There was a moment of silence as Justin weighed her argument. “Very well. Show me.”
“What?” Her voice sounded unnaturally high, and she eyed him in alarm.
“You have offered a reasonable argument to support your view,” he said. “You will show me just how you would carry off this particular scene in a believable fashion.”
Her eyes widened. She did not move.
It did not surprise Justin that after all her criticism, she lacked the gumption to put words into action. Regardless, he would brook no armchair critic. “Well?” he demanded.
She did not reply.
Oh, well. Justin suppressed a yawn. It had been a diverting conversation, but now it was time to get back to work. He reached for the pages of the script, then became aware, out of the corner of his vision, that she had risen.
Justin watched as her gaze roved over the room, then settled on the statuette of a falcon that stood on a bookshelf. Her face was a picture of concentration as she moved toward it.
“We will pretend that this is the other woman,” she said, with her hand on the bird. “The one you have unwisely chosen to flirt with.”
Justin arched a brow. “A bit avian for my taste.”
She ignored him. “I, your mistress, see this woman as a threat. I do not want to lose your affections — your protection, I should say,” she quickly corrected, “so I will try to make myself as amiable as possible.”
“That will not work,” he said. “I do not like amiable women.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “You are trying to make this difficult for me, are you not, Lord Linton?”
“Not at all.”
“As your mistress,” she said, her tone brisk, “I wish to engage your attention, so that you will remember the, er, delights we have shared and forget about the other woman.”
“You will have to get closer than that, Miss Armistead. I have difficulty remembering delight from halfway across the room.”
“Of course.” She moved toward him, setting the falcon down on the chair next to his. She stepped back and stood a foot or so away, a picture of concentration. “Is this better?”
“Much.” Justin discovered that he was vastly enjoying this little scene. He remained seated, waiting to see what she would do next, and not at all inclined to make things easy for her.
“She will be sitting here,” she said, pushing the falcon’s chair closer to him. “And I walk over to you from over there” — she pointed to a spot about ten feet away — “and touch your arm like so.”
She put her hand lightly on his sleeve.
This was silly, he thought. It would be far better to practice their lines than to waste time they didn’t have. He would indulge her a minute or two, no more, he decided. Then it would be time for them to get to work. He fixed her with a bored look.
Rather than discourage her, however, his reaction — or lack of it — seemed to amuse her. Her lips curved in a slow smile. She leaned down toward his chair. As she did, her shawl slid lower on her shoulders, exposing a swath of creamy ivory skin.
Suddenly, she had Justin’s full attention.
The pressure of her fingertips on his arm increased slightly. Justin was aware of a vaguely unsettling sensation, then immediately rejected it.
“Surely you can do better, Miss Armistead,” he drawled. “I can barely feel that.”
She appeared to consider the matter. Absently, she pressed her lips together. Studying that smooth, rosy mouth, Justin felt a pang of...something.
Yearning, he realized, to his dismay.
She moved closer still, deftly inserting herself between the falcon’s chair and his, then perched gingerly on the arm of Justin’s chair.
He almost jumped. The fabric of her frock made a soft, rustling sound as she adjusted her position slightly. She sat quite upright, though so close to him that he felt her warmth, no matter that the only thing that connected them was the light touch of her hand on his sleeve.
Definitely yearning, he decided. The thought owed nothing to the scene on the forgotten pages. Instead, it arose from an entirely different scene — a rather lurid one, if truth be told — that had begun to play out in his own imagination.
In it, a jonquil dress lay discarded on the floor of the library. The sturdy chair on which they both now sat — she in her rather provocative perch on the chair arm just above him — was, in his mind’s eye, supporting an entirely different activity than the one for which it had been constructed.
Justin tried to banish the image. What was it about this woman that spawned all manner of odd fantasies?
Then she bent toward him, allowing him a fuller glimpse of the charms otherwise mostly hidden by the gown’s neckline. He saw that the light dusting of freckles on her skin continued down her slender neck, and did not give way to creamy ivory until the soft rise of her breasts.
Justin’s temple began to throb. He wondered if he were getting a headache.
With an apologetic smile, she removed her hand from his sleeve and reached for her shawl, pulling it around her shoulders. Justin forced himself not to betray his regret.
She said not a word, though she leaned in a bit closer. The bodice of her gown was mere inches away. It would be effortless on his part to close the distance between them, dispense with that infernal shawl, and perhaps plant a kiss at precisely that place where the freckles disappeared.
Ludicrous thought, that.
And now her hand was back, once more resting on his arm, her fingers pressed lightly in the crook of his elbow. The pulse point there began to throb. Justin swallowed hard.
Her fingers lingered, making a soft impression in the kerseymere and linen of his jacket — suddenly another unwelcome barrier between them. Beneath the fabric, Justin’s skin felt white-hot.
He refused to look at her face — whatever witchcraft was at work here would doubtless turn him to stone — and he therefore fixed his gaze resolutely on her long, graceful fingers. But even as he did, they began to trail upward along the length of his arm and toward his shoulder. It was impossible not to think of what hidden talents they might possess. Justin closed his eyes and stifled a groan.
Suddenly, he felt her fingertip lightly touch his face. It traced the outline of his jaw with excruciating gentleness. Justin inhaled sharply. And opened his eyes.
What he saw eviscerated his defenses.
The brilliant green of her eyes held no naked desire, no raw craving, no unsheathed yearning of the sort that now swept through him.
Instead, they revealed only a mesmerizing awareness, and perhaps — perhaps — the slightest spark. Yet it was spark enough to leap the space between them. Suddenly, Justin could not breathe.
Like a drowning man lured toward uncharted seas, he had no choice but to let her draw him in.
Her lips parted slightly. Almost, he could feel their satiny smoothness on his mouth — but no, she still did not close those few inches between them. Instead, she held back. Only her fingers touched him, almost shyly, and yet they ignited something undeniable within him. Something powerful, uncontrollable. Something that cared not for the consequences of whatever was to come.
Suddenly, her hand began a retreat, trailing lightly down his arm.
Then, with a look that coupled promise with regret, she withdrew. Her hand moved to the neckline of her gown, making a slight adjustment of the fabric where it met the rise of her breasts. Then she caught her shawl — somehow, it had slipped again — and draped it modestly over her shoulders.
Slowly she rose and in one fluid motion seated herself in the green leather chair once more. She met his gaze, smiled shyly, then turned her head away, seemingly focused on some nearby bookshelves.
Justin stared at her profile, utterly bereft. The distance between them now was only a few feet, but it might as well be an ocean.
Dimly, one part of his brain registered what had occurred.
Sarah Armistead had turned the full force of her sensual power on him, and it l
eft him breathless with wonder and longing.
“Good God,” he muttered.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Since disappearing into the role of cajoling mistress moments ago, Sarah had made a number of momentous discoveries. Such as the fact that touching his sleeve, even ever so lightly, awakened something within her. Her pulse did a little flip-flop. A brazen thought popped into her head: How might his lips feel on hers?
Something hovered in the air between them. Anticipation, perhaps. A readiness, like the stillness of an audience waiting expectantly for the action on stage to begin.
Sarah told herself that this was but a performance, nothing more. And yet, that singular shared awareness drove the breath from her lungs. The role had taken on a life of its own.
It was important to remember that in the real world, Lord Linton would never look at her from a gaze darkened by what might have been passion — or leastways the promise of it. Only in plays did such things happen, and Sarah had seen enough of life to know it bore little resemblance to art. She had but touched his arm. A man did not respond to such subtlety, he had said. Besides, her touch had been artless, unschooled. He must have wanted to laugh at her lack of skill.
Mere inches separated them as she sat on the arm of his chair. Sarah’s fingers rested awkwardly on his sleeve. So painfully acute were her senses that she could feel the individual threads of the fabric. Underneath the fine wool, the muscles of his arm flexed against her touch. She ought to remove her hand, but the same tension that electrified her nerve endings would not free her.
Instead, her treacherous fingers trailed upward, toward his face, then his jaw.
He closed his eyes. Did he not wish to look at her? Did he find her performance boring?
Sarah willed her foolish senses to calm. She had let the role get away from her again, given it credence and substance, forgetting to remember that it was all a sham. She felt a moment of panic, uncertain how to extricate herself from this very precarious perch on the arm of his chair.
Where was her shawl? It had slipped away somehow. She took a deep breath and forced herself to push through the rising panic. This was no different from the moment an actor made an entrance on stage. Panic first, then confidence as the lines came back, the character unfolded, the audience was captured. Her breathing steadied a bit, and she willed her insecurities away and herself back into the performance.
Now she had it — the power of the performance. Control. Command. Now she was no longer an actress out of her element. She was the mistress of this man who had rejected her by trifling with another. He had closed his eyes against the very charms of which she had sought to remind him by perching so scandalously on the arm of his chair.
She would not be ignored. That, quite simply, was not to be borne. Sarah bent toward him, inhaling his scent, reminiscent of sandalwood and smoke. His skin, she noticed, was rougher than hers. His chin bore a trace of stubble — how would it feel against her skin? A little shiver rippled through her. She touched his jaw with the tip of her finger. It felt forbidden, delicious. Goosebumps rippled across her own flesh.
She willed them away. This was just a scene, nothing more. Artifice. Illusion. Not real.
But her mouth was dry. And her fingers lingered on his chin, so lightly, she doubted he would even notice.
He opened his eyes.
Sarah inhaled sharply. Her lips parted.
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
Perhaps he was not pleased with the way she had played the scene. Yet the message in his eyes did not convey displeasure. Far from it. His gaze roved over her, the scrutiny unsettling, but she refused to let him see that.
Instead, she merely trailed her hand lightly back down his arm. Carelessly. As if it did not matter.
Then, and only then, did she lift her hand from his sleeve. She leaned away, beyond the wordless intimacy of that shared, space between them. She felt his eyes on her as she reached carelessly for her shawl. She toyed with its edges, ran a finger along the neckline of her frock, smoothed the fabric, permitting not an ounce of self-doubt to show. Then she draped it about her shoulders, slowly, as if in no great hurry to cover herself.
Finally, she rose gracefully and moved to her own chair.
Only then, did she return her gaze to his, prepared for his condemnation. She smiled slightly, then turned her head away, fixing her gaze elsewhere. He muttered something she did not catch. She took a calming breath and remained in her chair.
He, however, did not.
In the next moment he stood before her. Without a word he reached down and pulled her to her feet.
Alarm bells pealed wildly in Sarah’s brain. He silenced them abruptly — with a kiss.
Sarah had been kissed by clumsy theater Lotharios bent on mischief, and once on stage by a slobbering actor broadly embellishing his role as her lover. But nothing in her past prepared her for the wild racing of her heart as Lord Linton’s mouth covered hers. When his lips teased from her a gasp of pleasure, Sarah knew she was entirely out of her element.
His hands went around her waist. He held her lightly, allowing her the freedom to leave, if she chose.
She did not. Instead, her hands went around his neck. Tentatively, her lips pressed against his.
Part of her knew that he was a rake skilled in banishing all those alarm bells. No matter. Sarah gave herself over to the joining of their lips and the unexpected pleasure it awakened in her as he pulled her closer still.
She felt the solid musculature of his chest and knew he was receiving more than a passing acquaintance with a similar part of her body. Shocking, to be sure. Yet the only thing that shocked her was her own inability to flee.
Dear Lord. What was she doing? She had forgotten the chief rule of survival, which was to keep her wits about her.
And still she kissed him back.
He slipped her gown off one shoulder. The touch of his hand on her bare skin made her weak with pleasure. She gave a little moan.
Abruptly, he ended the kiss. Sarah could not suppress a small cry of protest.
“Never say you have forgotten your part,” he murmured in a silky, dangerous tone. “No mistress would cavil at a chaste kiss.”
Sarah took a deep breath, trying to regain her poise. “I see nothing chaste about this,” she managed. “And I must remind you that I am not, in actual fact, your mistress.”
He arched a brow. His hands still lingered about her waist, daring her to flee. Sarah fumbled with the shoulder of her gown, restoring it to its proper place, buying time until she could figure out how to extricate herself from this provocative, very unwise situation that she herself had invited.
If she wished to extricate herself, that is. The chief problem was that she did not. And so she did not pull away, but lingered within his embrace, no matter the peril that might pose.
For a long moment he studied her. Perhaps he was assessing her, even as she assessed herself. How could one kiss cause such havoc within her? How could it challenge her self-control?
She had merely gotten carried away with the scene, she told herself. Nothing more complex had occurred. She had imagined the attraction between them. It was acting, nothing more. Feeling slightly foolish, she smiled up at him.
A mistake.
“Sarah.” Spoken roughly, in a ragged voice.
As his mouth once more descended to hers, Sarah realized she had underestimated the danger. For it was not only her self-control at risk, but his as well.
This kiss was different from the other. Its scorching fire seared her mouth, making it unusable for anything but this urgent meeting of flesh. If there had been restraint between them earlier, it was gone. Dear Lord, she thought weakly, then lost all thought as his hands pressed into the rise of her hips, bringing their bodies together in intimate contact.
Panic flared, then fled, replaced by a reckless need. Under that blazing kiss, Sarah lost all restraint. She wanted — what?
More. Much more.
When his
tongue sought entry to her mouth, she instantly granted it, but even that shocking intimacy was not sufficient. Lord Linton’s kiss summoned a blinding desire from a part of her that consigned respectability to the devil and wanted only to plunge headlong down the path to perdition.
Was this sorcery at work? No matter. She had no will to fight it.
It was impossible to know how long this sweet torture continued, for time was enslaved to Lord Linton’s kiss. Now she knew the delicious roughness of his skin against hers as he trailed kisses down her neck, then lower along her bare shoulder, lower still over the rise of her breasts. Her gown slipped its moorings anew, and this time she did not care.
Sarah closed her eyes and gloried in his rough magic.
As his hand found the softness of her breast, her helpless whimper might have been a protest — or a plea. Instinctively she arched into him and had her answer: a plea. Wherever he was taking her, she would follow. When his lips closed over her nipple, Sarah moaned in pleasure.
Abruptly he stilled. Then released her.
Sarah’s cry of protest was lost in his blazing oath, which brought her back to reality.
Suddenly, her shawl was flung over her shoulders, accompanied by a string of muttered curses she could not make out but was certain would have bruised any lady’s sensibilities.
Lord Linton set her from him so quickly that Sarah would have fallen had not a chair been nearby. She sank into it.
“Very well,” he said tightly. “You have proven your point.”
Dazed, Sarah stared up at him. “Wh-what point?” she stammered. She fumbled to straighten her clothing under the protective covering of her shawl.
His demonic gaze roved over her, condemning her. “A ‘light touch’ and ‘a knowing gaze’ — you said they would be sufficient to kindle carnal desire.”
“I — ”
“I had not counted on your extraordinary skill and experience.”
“But — ”
“Enough,” he commanded. “You win. I will rewrite the scene.”
A Passionate Performance Page 11