Sin and Sensibility

by Suzanne Enoch

  Warmth crept down her spine. “And feeling extremely vulnerable. Make it go away, Deverill.”

  With a sigh he lowered the shift and turned his attention to the larger pile of material. “Shoo,” he said experimentally, poking at her gown.

  A long dark form shot out from beneath the skirt and swarmed at him, growling. With a curse Valentine shifted backward, brandishing the stick like a sword. The weasel grabbed the end of the wood with its teeth and shook it. The marquis flung the weasel and the stick into the bushes, skidding to keep his footing on the damp ground. A rock went out from under his boot, and with a curse he fell into the water.

  He lurched to his feet, splashing water into the air and over Eleanor. He was soaked to the chest, water dripping from his fine coat tails and his sleeves. After a stunned moment Eleanor burst into laughter.

  “Well, thank you very much,” he muttered, turning around to glare at her.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped, trying to control her laughter. “The notorious Marquis of Deverill falling into a baptismal pool. It’s a wonder the waters don’t boil!”

  Deverill started to respond, but the weasel trotted back out of the shrubbery. It stopped a few feet from the shore, and marquis and weasel glared at each other. Then with a sniff, the animal headed back into the trees, low tail twitching.

  “I showed him,” Valentine stated, slapping at the pond with the flat surface of his hand.

  “You know, you might have told me you wanted to go swimming. I would have invited you.”

  “You sing prettily enough now, my bird, but I heard you squawking a moment ago.”

  Eleanor chortled. “There was a weasel under my skirt!”

  “Yes, and who can blame him?” Swinging around, the marquis shed his coat and flung it beside her shift.

  Abruptly she remembered that she was stark naked, only the dark and a few inches of water concealing her body from the world as she crouched in the shallows. “What are you doing?”

  He stopped, tilting his head as he looked at her. “Going swimming. You did say you would have asked me to join you.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “But I…I don’t have any clothes on.”

  Deverill pulled his shirt from his trousers and yanked it over his head, sending it over to join his coat. “I’m attempting to catch up.”

  She meant to reply that it wasn’t necessary for him to join her, but her gaze and her mind couldn’t seem to move beyond the sight of his bare, well-muscled chest and abdomen. Oh, my. “But I was…getting out,” she stammered, forcing her gaze up to his face again.

  “Then do so. Do you require assistance?”

  “Valentine, I—”

  He faced her. “Do you want me to leave?” he asked quietly.

  Her breath stilled. “No.”

  Deverill submerged completely in the water. A moment later a Hessian boot came soaring out of the pond and onto the shore. The second one followed it and Valentine surfaced, snorting. “Damnation. Wet boots. I nearly drowned.”

  “Then you should have gone back on shore to remove them,” she pointed out, surreptitiously backing into deeper water so she could straighten from her crouch. She was insane to allow this to continue—but at the same time the naughty voice in the back of her mind told her she’d be insane to let the moment pass.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” he replied, and the wad of his wet trousers slapped onto a rock beside his shirt, “but then I would have gotten my backside muddy.”

  With a breath he submerged again, only the kick of a bare foot giving a clue about the direction he might have gone. The abrupt chatter of crickets and the quiet slap of water against her skin seemed absurdly loud in his absence. Her breathing was fast and deep, her heart pounding. When he surfaced a few feet away, slinging water from his black hair, she spent a long moment studying his face, his easy, amused grin and his eyes that could speak so much more than he allowed himself to say.

  “Valentine?”

  “I think a turtle bit my toe,” he observed. “Yes, my dear?”

  “Will you kiss me again?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  “I warned you about a third kiss, about baiting me,” he returned softly.

  “I know that.”

  “I’ll consider it,” he said, and dove again.

  Eleanor felt poised on the edge of something, waiting, listening, wanting—and potentially furious if he meant only to tease. Tonight was hers, her one night. And she’d done it; she’d told him what she really wanted. Him.

  Warm lips touched her shoulder, and a hand brushed her wet hair forward across her breast. For goodness’ sake, she hadn’t even heard him rise. She stood frozen as his mouth moved up along the nape of her neck, warm breath caressing her cheek. “Valentine,” she breathed.

  “I considered it,” he murmured from behind her, sliding his hands slowly down the length of her arms to twine his fingers with hers. “But I’ll give you one more chance. Are you certain this is the adventure you want?”

  She didn’t have to think about her answer. “Yes, this is the adventure I want. For tonight only.” Deverill needed to understand; she had no intention of embarking on an affair with him. That would kill her brother, and ruin her future.

  And obviously she couldn’t tell him that her stipulation was more for her peace of mind than for his, that she’d said it so that when she saw him tomorrow in the company of some other woman, she could tell herself that it had been part of their agreement.

  “For tonight only,” he repeated, humor touching his voice. “That is actually something a gentleman longs to hear.”

  Hands still joined with hers, he tugged backward. Eleanor lost her balance, leaning back against his chest with her face upturned. Valentine leaned down, kissing her upside down. Oh, God, she’d dreamed of his mouth on hers, the tug, the heat, the insistent, knowing pressure. She moaned, freeing one hand to sweep up into his hair as she twisted to face him.

  “This is your night, Eleanor,” he murmured, lifting his mouth away from hers. “What do you want to do? What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t want there to be a plan,” she returned, twining her fingers into his dripping hair and pulling his face to hers again.

  Hands swept around her waist, lifting her half out of the water. The marquis bent his legs, lowering them both below the surface. The sensation was extraordinary; his hot mouth, hot skin, touching hers, and cool water everywhere else around her. She pressed her body along his, kneeling as he had. Their bodies interlocked, she could feel his hard staff pressing against her abdomen, aroused and ready—for her.

  Abruptly the air left her and she sputtered to the surface. He rose in front of her. “Christ, I didn’t mean to drown you.”

  “You weren’t. Deverill—Valentine—I…I want to see you.”

  “Ah. Lucky, then, that we have a blanket.”

  He didn’t seem surprised by the request, but then he’d probably done this before with some other female, probably in this same pond. Eleanor frowned, then gasped as he swept her up into his arms and captured her mouth with his once more. How could he be so jaded, so accustomed to bedding women, and still feel so…electric? So full of passion?

  “I hope the damned weasel’s gone,” he muttered, wading to shore. He freed one hand to grab the blanket off the rock where she’d flung it and dumped it onto the bare ground.

  Heavens. She’d forgotten all about the creature, though considering the havoc it had caused, she was beginning to feel somewhat more kindly toward it. “Perhaps we should stay in the water,” she suggested, casting a glance at the dark tangle of shrubbery around them.

  He chuckled, the sound resonating into her. “The problem with that, my dear,” he returned, laying her on the blanket and sinking down on one elbow next to her, “is that I want to see you, as well.”

  “But you’ve seen naked women before.” Her already warm cheeks heated. “You’ve seen me half naked before.”

  “Yes, I have. Every woman, howeve
r, is different. And though I suppose the gentlemanly thing to say would be that I didn’t look that night, I did. You’ve been occupying a fair share of my thoughts since then, Eleanor. And I will attempt to do your night justice.” Grinning, he ran the fingers of his free hand along her cheek, then leaned over to kiss her again. A moment later his fingers brushed across her breasts. Light and languid, the anticipation of each pass constricting her breath, they circled, breathlessly closer and closer, until fingertips rubbed across her nipples.

  She gasped, arching her back. Her nipples hardened at his light caress. As they did, his touch became more insistent, roving from one breast to the other, rolling her nipples between thumb and forefinger.

  “Valentine!” she rasped, her head falling back.

  He shifted over her with another plundering kiss, then sank slowly down, lips and tongue marking a heated, shivering trail down her throat, along her shoulders, and then, following the trail of his fingers, onto her breasts. Eleanor writhed beneath him, every new touch and new sensation sending her soaring.

  Her muscles turned to water. Logical thought was impossible; every bit of her brain became focused on memorizing sensation and scent. A white haze wrapped around her, but she fought against it. Tonight was hers, and nothing was allowed to pass without her taking note of it.

  “Wait,” she rasped, tangling fingers into his damp hair and pushing his face away from her.

  Half to her surprise, he straightened a little. “What?”

  “Will you bring the lantern closer?” she whispered.

  Closing his lips, he nodded. Something had changed, if Valentine Corbett couldn’t manage a quip. But he stood, making his way barefoot through the scattering of sticks and dirt to the rock where he’d set the lantern. Abruptly conscious of how she must look disheveled and breathless on the rumpled blanket, Eleanor sat up to watch him return.

  His damp skin glowed golden in the lantern light, his arousal large and impressive at the dark apex of his thighs. He wanted her. And the unabashed way he showed it as he put the lantern down and sank onto his knees beside her drew her toward him, tight and breathless. Her gaze lifting to his face, Eleanor reached out one hand to wrap her fingers around his cock.

  His eyes closed, his head lifting. He felt warm and hard, and tentatively she stroked the length of him. His eyes flew open. “Jesus. Are you certain you’ve never done this before?”

  “That feels good?”

  A slow smile curved his lips. Leaning over her, he trailed a hand down her belly. His own gaze lifting to hers, at the same moment he dipped a finger between her thighs. “Does that feel good?”

  Eleanor couldn’t even speak. Instead she gave a nodding gasp, releasing him to fall back onto the blanket while he parted her thighs further and his finger roved inside her. His mouth returned to her breasts, then slowly meandered down the length of her torso. He shifted to kneel between her thighs and leaned in, his mouth joining his fingers. She bucked as his tongue flicked inside her.

  “Valentine,” she rasped, fingers grasping at his shoulders while he continued his sweet torment. He didn’t relent at her plea; rather, his hands and his mouth continued downward, sliding along her legs, inside her thighs, and slowly back up along her abdomen again. He paused once more at her breasts, this time using his palms to knead and caress while he took her mouth again in a blistering, tongue-tangling kiss.

  She was going to die. No one could stand this heat, this focus of passion and attention, and not simply expire from it. But she couldn’t stop wanting it, wanting even more from him—and there was more. She knew it. The certain knowledge, the sharp arousal and desire, swirled around and around her in a confusing haze of heat and wonder and passion.

  Valentine stretched out along her body, resting his knees between her thighs and leaning down for another deep, soul-stealing kiss. Skin pressed against skin, damp and hot and heavy. Eleanor stopped breathing as he angled his hips forward.

  He pushed against her, slowly but steadily. She felt pressure, and then a slight, sharp pain, followed by an indescribable slide as he buried himself completely inside her.

  “I thought it would…hurt more,” she managed, overwhelmed by the sensation of him filling her.

  “So did I.” The sound reverberated through him and into her. His sensuous mouth quirked again. “You used to ride horses astride, you said once.”

  “Yes. But…You mean that makes a difference?”

  “Apparently, though I’d really prefer to discuss it later.” Valentine lowered his face to hers again, holding the rest of his body still while they kissed. “You amaze me,” he whispered, his gaze locking onto hers as he began pumping his hips slowly and then more strongly, moving with a tight, hot, slick slide inside her.

  Eleanor wound her hands around his shoulders and concentrated on breathing, but she couldn’t move her mind beyond the sensation of Valentine Corbett inside her. She’d wanted this for so long, before she’d even known precisely what it was. His attention, his passion, his body, for this moment they all belonged to her.

  He moaned, deepening his thrusts and pinning her to the blanket with his lean, hard weight. Eleanor panted, unable to help the mewling sound coming from her throat any more than she could fight the exquisite tension spreading through her. If this was dying, she could welcome it. Valentine shifted, increasing his pace and taking her ear gently between his teeth. It was too much. Eleanor lowered her hands to his pumping buttocks, digging in her fingers as she drew still tighter and then shattered.

  She cried out Valentine’s name, clinging hard to him as her mind shut down completely. All she could feel was him joined with her as they floated skyward. His thrusts quickened, and with a grunt he found his own release.

  He gently settled his weight onto her, lips caressing her neck. Pressed to each other, she could feel the hammering of his heart, beating as hard and swiftly as her own. Slowly the veil around her mind began to lift, the sounds of crickets and frogs and the rustling of leaves returning her to the world again.

  But the world was different now. She had held—still held—a man in her arms, inside her, and even if this one night was all they would have, it had changed everything. Every other man she met from this night on wouldn’t be Valentine, and yet they would have to live up to him. To the way he made her feel, inside and outside and everywhere in between. And he still held her, even after he’d given her pleasure and taken his own. That meant something, but she wasn’t about to ruin it by trying to explain it or even give it a name.

  Valentine lifted his head to kiss Eleanor again. Her lips felt warm and soft and swollen. It was a new sensation, even for him. He rarely kissed after he’d gotten what he wanted, or given what he needed to satisfy himself. Christ, tonight had been nothing like that. No games, no seductions, no promises. She’d wanted him, and he’d wanted her. The honesty, aside from being refreshing, had been startlingly arousing.

  He couldn’t count the number of women he’d been with, but he would remember this one. His skin against hers felt warm, but as the rest of him dried in the slight breeze, the chill of the evening became more difficult to ignore. Reluctantly he lifted his head again. “How is your adventure progressing?”

  She smiled, running a finger along the line of his jaw and somehow managing to make the gesture seem intimate and friendly rather than clinging. God, he hated clinging. “Quite well,” she returned. “Does once count as one time, or one night?”

  Valentine chuckled, using the gesture to cover his reluctance as he pulled away from her and sat up. “Considering the time of morning and the damage to my wardrobe, I—”

  “I know, I know. If I don’t return soon, half the staff will be awake to greet me at the front door.”

  “And we wouldn’t want that.” Of course not. That would mean he would be forced into a marriage with her—if Melbourne didn’t just shoot him in the head and dump him in the garden to fertilize the turnips.

  “I should say not.” She sat up beside him
, her gaze lowering to his now-diminished member. “No wonder you enjoy doing that so much, Valentine.”

  He found himself hoping that she wouldn’t ask for a ranking of tonight among all of the others in his life. Not because it wouldn’t hold up, but because it would. This made no damned sense at all. He’d been with women renowned for their sexual prowess, spent hours rutting in their heavily perfumed boudoirs, and in his earlier days he’d taken a virgin or two—though their tears and histrionics had caused him to swear off that particular breed. All of this, and yet with Eleanor Griffin he hadn’t been able to pass by a single opportunity to peel her out of her gown—even if she’d actually taken care of that part herself.

  She kept glancing at him as she pulled on her clothes, which at least were mostly dry. He’d be lucky if he didn’t come down with pneumonia. Say something, he ordered himself, seeking some suave and witty phrase to put her at ease and extricate himself without sounding like a moonstruck fool.

  “Marrying you to some drooling old halfwit would be a waste in every possible way I can imagine,” he drawled, handing her a shoe as he dug in a bush for his boot.

  “At least now I can say that I’ve done something I wanted to first,” she replied. “Thank you.”

  He scowled. “For God’s sake, don’t thank me, Eleanor. It was my pleasure. Believe me.”

  Eleanor cleared her throat. “But you…do that all the time.”

  With an irritated sigh Valentine stood, taking her shoulder to spin her around so she faced him. Moving in, he kissed her hard and deep, tilting her chin up and tasting her sweet mouth again. “I don’t do that all the time,” he muttered, releasing her to yank on his wet coat. “Now let’s get you home before you regret this.”

  “I won’t.” She smiled, an expression that made his mouth dry. “Don’t worry about that.”