ear off, Ernest was quiet and deferent. He never asked to come in during her interviews, nor did he ask what happened afterward. He allowed her time to think.
Peggy scowled, clearly unhappy that Alexandra was going off without her again. As the maid helped her into a riding habit, Alexandra did her best to ignore the woman's bad mood. Peggy had seemed so pleasant and accommodating the first few days—even going to the trouble to make the list—and it was good of her to want to learn to ride.
When Alexandra was dressed and coiffed, she handed Peggy her gorgeous new silver basket, waiting for a reaction.
There was none. "Yes, my lady?"
"Please ask Mrs. Pawley to fill this with the rest of my sugar cakes. I shall meet you in the main parlor."
"As you wish," Peggy said coldly and took herself off.
Alexandra heaved a sigh as she started downstairs. If the woman was going to sulk whenever things failed to go the way she wanted, perhaps she'd be happier with a different lady's maid, after all.
When she entered the main parlor�
�or rather, tried to—her mouth dropped open. "What's this?"
Two muscular strangers were blocking the door as they maneuvered a large object through it.
An excessively large object.
"A pianoforte," one of them said in answer to her question.
"I can see that." She hurried around to the front and read the name above the keyboard. "Erard," she breathed in wonder, running her hand over the shining, dark mahogany. Sebastien Erard was known to build the very best pianofortes—why, it was said that Beethoven himself owned one. "And it's six octaves."
"Begging your pardon, ma'am, but we need you to move."
"Right. Of course." She looked toward three footmen who were inside the room rearranging the furniture. "Might any of you know where Lord Hawkridge is at the moment?"
"The vineyard, I believe." One of the Johns hefted a small table onto his shoulder. "Or so I heard him tell his valet before he left this morning."
"Thank you," she said and turned away—then turned back. "Um…where is the vineyard?" Hopefully it wasn't as far from the house as Griffin's. "Will I need a horse?"
"Not at all." The man set down the table. "Just walk across the west courtyard, past the icehouse and through the hornbeam arch. You cannot miss it."
It was a pleasant walk. The icehouse was brick with a domed roof, and she found the long hornbeam arch to be delightfully shady. At the far end of the leafy tunnel, she exited to find sloping land covered with rows and rows of staked vines, the spaces between them only wide enough to walk single file. Spotting Tris in the middle, speaking with another man, she hurried toward him, her skirts brushing the vines on either side.
"Excuse me," she heard him say as she came up. "I'd appreciate privacy for a moment." The man tipped his cap and walked a decent distance away, bending to tend a vine.
"A pianoforte?" Alexandra said the moment he was out of earshot. "An Erard pianoforte?"
Tris's eyes looked silver in the sunshine. She thought perhaps she saw an apology in them, mixed with excitement at surprising her. "I did say another parcel would arrive today."
Lost in Temptation (Regency Chase Family Series, Book 1) Page 28