A View to a Kiss

by Caroline Linden

  “What?” she demanded. “Torment me more? How could you possibly do that?”

  For answer he spun her around, wrapping his arms around her to hold her against him. “I long to hold you like this every night,” he said, his breath hot against her ear.

  Mariah couldn’t move, shocked. She could hardly believe he had grabbed her so roughly, and yet…that sinuous thing inside her seemed to loosen and uncoil with satisfaction as her body molded against Harry’s almost unconsciously.

  “I long to touch you,” he told her. His fingers brushed her cheek, lightly, then trailed over her jaw and down her throat. She shivered. “I long to kiss you,” he murmured. “Every inch of you.” And he pressed his lips to the side of her neck, ending any chance that she might have protested.

  She had never guessed a man could be so overwhelming. He seemed to envelop her completely, much taller and bigger than she had thought before. His mouth moved up her neck, setting her skin tingling and sending sparks through her entire being, and his hands moved down her body, stroking the length of her arms, the curve of her waist, and the plane of her belly. She gasped for breath. Her knees threatened to give way, and she clutched at him to keep her balance.

  As if Harry knew, he pressed her against him until she could feel every solid muscled inch of him—his chest against her back, his arms around her, his thighs behind hers. She wore only her nightrail, and the fine lawn might as well not have been there for all the barrier it provided. He was hot, so hot; surely that must be why she felt as if a sudden fever had overtaken her as his hands continued to move over her in leisurely purpose, stroking that stretching, writhing creature inside her into life.

  “You drive me mad,” he whispered, dropping kisses all along her shoulder. With one tug of his fingers he pulled the ribbon at her neckline loose, and her nightrail drooped, sliding off her shoulder. Mariah looked down, shocked anew, and watched his fingers steal inside. If she could breathe, she would say stop, surely…But then she didn’t breathe or speak as his hand cupped her breast, his thumb stroking over her nipple. She tried to say his name, and only managed a small, strangled gasp.

  Harry laughed under his breath, a dark and wicked sound. “Do you see? Do you see now why I came back?” His hand flexed and tugged, holding her against him as he tilted his hips forward, and a disquieting burst of heat seemed to dissolve between her legs. He moved again, his breathing strained, and released his grip on her belly to draw up her nightrail.

  The air felt cool on her heated skin. In some dim recess of her mind she knew she should protest, but Harry kissed her shoulder again, and so instead she whimpered, leaning more of her weight against him and not making the slightest effort to stop anything he did. This was why young ladies were warned never to be alone with a gentleman, she realized; if the young ladies knew what could happen, there would be a dozen new scandals every week.

  And then—oh heavens—his fingers brushed her thigh, his palm smoothing over her skin. She arched her back, gripping the arm that circled her waist and digging her toes into the carpet to push against his touch as his fingers dipped tantalizingly between her thighs. The blood rushed to her skin, and the feverish heat ran down her belly. The lustful creature within her purred and surged against the inside of her skin. Her head fell back against his shoulder in abject surrender, her knees fell apart, and he stroked one long finger through the soft folds between her legs.

  He pressed his lips just below her ear. “I want you to burn for me,” he murmured as he stroked her again and again.

  “I do,” she moaned, shamelessly abandoning all pretense of modesty or outrage. No one else had ever touched her there—and she herself had only done so a few, furtive times—but already he had brought forth that hot dampness between her legs, the dark illicit hunger that was almost frightening. Her blood hammered through her veins, burning with longing. She didn’t know quite what to make of that yawning ache inside her, nor what to do about it, but she was desperate for Harry to show her.

  “No,” he said. “Not yet.” His hand shifted, turned, and then—she made a choked sound of shock—he pushed his fingers inside her body, without stopping the maddening, marvelous stroking on that one exquisitely sensitive spot. And it felt even more excruciatingly good.

  “What—What else?” Her voice was a breathless quaver.

  He only laughed quietly in reply, nuzzling aside her braid to lick the back of her neck. His mouth moved along the back of her neck, over her shoulders, nipping at her skin. His fingers began a hard, pulsing slide in and out of her. His other hand still played with her breast, rolling her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Mariah felt light-headed as her hips jerked and her spine undulated in time with his wicked fingers. Her heart beat as though it would leap out of her chest. She tried to pull away from him, wanting to catch her breath and clear her head of the sensation of drowning, but he refused to let her go, yanking her back against him and pressing his cheek to hers.

  “Do you feel it yet?” he whispered as his fingers seemed to delve deeper and deeper within her. “That burning craving inside you that threatens to drive you mad? Tempts you to throw aside every propriety, every modicum of sense and restraint because you can’t not risk it? Because you would give everything you have for the chance to find what comes next?”

  “Yes—no,” she whimpered. A blistering tautness was spreading through her belly, agonizing in its intensity. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I can’t bear it, Harry…”

  “You can.” His breath was ragged. “Let yourself…”

  “No—yes—oh!” Abruptly, she stiffened. The tautness strained and then broke, and her entire body convulsed about his fingers. A moment of shimmering, sparkling darkness engulfed her and she cried out against the hand Harry clapped over her mouth at the last second.

  Mariah sagged in his arms. If he hadn’t held her, she would have slid to the floor in a helpless puddle. She would swear her heart had almost stopped for a moment. Never in her life had she felt anything like that. This is but a dream, she told herself numbly; it cannot be real…She clutched at Harry’s arms, still tight around her, his strength all that held her up. “Oh,” she moaned, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. She couldn’t think coherently enough to ask anything beyond one all-important question. “When will you come again to me?”

  Harry pressed his lips to the bared side of her throat and tasted the sweet saltiness of her skin, flushed and damp with the aftermath of her climax. He gathered her closer in his trembling arms, one hand falling naturally around her breast and the other still cupping the soft, wet curls between her legs. Her passionate whimpers echoed in his ears and made him painfully hard. The way she had come to life in his arms would torment him for the rest of his life. Slowly, he rocked his hips, pushing his straining erection against the curve of her bottom, just once, just to punish himself a little more. He breathed deeply of her soft lavender scent and felt his heart twist with agony and longing, a pain even deeper than his physical torment. He was a fool twice damned now, and so he told her the truth: “I can’t.”

  Chapter 14

  Still reeling from what he had done to her body, Mariah wasn’t capable of arguing when he scooped her into his arms and carried her to her bed, tucked her gently under the coverlet, and left with only a light kiss on her temple. Alone in bed, she curled her arms around herself and closed her eyes, letting every moment of his visit unfold again in her mind.

  He wasn’t a gentleman. She supposed she had known that all along but hadn’t wanted to think it. All the times he’d asked her if his name mattered, if his appearance mattered, she had said no. Had she lied? To whom? Certainly to him, although she suspected Harry hadn’t been fooled. But she…Ah, that was a different matter. She had never quite faced the fact so plainly: Harry was not what he appeared to be, no matter which appearance he gave. She was as much in the dark about his true self as she ever had been.

  But he wanted her as a man wanted a woman. Mariah inhaled deeply, s
troking one hand over her breast, down to her belly, as the echoes of Harry’s touch shimmered across her skin. He had made her burn, made her ache, and then thrown her into a pleasure she never suspected existed. She knew he had not found a comparable pleasure from that lovemaking. Joan once stole a book of naughty poetry from her brother, and Mariah had giggled with her over the rhymes that said a man found his greatest pleasure when his—she blushed just thinking the word—his cock was inside a woman. She blushed again; Harry had only put his fingers inside her, and wicked creature that she was becoming, she wanted him to do it again. Perhaps even—she slid deeper under the covers—perhaps even his cock. If he could affect her so much with just his fingers, what would it be like with more? And now that he had pleasured her so thoroughly she couldn’t stand upright, she felt the most wicked desire to do the same to him, to leave him shattered and breathless and utterly enthralled.

  The only question left was…what mattered to her? His lack of status? His secrecy and vagueness? Or the way he kissed her and held her and made her laugh? Mariah squeezed her eyes closed and tried to summon his face to mind. She had seen him, after all, as clear as day at the Plymptons’ and the moon had been full tonight…and yet, no matter how hard she tried to recall his image, what she remembered was the face she touched in the darkness.

  A lone tear leaked from the corner of her eye. She had been deceived, but very willingly so. If only it could have continued.

  The sparkle went out of the Season for her from that night onward. She hoped, at first, that Harry hadn’t meant it when he said he wouldn’t come back, but he was true to his word and didn’t appear in her bedroom window again. Joan, blessedly, didn’t mention his name again, either, and if she could have just blotted that last night from her mind, she might have been able to cling to her sense of betrayal and disappointment and dismiss him as a presumptive liar who fooled her for a time. Instead she left her lamp burning every night and slept with her window open even when it rained and the night air swept through her room, cold and pitiless.

  She tried to carry on. Two other gentlemen approached her father about courting her, and she refused them both. She went with her parents to all the usual balls and parties, and out of habit danced with the gentlemen who asked her. Nothing worked. Day after day she found herself distracted and out of sorts, unable to pay attention to anyone or anything. And every time she saw Lord Crane, she had to restrain herself from bursting out and asking after his secretary.

  That part puzzled her more than anything. Harry hadn’t answered her when she asked why he attended her parents’ ball; he just said he had a good reason. What could it be? And might it possibly recur? He had once seen her at the Spencers’ ball, so he was out among the ton at nights. Might he be here tonight at Lady Arnold’s soiree? He said it was an honorable reason that took him into society, and she wanted to believe him. She just couldn’t think what it could be.

  It meant she had to trust him, even as she knew he was keeping things from her. But in return he was trusting her. If she were to tell her parents about him, her father would set out to find Harry and expose all his secrets, if not do worse. She and Harry were bound together in their private little world, each relying on the other to be honorable—and discreet.

  Something caught at Mariah’s attention. She lifted her head, glancing around and realizing she’d been sunk in her own thoughts for some time. Her last partner had left her side and she hadn’t even noticed. She was standing by herself on the edge of the room, staring blindly at the couples dancing. But something had routed her out of her reverie. What was it? She couldn’t even say, and now her thread of thought was gone. She bit her lip and turned to look for her mother, wondering if she could persuade her parents to allow her to return home early yet again.

  “…careful…more than…”

  Her eyes widened as it sank in. Harry’s voice, quiet and low. Here. Just behind her, somewhere in the crowd. She whirled around, scanning the faces, looking for the speaker. Where was he?

  “…watch…not again…”

  Without thinking she began crowding through the guests, not even bothering to murmur excuses. He was here—somewhere—if only everyone else would be quiet for just one moment—

  A hundred voices seemed to rise and swell around her, laughing, talking, almost shouting. Still she strained her ears, listening for any hint of that maddeningly familiar voice. She batted her way past the drooping plumes in a lady’s headdress, squeezed past a rotund little man roaring with laughter—she hated him for being so loud—and went up on her tiptoes, trying to see, straining for just a glimpse of his dark head, his wide shoulders. She didn’t know why she was looking but she couldn’t help it.

  She stopped, overwhelmed. The dozens of conversations around her beat at her ears, each drowning out all the others. She listened as hard as she could, and heard nothing. Helplessly, she turned in a circle, still on her toes, searching in vain. Where was the blasted man? Was he even truly here? Or was she simply going mad and imagining his voice everywhere?

  “Lady Mariah.”

  She turned to see Tobias Crane looking immensely pleased to see her. He bowed, forcing her to curtsey, albeit reluctantly. “What a pleasure to see you again,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir,” she murmured, trying to glance around under her eyelashes. Harry was probably on the other side of the room by now, while she was stuck with the prosy Mr. Crane.

  “Might I beg the honor of a dance this evening?”

  “Er—yes. I should be delighted.” She handed him her dance card without another word. There was nothing else she could do, and she didn’t care whom she danced with anyway.

  He marked her card and gave it back, then stood there beaming at her. Mariah kept back a sigh as he asked, “May I offer you my arm? You seem unsettled.”

  “No, no. I am fine. I—I was looking for my mother.” It wasn’t the most inspired reply, but it would have to do. “Do you see her, sir?”

  His face fell with disappointment, but he obligingly lifted his head and searched the room. “Ah, yes, I do. She is near the doors.”

  When he offered his arm, she gave in and took it. He escorted her through the room, a very stately progress, and more than once he stopped to greet someone, making a point to present her. Mariah was left with the unmistakable feeling that she was on display, which only made her more desperate to be away from him. Mr. Crane was polite enough, but he was behaving as though he had accomplished something merely by offering her his arm, as if this promenade across a crowded ballroom indicated an attachment. She thought again of Harry diving off a balcony so he wouldn’t be seen with her. Why couldn’t it be Mr. Crane who fled from her, and Harry who would storm across the room to reach her, instead of the other way around?

  Something occurred to her then. Perhaps there was something to be gained after all. “Mr. Crane,” she said. “How is your uncle?”

  He glanced at her in pleased surprise. “Very well, Lady Mariah, thank you. Shall I give him your regards?”

  “Yes, of course,” she murmured. “I was thinking of his secretary, whom I encountered at the Plymptons’ garden breakfast the other day. Do you remember, sir?”

  “Every moment.” He smiled meaningfully. “Although I was very sorry to find you had left early. I had hoped we might take a turn in Lady Plympton’s tulip garden. It is reputed to be the finest in Mayfair, and—”

  “Yes. But your uncle’s secretary,” she persisted. “He reminded me very strongly of someone I know. Perhaps it is a relation of his. What was his name?”

  Mr. Crane did not appear terribly pleased anymore. “Henry Towne is his name,” he said stiffly. “I know nothing about him, Lady Mariah, except that he is a competent fellow. Keeps my uncle bumping along well enough, as any good servant ought.”

  Henry Towne. She wondered if that were his real name. “Has he been employed long with your uncle?”

  “No, perhaps a month or two. Uncle has always insisted on being self-r
eliant, and only this Season when I came to town could I prevail upon him to hire someone…”

  Mariah didn’t hear the rest of his reply. Only a month. Then Mr. Crane would know nothing of real import. Fortunately they had reached her mother. “Thank you, Mr. Crane.” She curtsied.

  “It was my pleasure, Lady Mariah.” He bowed again, leaning close with a private smile. “Until our dance.”

  Mariah clenched her teeth and smiled. “Of course.”

  Mr. Crane beamed and bowed some more, to her mother and then to Lady Arnold, who was standing nearby. Finally he had no reason to linger and excused himself.

  Mama raised her fan and inclined her head toward Mariah. “A change of heart regarding Mr. Crane?”

  “Not at all,” she whispered back, her eyes flitting about the room without thinking. She had been so sure it was Harry’s voice she heard earlier. No doubt it would be merely another disappointment, but she still wished she could have known for certain. “He came upon me as I was looking for you.”

  Her mother turned away from Lady Arnold and drew Mariah closer. “Dearest, what is wrong? You can hardly hold still tonight. I can see you aren’t attending to the gentlemen you dance with, and you always seem to be glancing over your shoulder. Is something troubling you?”

  The concern in her mother’s voice made Mariah’s face grow hot. She should have known Mama would notice. “I—I don’t know,” she confessed. “I feel as though I am missing something, something important.”

  “Mariah, it is all here in front of you. You must look around and see it, and let yourself enjoy it.”

  Mariah sighed. “I know.” And she did. It was just easier said than done.

  Enough, she told herself. She would banish Harry from her mind, at least for tonight. She would stop trying to discover him in every man who walked past, and she would stop listening for his voice. If only she hadn’t thought she overheard him earlier, she might have been able to enjoy this evening. She was ruining her entire Season by brooding on him so much. For tonight, at least, she would pretend she had never crossed paths with her mystery man. Even if she had to go sit in a quiet corner somewhere.