by Sophia Nash
“I rather think it is me who is doing the seducing. The older taking advantage of the—”
His hand dipped inside her gown’s bodice and cupped her breast, and she could not have continued if her life had depended upon it. Her small breasts had always been her greatest embarrassment.
“You were saying?” Without preamble, he pushed her breast past the edge of her gown, exposing the nipple. He leaned in and took the whole of it into his mouth; his tongue swirling the suddenly ruched tip.
Oh God. What was he doing? Worse, what was she doing?
Or what should she not be doing? She didn’t want to have to think. She just wanted to do. To experience. To live. Was it wrong? For her entire life she had always taken the high road, taken the correct, moral road. She was the patron saint of always doing the proper thing.
“Why do I suddenly get the feeling that I’m the only one enjoying this?” Alex nipped the bud of her breast and then examined her face with his hooded eyes.
“What would you do if I agreed?” she asked, her voice uneven.
“I’d know that I’m going about this all wrong.”
She exhaled with a shaky laugh.
“Let’s start again from the top.” Despite the humor in his words, his dark eyes were still studying her, gauging her. “Look, it’s all right if we just don’t remove all our clothes, right?”
She looked at him, and finally laughed, relaxing her nerves. “How many have fallen for that ruse?”
“You’d be surprised.”
She pushed slightly away, regret obvious in her action.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said, gently pulling her back. “This was all your idea, remember?”
“Yes. The best bad idea I’ve had so far. I remember,” she mumbled.
He laughed. “It isn’t so bad after all. All in all I would say it was an excellent idea.”
“You would say that. You’re French.”
“Half. The English part of me will be begging your forgiveness tomorrow for taking advantage of your suggestion tonight. It might even include a sorrowful yet dutiful proposal of marriage.”
“Which you will offer only because you know I will refuse since I am already married.” The last she said with exasperation.
“Look . . . just stay,” he growled. “You can hit me, blame me, whatever you like, but I don’t want to let you go.”
“It’s hard to resist an offer like that,” she said, biting back a smile. It felt so right . . . to be able to speak her mind. Not to hold back. Not to put on airs or walk on eggshells. No matter what she said to this man, he never became angry or sullen, or disagreeable. And he didn’t lie to her. At least she hoped he did not. More to the point, he spoke to her as an equal.
And now he was as good as his words and changed tactics. He leaned in and kissed her. Not the earlier gentle, slow kisses. These were primal, male, I’ve-got-you-and-you-won’t-say-no arrogant kisses. He nipped at her upper lip and demanded entrance. And when she capitulated, he ransacked her emotions with that hellish tongue that made her want more. His hand held the back of her head in place and she could do naught but keep her balance during the onslaught. This was not the kiss of a gentleman. It was the kiss of someone who knew all about pleasure, and was used to getting his way, since no woman in her right mind would ever deny him.
And she was definitely in her right mind.
His gaze drifted to her exposed breast. “Such beauty, such—No, I won’t say . . .”
If she didn’t know better, he almost seemed three sheets to the wind.
“I’ll just show . . .”
The tip of her breast was so tight it ached. As if he could read her mind, he again drifted down and soothed her tender flesh with his mouth. She could have shouted for the pleasure coursing through her, all emanating from that one delicate point on her body. His tongue teased her, licked her, and gently nipped her, causing violent sensations unlike any she had ever known.
And that was just the beginning, for he would not stop until he duplicated every lush movement upon her other breast. All the while his hands massaged her back, the curve of her waist, her head, and finally, his fingers traced the contours of her face.
She felt revered. No, desired.
He paused, drew his face to hers, and closed his eyes before resting his forehead to hers. “Cherie . . .”
“No, don’t say anything,” she stopped him. “Just kiss me one last time and then we must end this foolishness. We must go back . . .”
For once he did not argue with her, or even try to find humor in her words. He simply kissed her with barely reined-in lust. He held back nothing. It was as if she was an exotic flavor to savor, and he was starving. Then again, what did she know of gentlemen and kissing? Other than Lawrence’s kisses, which in comparison had been very few and very limpid, she was singularly lacking in sensual sophistication. Through sheer desperation, she refused to drown in Kress’s dark embrace.
And just like all good things in life, it came to an end. Little did she know that this little slice of insanity was just the prelude to the evening from hell.
She just had not had enough time to learn all the nooks and crannies of this jumbled pile. The servant’s side entrance, which she used to try to escape to her chamber high in the castle, did not lead to stairs above the main floor—the same level as the ballroom.
Her hem was sodden, her coiffure surely a wreck, but more important than all of that, she would never dare attempt the main stair for fear of running into Lawrence. Or the comtesse. Or anyone for that matter.
She peeked around a column in the hall, only to watch as the ballroom doors opened outward. Lord, someone would see her. Roxanne had but a moment to dash into the nearest chamber, a small, inelegant room the comtesse used to escape from the houseguests when she chose. It featured a single sofa facing the door, and two uncomfortable chairs that promised short visits by all those unfortunate enough to attempt to sit in them.
In the off chance she would be found, Roxanne ducked behind the light blue velvet sofa. And, of course, a moment later she heard the door scrape open and the murmurs and music from the ballroom became louder before the door reshut with a click.
She could barely breathe. Was it Alexander? She dared not take a peek. She had only a moment of suspense before the smooth voice of her husband reached her ears.
“Oh, my dear Miss Tillworth . . . My dear, dear, dearest . . .”
Repetition had always been Lawrence’s strong suit, Roxanne thought with ill-timed humor lacing the overall horror.
“My lord,” the soft voice of their neighbor’s daughter, the one who used to wear unpinned plaits not so very long ago, replied with uncertainty. “I don’t think Mama or Papa would approve of us leaving the ballroom,” she cooed.
“Oh, but when one is in mourning, there are times when the need for solitude overcomes me,” he replied sadly. “And you, my dainty flower, have been the only one who has brought me any measure of relief from my sadness.”
Dainty flower? Roxanne wasn’t sure if she felt more like gagging or crying. She could never be called a dainty flower. More like a stalk of sea grass.
“Perhaps I should leave you, then.” The girl hesitated. “To your solitude, I mean.”
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, my dear.”
Since when had Lawrence acquired a stutter?
“Sometimes solitude can only be gained by being with someone else,” her eel of a husband insisted.
“I don’t understand,” Miss Tillworth said, a single plume of intelligence shafting the air.
“Of course, you don’t,” Lawrence replied. “You are too young and fragile to comprehend the mind of a man who has suffered so long.”
“But the countess only died two or three weeks ago.”
Roxanne sort of liked Miss Tillworth.
“But it seems an eternity,” Lawrence purred. He changed tactics. “And you are the balm that soothes. Your sweetness, your gentility, your—”
&
nbsp; Miss Tillworth’s voice interrupted. “Mama said I was only to allow a gentleman to kiss my hand. And only gloved. A gentleman may only kiss my cheek if he declares himself.”
Roxanne liked Miss Tillworth’s mother even more.
“Forgive me, I find it hard to restrain myself in your delicate presence, my loveliest Lillian.”
“And Papa said there must be a year of mourning at the very least—lest there be talk, which would taint my reputation and ultimately our respectability if we were ever to marry.”
Miss Tillworth’s father’s cool assessment was like a bucket of seawater thrown in Roxanne’s face. Good God. They had already spoken of marriage? Roxanne glanced down at the flounce on her gown and realized it might be in sight if one of the pair looked over the sofa’s arm. She jerked it closer.
“What was that?” Miss Tillworth’s voice became decidedly less genteel.
“Pardon?” Lawrence asked forlornly.
“That sound.”
“Perhaps it’s my belly. Can’t stop it from growling. Did you not notice that our host served only tiny, innocent vegetables and fruits? It was a crime, I tell you.”
“It wasn’t your intestines, my lord.”
“Well, I couldn’t eat a bite. And now, I’m starving.”
“It sounded more like a mouse. I don’t like mice. They can run up a petticoat,” Miss Tillworth babbled. “It happened to me,” she squeaked. “Just last week.”
“My dear, calm yourself. Here, tuck your slippers into my lap,” said the older man to the young girl. “Everyone has fears.”
“But you probably don’t,” Miss Tillworth said, voice shaking.
She had obviously been tutored in the art of flattery even if she did exhibit good sense in fighting off a lecherous widower.
“Well, I am not afraid of anything except . . .”
Oh, he’ll be afraid of more than one thing by the time I leave if there is anything right in this world, Roxanne thought.
“Except . . .” he repeated, “moles.”
“Pardon me?” Miss Tillworth asked.
Roxanne bit her knee to keep from making a sound. She could not believe how idiotic her husband was, how blind she had been, and how farsighted her beloved father had proved to be.
His voice betrayed his defensive posture. “It’s not unusual. No one wants vile, sightless underground creatures tearing up years of labor and perfection. And then there are also locusts to worry about, and—”
The sound of the door scraping open interrupted Lawrence. Roxanne heard the couple jump to their feet awkwardly. She prayed it was someone who would save her from her predicament.
“Your Grace,” her husband exhaled.
“Paxton,” Alex replied. “And?”
“Miss Lillian Tillworth,” the girl replied.
“Miss Tillworth?” Alex repeated. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were Paxton’s daughter.”
“No, not at all, Your Grace. I’m—”
“Well, Miss Tillworth, do you think you should be alone with this gentleman? Your parents might . . . Or worse, all of society here might . . .” He let the words drift.
“We were only discussing, um, moles, Your Grace,” the girl said, her awe apparent.
“Moles?” He was very good at ducal hauteur and disinterest mixed with distaste.
“Devious devils that can destroy a lifetime’s work,” Lawrence replied with fervor.
“The same could be said of a gentleman alone with a young lady,” Alex retorted.
Roxanne Vanderhaven, the not very deceased wife of the Earl of Paxton heard her dog bark, which made her smile. Maybe Alex had let Eddie loose, and her dog would give Lawrence a quick, viscious bite just below the ankle, where the flesh was most tender. At least then her husband would leave alive instead of suffering a heart seizure. Yes, she had spent the last quarter hour tempted beyond measure to rise from the dead to torture and terrify the living.
Where in hell was she? Alex restrained the silly mutt in his arms. He’d entered the castle’s side entrance a minute after her, only to find a sprawl of guests crowding through the main salon’s doors to the grand hall. He was afraid Roxanne hadn’t been able to escape unnoticed. Then, he’d found Eddie standing in front of the closed door, his head cocked to one side and his tail wagging.
Well, if she wasn’t in here, at least he would accomplish the one and only task he’d planned for this entire, ridiculous evening.
It had not been often that he had had the means to see through a brilliant idea in the past. But here and now, this was a true chef d’oeuvre that could not be denied. And a prank like this was just the sort he favored most.
He’d involved his valet in part of the scheme—the construction of the tiny lead canister now dangling from Eddie’s collar. But the rest of the plan was all Alex’s own. It harked back to his dark days as a courier in the French Hussars.
Both Paxton and Miss Tillworth had been silenced with his last comment. The girl looked like she’d give her eye teeth to be anywhere but in this chamber. At that same moment, Alex spied a hint of ruffled aubergine silk gown at the back corner of the ugly blue sofa.
He smiled.
“Your Grace, my lord,” Miss Tillworth said with the correct amount of color cresting her cheeks. “If you will excuse me, I must find my mother. And, um, thank you for your advice, Your Grace. You are entirely correct, of course.”
“I always am,” Alex replied. “And your extreme good sense shows by following my suggestions, like every other female I know, save one.” He could swear he heard a sigh coming from the vicinity of the sofa.
“Miss Tillman,” the earl inserted, “do be a dear and remind your parents that the barouche shall await all of us at half twelve.”
The soft click of the door behind her signaled the privacy Alex had desired.
“Kress, it is not as it appears—”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I did not realize I’d given you leave to address me so informally. An invitation to a soirée does not naturally confer . . .” Alex let his words drift in the stifling air in the room.
“Pardon me, Your Grace. I did not mean to cause—”
“None taken,” he interrupted. “None at all. In fact, I’d intended for us to become friends. Great friends. Are we not two of the most important gentlemen of distinction in Cornwall?”
The most divine look of confusion crossed the other man’s face. “Uh, yes, and of course, Helston, who is on an extended sailing voyage,” the earl replied, ill at ease.
“Well, then.” Alex slapped the idiot on his back, almost sending him flying. Eddie growled under his arm. “Good dog,” Alex said under his breath.
“I do not mean to take up any more of your time, Your, um,” the earl said, stopping just short of attempting an incorrect title.
“Not at all, Paxton. Do have a seat. I long for a good coze. Like two old biddies at their embroidery. Lovely posies, by the way.”
The man actually preened. “Thank you. I was hoping they would bloom this very morning so I could display them for you tonight. You have an interest in horticulture?”
“Not at all,” Alex replied, petting the dog. “What’s that sound?” He cocked his head.
The earl’s face grew flushed to the roots of his black hair. “A mouse?”
“I’d say it came from your intestines. I should know. The French are experts in digestion. Your condition isn’t surprising, really.”
“Surprising?”
“Well, everyone noticed you did not eat the dinner my great-aunt’s chef prepared so carefully in your honor since I understood you prefer plants to anything. It was a great insult actually.”
“I—I did not mean to imply—”
“Forget it, Paxton. You’re probably experiencing a crise de foie—a crisis of the liver. I’ll arrange for your dinner to be packed in a basket. You can write a long note detailing your appreciation to my great-aunt at your leisure.”
The earl’s eyes bounced from object to
object in the room, too uncomfortable to rest on his face. Alex sighed. The man was too stupid to even play the game.
“I’ve been pondering your obvious grief from the death of the countess.”
“She was the best of wives,” Paxton said with the clear-eyed, innocent gaze of an inveterate liar.
Eddie yowled.
The earl continued as if the dog had not made a sound. “I do miss her most dreadfully.”
Miss her boot polishing, thought Alex sourly upon examining the state of the earl’s footwear. “And so . . .”
“Yes?”
“Well, I thought you might like a token to remem—”
“What sort of—”
“I don’t like to be interrupted, Paxton,” Alex said interrupting the other man.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“You may call me Peter.”
“But I thought your name was . . .” The earl stopped abruptly. “Of course, Peter.”
“So I thought you might like a token,” Alex recommenced, glancing down at the dog in his arms.
Paxton had the most amusing expression of confusion mixed with horror in his countenance—as if he knew what the dog would do to the wilting concoction on his lapel if the earl dared to touch a single hair on Eddie.
“Oh, no, you misunderstand,” Alex continued. “I could not bear to part with the dog at present. Did you know he likes to sleep under the covers? How he doesn’t suffocate under all those bedclothes, I’ll never know.”
“You allow him in your bed?” The earl’s eyebrows were close to his hairline.
“Not at all. He sleeps with Mémé—my great-aunt. You must ask her to tell you all about it,” he continued. “Ah, but you have led me off course. I thought you might like his collar as a token. Perhaps you might like to place it on the hat’s grave.” Alex unbuckled the dog’s collar and handed it to the earl, who accepted it with two pinched fingers, as if it was contaminated with lice.
This would never do, thought Alex. The man would likely throw the thing away without a second glance. “Interesting tin ornament on the collar. I, of course, would never pry, but we have all of us been wondering what it signifies.”
Paxton darted his eyes to the article. “Oh, um, that. It’s merely a bit of tin,” he muttered a little too loudly as his eyes grew round with excitement. “You know my beloved wife’s father once held the largest string of tin and copper mines in the area near Redruth.”