“What do you mean?” He felt as if he’d been dropped from a great height, and the only way to break his fall, the only way to hold her in place, was to keep her talking.
“I mean”—Her words and the latent anger within them gathered steam—“I am leaving Paris.”
She pivoted away from him, her skirts swishing about her ankles with the force of her intention.
“Stay,” he called out, the note a raw scrub of his throat.
What was that in his voice? Desperation? Was he desperate for her?
The word, or the desperation contained within it, did its job when she stilled. Her eyes caught his over her shoulder.
“Mariana”—He closed the distance between them, even going so far as to place a staying hand on her arm, so she would have to face him—“we are man and wife.”
“Not in a meaningful way.”
“Then what was last night?”
They were the wrong words. Last night wasn’t about their status as husband and wife. Last night was about pent-up, irrepressible desire.
She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Certainly not meaningful.” She shook off his hand and retreated a few steps to steady herself against the nearest elm. “You lobbed a grenade into our marriage and blew it to smithereens. Now you’re claiming marriage after one night of passion? Do you think me such a weak-minded woman that one night could turn my head and undo the past?”
He caught an emotion in her eyes that he didn’t expect to find there. Fear. What was she afraid of?
The answer followed before he’d fully formed the question. She was afraid of herself.
Another question occurred to him, one he was almost too afraid to ask. “Do you think yourself that woman?” He took a step forward, drawn toward this fragile possibility.
“Can’t you leave me be?”
“I don’t think I can.”
“What is happening between us is insanity.” Her eyes searched his. “Haven’t you proven enough?”
“I don’t think I have,” he replied. He’d never known how addictive truth-telling could be. “I think I have a great deal more to prove.”
Last night had done nothing to slake their desire for one another; it had only whetted it. Certain desires weren’t mitigated by the passage of time.
She flashed him a look, a question in her eyes he couldn’t interpret. There was a time when he’d known her thoughts before she did. No longer was that the case. The spy lessons had worked too well.
The thing was this: he wanted to be able to read her. The debutante he’d met at the Folly had been in the first draft phase of womanhood. Now she was a completed manuscript, one new to him. At least, she was mostly new. Certain pages he’d read quite thoroughly.
“We both know this—whatever this is—can lead nowhere,” she said.
Did she believe her words? Last night told a different story of precisely where this could lead.
“Why are you asking me to stay?” she asked, the question racing along the serrated edge of a rising panic that he heard in her voice.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Her teeth bit down on her plump bottom lip for the space of one . . . two . . . three heartbeats. At last, she released it and relented. “Perhaps.”
Chapter 20
To Milk the Pidgeon: To endeavor at impossibilities.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
Perhaps. Located on the periphery of that word was an open door Nick could slip inside.
“This is happening too fast,” Mariana said, her words a protest at odds with the new light that had entered her eyes—a light that hinted at not only possibility, but also hunger.
“Is it?” He pushed the door of opportunity wider. “Or perhaps it was ten years in the making.”
A dozen rapid heartbeats sped by, and she remained silent. She cleared her throat in a decisive manner, and the air froze in Nick’s chest.
“Last year, I attended a lecture,” she began, and his hope sank, possibility dimmed. The woman did manage to attend a good number of lectures. “The topic was religions of Asia. Do you know the subject?”
He shook his head, feeling at once foolish and not a little despondent.
“Take Buddhism, for example,” she said. “At the core of this belief is the idea that one shouldn’t dwell on the past or dream of the future. Instead, one lives solely in the present moment. No other moments matter.”
“And?”
A canny light sparked in her amber eyes. “And in certain circumstances such a philosophy can be useful.”
Understanding dawned on Nick. “No past. No future.”
She nodded once, a slow up and down motion. The subtext of her words rising to the surface, nearly a tangible thing.
She wanted him. Now. The past and the future had no bearing on this present want.
And if his mind suggested that he could wrest a better deal from her, one that would last beyond the present into the future, his body decided to focus on having her now. The future could wait.
He pressed forward on this unexpected wave of possibility. “Perhaps I could demonstrate for you how such a philosophy might be of use to you,” he said, his voice a deep rumble in his chest.
He braced himself on one forearm against the sturdy elm, just to the side of her head, and leaned in without touching her. She had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze. Her scent reached out and encircled him in its warm jasmine and neroli cocoon. He touched his lips to her ear. “But let’s not be hasty and let go of the past entirely.”
“Oh?” she asked, the monosyllable a breathless exhalation, the distancing sarcasm of minutes ago forgotten. Short, warm bursts of her breath on his neck sent shivers tingling down his spine.
He took her delicate earlobe between his teeth and nipped, eliciting another breathless, “Oh,” but this time it didn’t question. It conveyed release and permission.
He held his body at a determined remove from hers. If he pressed into her, his intent would be lost to his own desires. The very thought made his cock jump against the constraining fabric of his trousers. And that wasn’t what this was about. This was about Mariana and her pleasure.
He allowed his fingers to touch her body, beginning at the soft indent of her waist, tracing upward until they reached the ripe flare of her breasts. His palms forming a cup beneath, his thumbs moved over taut nipples, teasing them through gossamer layers of silk and muslin. Unable to help himself, he tugged at her short bodice until her breasts fell free. With their plump fullness and matching dusky peaks, they were the embodiment of temptation.
“Even better than I remembered,” he murmured before inclining his head, and taking one tight bud into his mouth and the other between thumb and forefinger, squeezing.
A soft moan escaped her, and her head arched back. Her breath now came in shallow pants, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from ravishing her.
He could do better. He would give her what she’d all but explicitly requested: pleasure uncomplicated by the past or the future—pleasure that mattered only in the present. If last night was about loss of control, this moment was its exquisite opposite.
He kneeled before her and grabbed her lush derriere with both hands. On a low growl, he pulled her into him, his face nestled into the soft juncture of her legs. He inhaled her warm, erotic scent, and exhaled slowly through thin layers of muslin, his hot rush of breath finding her quim. From his supplicating position, he watched her lips part and her eyes close to all sensation but the promise of his mouth. Still, he could do better.
“I remember something you like very much. The past has its uses.”
He sat back on his heels, ignoring her sob of protest at the separation, and grabbed the hem of her skirts before lifting them fo
ld by fold, revealing ankles . . . calves . . . thighs . . . clad in alabaster silk stockings held up by simple blue garters. Ever higher inched her hem, exposing the naked flesh of her upper thighs and her mons pubis covered by nothing, except a wild patch of curls the color of honey. Again, he blew a stream of humid breath onto her sex.
His intention clear, he lifted her foot and guided it onto his shoulder, her quim opening for him like a hothouse flower in bloom. Her body quivered in anticipation of what came next. One steadying hand clamped around her thigh before he leaned in and flicked the tight pink bud of her sex with the tip of his tongue . . . once . . . twice . . . Her fingers threaded through his hair on a long moan.
“Again,” she demanded, her voice a sensuous combination of ecstasy and ache.
His body her servant, his tongue found a rhythm that rendered her incapable of speech, only pants and groans and whimpers as her quim grew luscious beneath his tongue, her hips tilting forward even as she counterbalanced the motion by pressing harder into the elm at her back. She was nothing more than a creature composed of carnality and lust.
His hand found its way up her thigh, and his forefinger entered her slick and hot cunny. He wanted to feel her pulse around him when she exploded in release. His tongue began alternating between hard and soft flicks, encouraging her desire ever higher, as his finger dove deeper until finally, inevitably, her body tensed for one . . . two . . . three fraught seconds before she broke and cried out her climax to the leaf-dappled blue sky above. His hands steadied her as she collapsed back against the tree, replete with satiety.
He sat back on his heels and took in the delectable and irresistible mess that was Lady Nicholas Asquith. His wife. A fierce need to possess her nearly overtook him. But this wasn’t about his need, it was about hers.
Her lust-glazed eyes slid open and locked onto his. From above, she regarded him with a wonder that he hadn’t been worthy of in years, if ever. He still wasn’t worthy of it.
Reluctantly, he placed his hand on her ankle to remove her foot from his shoulder. He would set it on the ground, and her dress would fall into place as if nothing of note had happened between them. It was one of the hallmarks of their class that they could. Already he regretted the loss of the present to the past.
“What are you doing?” she asked, her enervated body drawing up into a firmer line against the tree.
He halted. He wasn’t certain if he was viewing her through the lens of his raging lust, but he read in her eyes a desire for a different scenario.
“We aren’t finished,” she said, a subtle command in her voice.
Her forefinger reached down and hitched beneath his chin. He followed it up until he stood before her, her dress caught between them, preventing it from chastely falling to the ground. There was nothing chaste about this situation.
It was all he could do not to moan in frustration at the idea of nothing but the lacings of his trousers standing between his cock and her naked, desire-soaked quim.
“This was for you.” He ground out the words through sheer force of will.
She reached between them and pressed her hand against his cockstand. “This is for me.”
Her fingers made short work of the lacings of his trousers and reached inside to wrap around him. He closed his eyes and exhaled a deep groan.
A long leg wrapped around his waist, brazenly opening her to him. The length of his throbbing cock slid indulgently along her wet slit. “And I want you to fuck me mindless with it.”
His hips responded with an instinctive slow thrust, and he slipped inside her, his eyes locked onto hers, daring her to look away. She didn’t. He slid his length out and thrust inside her again, this time slower, her silky tightness both a tease and a promise. Still, he held her eyes, but he detected a mixture of pleasure and frustration in their depths.
“Tell me what you want,” Nick demanded.
“I want—” she began on a pant.
He silenced her when he pulled out.
“I want . . .”—Her heel dug into the small of his back—“ . . . it . . .”—Her hips ground against his—“. . . harder.”
His leg bent so he could angle in further. “Like this?”
She moaned an, “Oh, yes,” and he repeated the motion. She reached around and grabbed his arse with both hands, her nails digging in, spurring him on. “Yes,” she whispered, her hips matching his rhythm.
With a will of its own, a sort of animal instinct took over, his hips thrusting harder and faster, his lips and tongue claiming hers with an untamed ferocity that matched the rhythm of their bodies. He couldn’t get enough of her.
He sensed a specific sort of intensity begin to wind within her. His strokes became short and shallow.
“Oh, yes,” she uttered with mindless abandon.
She was close. Again, he deepened his strokes, driving into her with a matching abandon.
“Come with me over the edge,” he groaned into her mouth. He was close, so close to the precipice.
“Nick,” she cried, her quim convulsing in release, pulsing her climax around his cock. One . . . two more thrusts, and he followed her into the wild freedom of release. It was a moment he never wanted to end. Yet his hips gradually and inevitably stilled, and beat after beat, his heart slowed its urgent tattoo.
“Nick?” came her voice.
Not yet, he silently implored. It wasn’t his name on her lips that he minded; it was the question in her voice. He sensed distance in that question. He lifted his head from the curve of her damp neck and accepted that the future was upon them.
He pressed a palm against rough bark and pushed away, catching a quick flash of her quim before her dress fell down and into place. His fingers reached down to cinch the closure of his trousers. The moment slipped into the past.
His eyes found hers, and in their depths flashed uncertainty. A future might be located in that misgiving, if he managed it right. The possibility rekindled a light he’d thought extinguished. Perhaps the space between them wasn’t insuperable. “Mariana”—A silly and uncontrollable note of optimism sounded in his voice—“do you feel—”
“I’m not certain what I feel.”
“But you feel it, too.”
“And it is?” she evaded.
“More certain than you would admit,” he replied, but he wouldn’t press the issue. He hadn’t yet earned the right.
Her gaze broke from his. In an efficient flurry of movement, she began dusting off and smoothing down her skirts.
He tilted his gaze up and followed a large bird of prey as it cut across the sky above them. How much time had passed? It hardly mattered. For a single, glorious moment in time they’d soared above the realm of reality.
“Are we husband and wife now?” she asked, refreshed and ready to meet the world’s scrutiny. If he detected the slightest hint of a wobble in her voice, the rest of the world wouldn’t. They didn’t know her like he did.
The temptation to misinterpret her words nearly superseded all good sense. This coupling could be a consummation of sorts, a renewal, a beginning. But that interpretation would be disingenuous. She was, of course, speaking of their game of pretend. “Yes,” he replied. Simple was best at present. “Will you attend the Capet family’s soirée tonight?”
With a quick nod of her head, she gave her assent. Relief flooded through him, even if he’d sensed her reluctance. “Tonight, we will be loving husband and wife,” he said recklessly. Why was he pushing his luck?
“Loving?” she scoffed. “There aren’t many people who would believe that.”
“It only takes two.”
The words were bold, too bold, but were they true?
Her fingers fidgeted with her reticule, again calling to mind a skittish deer.
“My carriage awaits me at the end of the a
venue,” she stated and pivoted on her heel, the very heel that had dug into the small of his back not five minutes ago. “Until we meet tonight, husband.”
Like last night, he followed her at a respectful distance while she picked her way through the small, but dense, copse of trees and onto the dusty granite avenue that led to her waiting carriage. On a tidy, little hop, she slipped inside and rolled away. At the periphery of his vision, another conveyance jerked into motion. His agent would take it from here.
Where had the present gone?
To join all the other moments in their past that he’d allowed to slip away.
The familiar encroaching darkness of his parents’ doomed union crept toward the edges of his consciousness. For years, he’d allowed that past free rein over his future, but not today. Today, he pushed it away and turned toward the truth, unavoidable and clear: he was in love with his wife.
It was that simple. It was that complex.
What he felt in his body extended beyond physical sensation. There was a fullness . . . a lightness . . . a wholeness . . . a rightness.
As selfish as it might be, he wasn’t about to let her go. Not a second time. He would have more than simple physical satiety from Mariana. He would have a future with her.
The past be damned.
Chapter 21
Knave in Grain: A knave of the first rate: a phrase borrowed from the dyehouse, where certain colours are said to be in grain, to denote their superiority, as being dyed with cochineal, called grain.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
As the carriage transported her across a grid of indifferent Parisian streets, Mariana sank into brittle leather upholstery and allowed her head to thump back against the unforgiving cushion.
What had she done? Again.
Three Lessons in Seduction Page 21