by Stacy Reid
Her inquisitiveness drummed even louder. He had not reacted to her sweeping statements like Hoyt and Elisabeth. Perhaps there was hope for a kindred soul, after all.
“Worse, there is nothing here to dazzle the senses,” Phillipa ventured cautiously, watching Anthony’s expression.
“I am sure there must be other pleasures that rouse your interest.” He returned the intensity of her gaze.
“I find London society exceedingly dull,” she assured him.
He seemed to deeply consider her. “And what is it that will lift this banality for you?”
There was no hesitation in her response. “Freedom.”
A frown creased his forehead. “Are you not free? Where are your shackles?”
“The shackles of society are invisible, but they are there, as surely as irons.”
She gasped as he spun her into a dizzying twirl. A primitive thrill surged through her at how he controlled the rhythm of their movements. She flowed with him, surrendering her body to his, trusting that he would keep her safe.
The sudden realization that she trusted him rattled her. But Elisabeth was right. He thawed her frozen soul.
“Tell me of this freedom you desire,” he coaxed.
The need to share swelled inside her. She tamped down on it ruthlessly, her gaze roving over his face, trying to garner his intentions. Her heart thudded. She saw only genuine curiosity.
Trepidation rushed through her. What if he was interested in her as a suitor?
Both dread and elation filled her at the thought.
“I yearn for more than what society offers. There are times I feel I am being suffocated. My aunt had a conniption because I insist on riding astride. My youngest sister, Phoebe, cannot dine with us adults, even if we are alone. What balderdash! I want to sail the oceans, ride a camel, explore the ruins of Venice, and eat French pastries for breakfast! ” She gave him a conspiratorial smile, and she leaned in closer. “Have I shocked you yet, my lord?”
“I profess the French pastries were a near thing,” he drawled.
She giggled.
“You cannot shock me, Phillipa. I have, indeed, already endured this very conversation with Constance.”
She gave him a quizzical look.
“My sister. My brother, Sebastian, and I had to make a place for her in the dining room. She was only six at the time. She categorically refused to eat alone.”
“I like her already. And this was allowed?”
“Our fath—” She felt a sudden tension roil through his frame. “Our father refused. But Constance has a way of opening her big eyes and filling them with tears that would soften the heart of the most hard-hearted jade. And Sebastian championed her. So, yes, it was allowed.”
“From your tone, I assume you did not champion her?” Phillipa questioned tartly.
“Of course I did.”
She studied him. There was something behind that carefully bland expression. “But if you were the one who championed her, it did not matter?” she ventured.
His shutters slammed into place so suddenly she felt startled. They whirled in silence for a few seconds. She felt unsure how far to push. He had been so warm and teasing, and she, of all people, understood the need for protective walls.
“Tell me more of your desire for freedom,” he said.
His closed expression challenged her to understand him. She knew she should tread carefully, lest she reveal too much. But she’d never felt such enjoyment from a simple conversation. Or, perhaps not so simple.
“I yearn for an adventure,” she confessed. “There are days I think I will go mad from boredom.” She met his gaze, showing him a little more of herself, hoping he would show something of himself in return. “And I have no desire to marry, to be confined by the strictures of a husband.”
She waited, holding her breath. But he did little more than smile, and say, “Ah.”
“You are not shocked by that?”
“You will need more than a yearning for adventure to titillate my dissolute tastes. Even though, I am truly appalled that you might consider eating French pastries for breakfast, Phillipa. It should at least be a British confectionary.”
Laughter pulsed from her. “I said the same thing to Lord Hoyt in the presence of my aunt and his sister. His sister, the Lady Henrietta, sank into the most perfected swoon I have ever witnessed, and my aunt berated me for upsetting her so. She said I must have overwrought nerves brought on by the noonday sun. I didn’t bother to point out we were experiencing the dreariest of weather.”
Anthony pulled Phillipa closer, enough so that her thighs brushed against his. She knew he was holding her much closer than was considered proper, and a small thrill vibrated through her.
“I thought you would love to have a little adventure right under their noses,” he murmured in her ear.
She laughed, but a wave of heat shimmered between their bodies. It kissed over her skin, igniting a thrum of need within her. With stunning dexterity, he waltzed her through the French doors onto the terrace, and maneuvered her into the enclosed gardens.
“Anthony.”
“No one noticed in this crush. I assure you,” he said.
She came to an abrupt halt, withdrawing her hands from his. “Why have you brought me out here?” She was proud that her voice held none of the turbulence and uncertainty she felt.
“I thought to take you on an adventure.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that must be experienced.”
She looked into his eyes. They gleamed much too wickedly, and she instinctively took a step backward, toward the lighted ballroom. “My need for adventure must be tempered with good sense, as my aunt continuously pontificates,” she retorted.
He took a step backward, into a dark alcove. He lifted a hand to her. “Come.”
The strains of the music lingered in the air, its sensual notes tempting her to take his hand again. He beguiled her. She worried he could see it, and she agonized over what to do. “And if I refuse?”
“I will discreetly escort you back inside.”
God help her, but she believed him. Without allowing herself to think, she grasped his hand, and the smile that curved his lips heated her inside. He slid his arm around her waist, drawing her closer yet. The open strains of the waltz drifted into the garden.
He drew her deeper into the shadows. A gate stood open to a secret, hidden, tall-hedged garden, and her heart slammed painfully as he led her in and closed the gate. Its hinges creaked and she jumped, betraying her nervousness.
She looked around with a false calm at the stone benches and the walls adorned with vines. They ran riot and covered a long stretch of wooden trellises. A fountain stood in the middle of the inner garden. The darkness cocooned them, and the moonlight barely glinted off his golden locks.
She took a deep breath, her nerves tingling.
He shrugged out of his jacket and splayed it on a cold stone bench. “Sit.”
For some reason she could hardly fathom, she did as he asked. The satin skirt of her gown crinkled in the quiet night.
Slowly, he untied his cravat.
Uncertainty made her surge to her feet. “What are you doing?”
“Sit down, Phillipa.”
Her heart thundered, and she sat back down, half terrified, half thrilled.
“Are you ready for an adventure that will make you forget the banality of life, if only for a few fleeting moments?” he drawled.
The humor in his tone relaxed her, and she knew instinctively that if she said no, he would stop whatever he had in mind.
“Yes.”
She did not resist when he circled her wrists and tied them together with his silken cravat. The way he studied her, it seemed as if he was testing her reaction. She shivered as he arranged her so she reclined on the stone bench, placing her bound hands above her head, tying them to the vines that hung from the walls. A disconcerting surge of excitement whipped through her at the wicked heat gleaming i
n his gaze.
He sat on the other end of the bench, and she desperately wanted to see his face. She could feel the heat of his regard, as it seared through her. Yet, she trusted him.
She bit her lips hard until they stung. She’d trusted Orwell, as well, and look where that had gotten her. They were both lords, belonging to the same set of social values and perceptions.
“What adventure is there to be found with me tied to a trellis?” She could not disguise the tremor in her voice. What was she doing?
Anthony leaned over her, his body almost blanketing hers. His eyes glittered with something she could not identify. “I will not take your maidenhead. I swear to you,” he whispered against her lips, then claimed them in a brief but alarmingly pleasurable kiss.
She froze. Her muscles locked. My maidenhead?
“Isn’t this what you wanted? Adventure?” He gave her a lazy, roguish smile. He kissed her again, sharp and brief.
Oh, God. Was this what she wanted? Adventure, yes. To be free, yes. But could she trust his word?
She believed with all her heart he was nothing like Orwell, or even Lord Hoyt. But what if she was wrong?
“If you are uncomfortable, I will release you,” Anthony said, “and I will ensure you arrive back inside without being seen.”
His promise and lack of pressure reassured her as nothing else could. She prayed she wouldn’t regret her impulsiveness…but she wanted to experience this with him. Whatever he had planned for her.
Her voice was husky when she spoke. “Take me on your adventure, Anthony.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, searching her face. When it appeared he found what he probed for, a smile touched his lips, and he eased back into the darkness. She waited in an agony of anticipation and need for his touch. It came on her ankles. She groaned, melting with desire. The soft, satiny feel of her gown slid sensually against her skin accompanied by the crackle of petticoats as he pushed them to her waist.
His rough chuckle rolled over her. “It seems you have already started on your adventure. No bloomers, Miss Peppiwell?”
She laughed shakily. “Not wearing any is my way of thumbing my nose at the haughty ladies of Society.”
The quirk of his lips was pure, heated sensuality. She gazed at him, enthralled by her own nakedness. And by the way he looked at her. The cool night air kissed her skin, but it did little to calm the fire that burned inside her. She was painfully aroused and gripped by emotions she had never felt before. Her skin was fevered. She pulsed with wetness, though he had not touched her intimately as yet.
He parted her legs, and she felt suddenly vulnerable as she lay before him, completely exposed. Her heart thundered, and she shivered as the breeze cooled her burning skin.
She admitted she wanted him. There was an ache, deep and unrelenting, inside her that she wanted to be filled and banished, and only by him. Yet, a knot of doubt held her from releasing the passion that bumped so insistently at her resistance.
Confusion marred her brows. What was he doing? He anchored her splayed thighs to his shoulders and dipped his head, kissing her deeply in the sensitive place between her legs. Her back bowed and an unfettered shriek ripped from her lips. A pleased rumble escaped him at the sound of her choked gasp.
Shock and arousal vied for equal attention. Her hips moved rhythmically as his lips ignited her most intimate nerve endings, the pleasure sharp and searing. She tugged at the silken restraints but her actions merely tightened the cravat. She was desperate to do something, to hold the head that was tormenting her so erotically between her legs.
His mouth pressed deeper between her thighs, doing the most sinfully delicious act, one she could never have imagined. Fire scalded her body as she met his eyes over the length of her body. His tongue rimmed her entrance, and she whimpered. The green of his eyes glittered, and he intensified the erotic kiss, stabbing his tongue deep within her.
Her mind hazed from the undiluted heat his tongue generated. The desire he roused felt dark and needy, and it scared her. She had never felt anything like the inferno that raged through her whole body under his skillful ministrations. Yet she felt as if this was only the beginning.
The sensuality that stamped his face as he rose above her had her arching her hips in needy welcome. “You are so wonderfully responsive, Phillipa.” He crooned against her lips before claiming them.
She moaned, tasting herself on his lips. Her hips rolled in hunger, and she desperately wanted to be filled. She’d felt pleasure before, but had never encountered anything quite like this—this was fire.
She frantically tugged at the restraints, wanting to grip his head and feast on his mouth. She growled in frustration as they wouldn’t yield. Shivers racked her frame, and she became painfully aware of the hands that rested so casually against her quivering stomach.
He pulled his lips slowly from her.
A fiery blush heated her face. “You are diabolical, my lord.”
The seriousness of his gaze forced her to focus. “If you do not desire marriage, then what do you need?” His voice was rough with arousal.
She hesitated. “To do what I wish, where I want, when I want, without condemnation.” She could not disguise the raw ache in her voice for more, for him. “Please,” she urged.
He snaked his hands down and cupped her mons possessively. “What do you wish to do?”
Excitement thundered through her. “I will not be your mistress. I will never be anyone’s mistress,” she said.
“What will you be to me, then?”
“Your lover,” she rushed out, shocked at her own declaration. “I do not desire marriage, nor wealth, nor your protection. But, I want you, Anthony. I want to explore what is between us without fear or recriminations.”
“And when your husband discovers your lack of maidenhead?”
She willed her body to relax under the tension that gripped her. Words begged to tumble from her lips, but instead she said, “I will never marry. I could not bear to be so confined.” She let the honest desire bleed from her gaze, lowering her barriers so he could see truth.
A frown chased his features but quickly disappeared.
Her breathing stilled when his fingers combed through her saturated curls to find the core of her pleasure. His thumb flicked against her nub and pressed. Her hips surged, and her body wept for him.
He took her lips and drank in her cries, his finger teasing the rim of her entrance without delving in, his thumb circling her knot of pleasure. Her hips strained against his hands, and she mewled into his mouth in edgy desire, desperate to feel fulfillment.
His kiss deepened as he worked two fingers into her swollen core. She yelped against his lips, tugging at the silken bonds, twisting as pain pinched her, mingling deep with the pleasure.
“I am not an easy lover. I want to sink my cock into the tightness of your body until you beg me to stop because of the burn. But I won’t stop, and then you will be begging for me to take you hard, as the pleasure ignites within you.” He twisted his fingers, working them inside her deeper, his thumb still circling her knot of pleasure.
Waves of delight swamped her senses and when she exploded in ecstasy, she did so soundlessly, stunned by the way he brought her to the pinnacle of ecstasy.
After long moments of endless pleasure, she floated back, and he deftly untied his cravat. He pulled down her dress and eased her into a sitting position. Sensuality was etched in his features, but there was an aloofness there that unsettled her.
Without giving much thought to her actions, she rose from the bench and pressed her lips against his. He stilled, and then his arms slowly banded around her, deepening the press of their lips. Her soft sigh was swallowed by his lips. She needed it, the gentleness after the storm he had just carried her body through. His tongue twined with hers in deep, languorous strokes. Her shivers subsided and lethargy invaded her limbs. His retreat was slow, as if he was unwilling to release her.
“I do not share,” he said a
gainst her lips.
She smiled, her heart surging with a sort of gladness. “Neither do I,” she responded, tipping to nip at his ear. “I want adventures. I want to tour the teeming life that is London. I want to visit the famed Decadence gaming hall and watch the women dance the cancan.”
“I do not think it is adventure you seek.”
She arched a brow, admiring the way the moonlight threw his patrician features into sharp masculine beauty.
“You desire complete ruination, Miss Peppiwell.”
“Is this disapproval I hear from the man who just lifted my skirts and kissed me between my thighs on a stone bench at Lady Blade’s soiree?”
“Never,” he assured her. “I heartily approve of your wicked behavior, my sweet.”
She loved how easily he laughed. “How will we meet? My aunt chaperones me almost all the time. She may be searching for me, even now.”
“You won’t be missed in this crush.”
He spun her around, and she held still as he artfully rearranged her hair. He did so with an expertise that flummoxed her. “It is unusual for a gentleman to know how to coif a lady’s tresses.” She wondered if he’d done these sorts of things with his mistresses.
He grunted. “I have a sister.”
She twisted around, trying to make out his features in the moonlight. “You arranged your sister’s hair?”
“Constance has an inquiring spirit. She was the youngest, and as secluded as we were at Sherring Cross, it fell to me and my brother to entertain her, which included a lot of designing her hair to befit a princess.”
He nudged Phillipa to indicate he was finished, and she turned to him, captivated. “So you played tea parties?”
He gave a lazy smile. “We did everything with Constance. We dressed her hair, played with dollies, and had tea parties with the Queen and her ladies in waiting. Believe me, it was a blessing when it evolved into swimming and fencing.”
“She sounds very accomplished.” Phillipa inhaled, then plowed ahead. “Anthony, why do you want me?”