Jacquie D'Alessandro - [Regency Historical 04]

by Never A Lady

  “The urn fell from the balcony.”

  Dr. Oliver pushed his way through the gathering crowd to join them. His gaze skimmed over Alex. “Were you injured?”

  “No.” Realization hit her and her knees wobbled. Dear God, if that stone urn had hit me…

  She closed her eyes, and Colin’s fingers tightened on her arms. The crowd was pressing closer, the chatter of voices rising.

  “Madame was not hurt,” Colin said, raising his voice to the guests.

  She opened her eyes and their gazes met, his a deep, burning green. “You saved my life,” she whispered.

  Before he could reply, Lord Ralstrom appeared. He peered at the mess through his quizzing glass, then said, “Extraordinary. No doubt the urn was moved for cleaning and not resituated properly. You have my deepest apologies, Madame Larchmont, and rest assured, I’ll find out who was responsible for such carelessness.”

  She swallowed, then nodded. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Is there a quiet room where Madame can recover herself?” Colin asked Lord Ralstrom in an undertone.

  “Of course. Follow me.”

  Several minutes later, ensconced in Lord Ralstrom’s private study, under the watchful eyes of Lady Victoria, Dr. Oliver, and Colin, Alex sipped brandy from a crystal snifter.

  “I don’t think this was an accident,” Colin said the moment Lord Ralstrom left the room.

  “My father ran to the gallery immediately,” Lady Victoria said. “If someone pushed that urn, Father will find him.”

  Colin crossed to the decanters and poured himself a generous finger of brandy and tossed back the potent liquor in a single swallow. Fire arrowed down his throat, infusing him with a heat he prayed would relax the tension gripping him.

  He closed his eyes, and an image of that urn teetering directly above Alexandra besieged him. The sick realization it was about to fall and that he’d never reach her in time. Perhaps someday he might recover from the stark terror of that moment, but today was not that day.

  Anger such as he’d never known ripped through him. Whoever had tried to hurt her would pay. He’d see to it.

  A knock sounded at the door and he opened his eyes. Lord Ralstrom’s butler showed Lord Wexhall into the room.

  “Well?” Colin asked without preamble.

  “The gallery was empty,” Wexhall reported, “but given the dimness of the area, someone could have pushed the urn without being seen, then escaped through any number of doorways or down the back stairs.”

  Colin’s gaze roamed over Alexandra, who, although pale, appeared unscathed. He’d purposely forced himself to keep some space between them since entering the room so as not to simply snatch her into his arms and never let go. Which is precisely what he itched to do right now. Which meant he needed a task.

  “As Alexandra is unharmed,” he said, “I’d like to search the gallery myself. I’ll let you know if I discover anything.”

  After a thirty-minute search of the gallery that yielded nothing, he returned downstairs. The instant he stepped into the drawing room, where the party had resumed in full swing, he felt someone’s gaze burning into his back. Turning, he found himself face-to-face with Logan Jennsen.

  “Is she really all right?” Jennsen asked.

  Colin’s fingers clenched. “Yes.”

  The American raised his brows at Colin’s clipped tone. “I’d like to see her. Do you know where she is?”

  “I do. But as I said, she’s fine. There’s no need for you to see her.”

  For several long seconds, tense silence bounced between them. Then Jennsen said in a low tone, “From what I hear, you’ll be returning to Cornwall very soon with one of these fancy Society ladies as your wife. I’m a patient man—and Alexandra is worth the wait.” He offered Colin a cold smile. “Luckily for both her and I, I’m not a slave to some lofty English title. Good evening, Sutton.”

  Colin watched him walk away, sick with the knowledge that Jennsen was absolutely right.

  Alex forced a smile and bid good night to Lord Wexhall, Lady Victoria, and Dr. Oliver in the foyer of the Wexhall town house, then climbed the stairs to her bedchamber on legs that felt like stone, eternally grateful the evening had finally ended. They’d departed once Colin had returned to the library after his unsuccessful search of the gallery. Between the accident and the hours beforehand, when she’d watched all those women flirt with him, she’d had enough. If she’d been forced to endure watching one more woman batting her eyelashes at him, she would have—

  She blew out a long sigh. Done nothing.

  For there was nothing to be done. Except swallow her sadness and smile and pretend that it didn’t matter, didn’t hurt so badly she could barely breathe that another woman would soon have the man she so foolishly and desperately wanted for herself.

  Adding to her misery was the fear that their interlude might already be over. He’d said it would end when he decided upon a wife—had he chosen tonight which woman to pursue?

  Except for immediately after the accident, he’d certainly avoided her all night. Hadn’t approached her fortune-telling table. Hadn’t spoken to her. Her gaze had sought him out more times than she cared to count, but as far as she could tell, although he remained close by for safety’s sake, he never looked her way. Even when she departed the party with the Wexhall group, he’d merely offered her a formal bow, a polite good night, happiness that she wasn’t hurt, and his usual inscrutable expression. He’d made no move to kiss her hand—to so much as touch her—and as much as she tried to convince herself otherwise, his cool detachment hurt deeply.

  Where was the man who’d desired her so fiercely just that morning? Who’d been unable to keep from touching her? Whose eyes had burned with want for her? There’d been no sign of him tonight. In his place he’d left an aloof stranger who hadn’t looked at her with the slightest sign of desire. Indeed, it had taken an urn’s nearly crushing her for him to show any emotion at all.

  She walked slowly down the corridor, misery gripping her stomach. Clearly, although still concerned for her, he’d already tired of her. Seeing her in the same room with all those glittering Society diamonds had, of course, shown her up as the paste imitation she was, a comparison clearly not lost upon him.

  Emma’s warnings filtered through her mind. Ye know that a man like him would only take ye then leave ye…toss ye aside like yesterday’s trash. Ye know yer heart’ll get broke.

  Yes, she’d known. Known their affair, this fairy tale, would end. She simply hadn’t thought it would end so soon. Or that its demise would hurt this horribly. Hadn’t considered that she’d have to see him again after they’d parted ways. It was one thing for propriety’s sake to pretend at a soiree that there was nothing between them. It was quite another to pretend she felt nothing because their relationship was now…nothing. The prospect of maintaining the charade that everything was fine in front of his family, here at the Wexhall home, tied her insides in cramping knots.

  Damn it, she wanted to go home. To her home. Where everything was familiar. Where she had a purpose. Where she was needed. The Wexhall party was next week. The instant it ended, she intended to go back where she belonged.

  She entered her bedchamber, then leaned back against the wood panel. Her eyes slid closed and a weary sigh escaped her.

  “Lock the door.”

  She gasped, her eyes popping open at the soft, deep-voiced command that rose from the darkened corner. Although she couldn’t see him, there was no mistaking Colin’s voice, and a tremor tingled through her.

  Heart pounding, her gaze scanning the shadows, she reached behind her, and fumbled for the ornate key protruding from the keyhole. When her fingers closed around the cool metal, she turned her wrist. The quiet click of the lock slipping into place reverberated through the room. And in that instant the lock she’d kept around her heart opened and a flood of emotion swamped her. Emotion she could no longer deny.

  She loved him.

  Completely. Irrevocab
ly. And utterly hopelessly.

  The words I love you rushed to her lips, and she clenched her jaw to silence them. Voicing useless words of love to a man with whom she had no future would do nothing save humiliate her and make both of them uncomfortable.

  “Move in front of the fire.”

  The husky order came from near the wardrobe, but she could not make out his form in the deep shadows. Storing away her newly minted realization of love, she walked slowly toward the fireplace on legs that felt less than steady. The low flame glowing in the grate warmed her back when she halted—a heat she did not need, as it suddenly felt as if fire surged through her veins.

  Questions hovered on her tongue, but her throat felt too dry to utter them. She stared at the far corner of the room and watched a dark form detach from the shadows. He walked toward her, slowly, like a predator stalking its prey, stopping just beyond an arm’s length away from her.

  Her gaze moved down his body, over his white shirt, opened at the throat. Snug black breeches hugged his long, strong legs and were tucked into low black boots. He looked dark, delicious, and more than a little dangerous. Raising her gaze, she looked into his eyes and stilled. His earlier cool detachment was replaced with a glittering hunger that made it instantly clear why he was here.

  He wanted her.

  Relief nearly staggered her, and she braced her knees, her body and senses leaping to life. She licked her dry lips to moisten them and noted that his gaze followed the movement, his eyes burning like twin braziers at the gesture.

  “Colin—”

  He touched a single fingertip to his lips. “Shhhh. Don’t speak,” he whispered. “Don’t move.”

  She swallowed her words and watched him walk to the dressing table next to the wardrobe. He returned carrying an armless, high-backed upholstered chair which he carefully set about eight feet in front of her. With his gaze hot and steady on hers, he sat, in a lazy, lounging position in complete contrast to the tension she sensed emanating from him. He spread his legs and rested his hands on his thighs, drawing her gaze downward. There was no mistaking the outline of his arousal against his snug breeches.

  “Take off your gown.”

  The silky command snapped her gaze back to his. His dark head rested on the pale green moiré chair back, and his hooded gaze burned into hers.

  Heat stabbed her, settling low in her belly. The way he was looking at her…as if he were ravenous and intended to make her his next meal, pooled moisture between her legs. She raised her hands, noting they weren’t quite steady, and unfastened her gown. Everything in her wanted to rush, but she forced herself to move with a deliberate lack of haste, filled with a surge of excitement she’d never before known at his rapt, intense expression.

  When she’d undone her buttons, she slowly skimmed the garment down her body to her hips, where she released it to pool around her ankles. Backlit by the fire, she knew he could see every contour of her body through her thin chemise.

  “Very nice,” he murmured. “Keep going.”

  A tremor skittered through her, one she now, thanks to him, recognized as arousal. Using the same unhurried pace, she slipped the chemise down her body, where it joined her gown around her ankles, leaving her clothed in only her drawers, stockings, and shoes. Her nipples tightened, aching for his mouth, his hands, and she arched her back toward him.

  “Beautiful,” came his husky murmur. His gaze flicked to her drawers. “Keep going.”

  Taking slow, deep breaths to steady her racing heartbeat, she leaned down to untie the ribbons at her knees, then slipped the cotton garment down her legs. Standing before him, his gaze meandering down her form, she felt the hard, heavy pulse of her heartbeat reverberating through her entire body. In her head. In her belly. Between her legs.

  “Step away from the clothes.”

  Her knees shook as she stepped over the poof of material. His gaze tracked slowly downward and she wondered if his next request would be to remove her stockings and shoes.

  “Exquisite. Take down your hair.”

  Reaching up, she pulled the pins from her chignon, dropping the small fasteners onto her pile of clothing. After she removed the last pin, she shook her head and the thick coil unfurled down her back. The ends brushed her bare hips, shooting a decadent shiver through her.

  “Touch your breasts.”

  Heat sizzled through her, setting her cheeks on fire with a combination of embarrassment and titillation.

  “Don’t be embarrassed, Alexandra,” he said in a husky whisper. “Not with me.”

  Drawing a shaky breath, she raised her hands and cupped her breasts, filling her palms with their weight.

  “How do they feel?”

  She had to swallow to find her voice. “Soft. Aching.”

  “Good. Now caress them. As you would want me to.”

  She brushed her hands over her sensitive nipples, then rolled the aroused peaks between her fingers. Need curled through her, tugging at the heavy, moist folds between her thighs.

  “Don’t stop,” he whispered.

  She obeyed him, toying with her breasts, teasing her nipples, basking in the fire burning in his gaze. A fire that dissolved any lingering hesitancy. Her lips parted with her quickened breaths. Never had she felt so wicked, so wanton.

  “Slide your hands down.”

  The heated desire in his eyes, the harsh need in his voice, urged her on, stripping away the last of her inhibitions. Splaying her fingers, she stretched to her full height and slowly dragged her palms down her torso, stopping when her fingertips brushed the curls between her thighs.

  “Lower.”

  She skimmed her hands downward until her palms rested on her upper thighs.

  “Spread your legs.

  Heart pounding, she did as he asked, knowing what he would ask next.

  “Touch yourself.”

  Scarcely daring to breathe, she slid one hand between the crease of her thighs. When her fingers brushed over the exquisitely sensitive nub of flesh, she gasped softly.

  “How do you feel?”

  She licked her dry lips. “Wet. Hot.” Her gaze settled on the huge bulge between his widespread legs. “Impatient.” He made a low sound that resembled a growl. His hips shifted upward in a slow thrust, and her inner walls clenched in response. “Empty,” she whispered.

  Colin gritted his teeth against his own impatience, which scraped against his every nerve. Greedy, raw need tensed his every muscle. He’d forced himself not to touch her, to wait, knowing the instant he put a hand on her, his tight rein on his control would snap. The sight of her, naked, aroused, bathed in gold from the firelight, her hair a rumpled cloud of shiny curls, touching herself, pushed him beyond the limits of his endurance.

  “Come here,” he said in a voice he’d never heard before.

  A wicked gleam lit her eyes, and she slowly shook her head. “No.” Settling her hands on her thighs, she nodded her chin toward his chest. “Take off your shirt.”

  A rumble of admiring laughter vibrated in his throat even as heat scorched him at her soft command. Without taking his gaze from her, he slowly unfastened his shirt, then pulled the tails from his breeches to spread the material wide. After shrugging the white linen from his shoulders, he dropped the garment to the floor.

  “Lovely,” she whispered. “That fine line of dark hair that bisects your abdomen is…fascinating.” He was tempted to thank her, but he seemed to have lost his voice. Her gaze tracked down the center of his torso to his groin, and an image flamed into his mind, of her tracing that same path with her lips. “Remove your boots.”

  Leaning down, he obeyed, then straightened after tossing the footwear next to his discarded shirt. He pressed his heels firmly against the soft rug to keep from jumping up and simply grabbing her.

  “Is there any part of you that isn’t beautiful?” she mused softly, studying his bare feet. Before he could ask the same about her, she raised her gaze to his. “Open your breeches.”

  With unstea
dy hands, he unfastened the two rows of side buttons. His erection sprang free, rising up his belly. He felt the lingering, heated look she gave his hard length like a caress. His arousal jerked, and he gripped the edges of the chair in his rapidly losing battle for control.

  “Magnificent.” Her eyes glittered. “Take them off.”

  Watching her, he raised his hips and pushed down the snug material. The effort to move slowly cost him, and by the time he finished, he was breathing hard. He leaned back and assumed his previous lazy, slightly slumped position—one that completely belied the tense anticipation gripping him and the fire licking under his skin.

  “Spread your legs. Wide.” After he’d done so, her gaze met his. “Touch yourself. As you would want me to.”

  Forcing slow shallow breaths into his lungs, he reached down and touched two fingers to the base of his shaft, then dragged them slowly upward. When he reached the engorged head, he circled the sensitive tip, then slid slowly back down his length.

  “How do you feel?” she whispered, her gaze riveted on his lightly stroking fingers.

  “Hard. Hot. Impatient.” The words came out in a low growl. “Dry.”

  Her gaze rose to his, and in a single look something passed between them. Something more profound than mere intimacy and desire. Something he couldn’t name…because he’d never felt it before.

  Without a word, she moved toward him, not stopping until her shins lightly bumped the front of the chair. “Dry?” she murmured. “Perhaps I can help.”

  She lowered herself to her knees, then gently moved his hand aside. Leaning forward, she ran her tongue up the length of his shaft.

  His stalled heart jumped back to life, slamming against his ribs, and he sucked in a hissing breath. His eyes seemed to glaze over, and in a haze of heated lust he watched her tongue circle the head of his penis, capturing the pearly drop of fluid weeping from the tip with a wet flick.

  His head hit the back of the chair, and a long groan rattled in his throat. He tunneled his fingers through her hair, transfixed by the erotic sight and sensation of her moist lips closing over him. It was the height of physical intimacy, yet somehow, at this moment, not enough.