Surrendering.
Melting.
Oh, God.
His desire was serrated. He liked the little bit of fear of not knowing what would happen next, or what she would do or say, or what he even actually wanted. He liked feeling awkward, being utterly at sea. He liked wanting her so much that he trembled from it, and he liked holding himself back.
He kissed her because he wanted to kiss her. Not because he knew, or hoped, it would lead to something else.
He coaxed her lips open with his, and oh so gently tasted just slightly the hot, wet, velvet sweetness of her mouth.
Her hands slid up to latch around his neck . . .
. . . and somehow he was falling; no, he was floating. He wasn’t memories or demands, he wasn’t duty or revenge; he thought he was his purest self, perhaps for the first time ever. And the world was just the heat and forbidden sweet taste of this woman, the tentative curl of her tongue around his, the deepening sensual demand, the stirring of his cock. And she knew, she knew, what she did to him, and what he wanted, because she fit against him, moved purposefully against the bulge in his trousers.
He sucked in a sharp breath as she hit his bloodstream all at once, like a shot of raw liquor.
She wanted this. He could feel her desire humming in the tension of her body, in the jagged tempo of her breathing as his hands moved over her back. Her head dropped back to allow him to take the kiss deeper, and she began to meet his demands with her own.
He slid his hands slowly, slowly down over her buttocks and brought her harder up against him.
Her little gasp of pleasure was the most beautiful, most carnal sound he’d ever heard.
He moved his lips to her throat, and her hammering pulse met them.
Her skin was a wonder of cream satin.
He began to furl up the back of her dress with trembling hands.
She unlatched her hands, rested them on his chest, then slid them up and slowly curled them into his shirt.
And she took her mouth from his and ducked her head.
Stunned and dazed, he protested softly, “Elise . . .”
And then she gently, but quite adamantly, pushed him away.
He staggered a step back.
She took about four steps back, just beyond the reach of his arms.
They stood about four feet apart on the carpet.
He blew out a breath to steady his breathing, to attempt to slow his heart.
His erection would take a little longer to subside.
Stunned silence followed.
He’d lost all sense of time. They might have regarded each other for a minute or an hour across that safe expanse of carpet.
“I can’t,” she said softly at last.
It sounded like a plea.
He couldn’t speak just yet.
“You must understand, Philippe, that I . . . I did not mean to give you the impression that I . . . that I am . . .”
“You didn’t,” he said, instantly absolving her from whatever her concerns were. “I took liberties. The fault is entirely mine.”
He congratulated himself on being able to speak, though his voice was hoarse and his head was still spinning, as surely as if he was still waltzing.
He didn’t ask her to explain. “I can’t” could mean anything at all. Her son, her station, a man. Anything.
She gave a short nod.
She was still breathing swiftly, and this he at least found gratifying.
“Should I apologize?” he asked softly.
She shook her head abruptly, vigorously.
He knew a rush of gratification.
“But I shall anyhow. I apologize for any distress you are feeling now, Elise. Perhaps it’s just . . . the waltz is considered very erotic.”
She gave a short laugh. “It is, the way you do it.”
He was so relieved to hear her laugh.
“Perhaps we were overcome. That is all.”
“Yes. And perhaps you were being French again.”
“Yes. This is the French version of the waltz, and I was being French.”
“You are going to be the talk of the ball on Saturday, then. And exhausted on Sunday.”
He laughed.
She laughed.
It was so painful to laugh, because this was perhaps the first time in his life he was laughing with a woman with whom he was in perfect sympathy and whom he would like to take to bed and thoroughly exhaust with every imaginable kind of lovemaking.
And see the next morning.
And see the morning after.
It seemed they’d exhausted all there was to say.
“Are you angry?” she ventured.
He was astonished.
“Am I ang . . . no. No. I’m not a beast, or a feudal lord who demands things of his servants, Mrs. Fountain. I am not angry. I will not make demands again.”
Although the question did make him a little angry.
He’d said all those words that erected the wall again. “Lord” and “servants” and “demands.” Partially in jest. Partially because the very fact that those walls existed did anger him, because this was a woman he wanted in a way he could not recall wanting any other.
Her hand rose, as if she meant to touch him, to placate him.
Then she dropped it.
Right back into its place.
Because everything had a place, of course.
“It will be better after the ball,” she said gently.
She was likely right.
This intensity of passion needed diluting. Surely it had banked to such a pitch due to proximity. And once he was surrounded again by his kind—the wealthy and well-bred, the effervescent sophisticated chatter, the skilled flirtation, the beautiful gowns, the bright eyes and kid gloves of the girls he ought to dance with and ought to kiss—perhaps he would be embarrassed by his yearning for a housekeeper.
But now she was so lovely that it was an ache in him. It felt so wrong to simply stand apart. When in two steps he could seize her in his arms again.
He knew he could persuade her. The skills in his romantic quiver could conquer any woman.
But he would never do that to her.
He straightened. “Of course,” he said.
He thought her face darkened then, but perhaps it was just a reflection of the day’s shifting shadows.
“Will that be all?” she asked.
“Yes, Mrs. Fountain. That will be all.”
Chapter 17
SINCE LONGING AND INNUENDO and thwarted desire had moved into the house and seemed to occupy every corner, it suddenly felt much too small, so Philippe decided to escape the bustle of assembly preparations and walk all the way to Postlethwaite’s Emporium to see if any correspondence had arrived.
He’d hoped time would blur the memory of that kiss. Instead, from the moment she’d said “I can’t” until now, it had grown more mythical.
“I can’t” didn’t necessarily mean she never would.
And he was so consumed with imagining this possibility that he was surprised to find himself at Postlethwaite’s; he scarcely remembered the walk over. He paused, testing, listening to his body. He was winded, but only slightly. He was aching, but not intolerably. And yet he was both winded and aching as a result of a simple walk across the downs. If six cutthroats leaped out at him now, they’d leave behind a dead man. The realization tightened his every muscle again in a surge of impatience, and he gave the door a more aggressive push than he might have otherwise.
The bells affixed to it leaped and jangled frantically.
Inside he nearly needed to shield his eyes from the dazzling array of shawls and bonnets, gloves of every hue, ribbons and bows and trims, glittering combs and pins and fans and reticules, things that glittered and glowed and gleamed, all
the kinds of things that made a feminine heart yearn. He smiled, somewhat grimly, thinking of Marie-Helene, and how she would exclaim over all of it. They were things she ought to have. The kinds of things he ought to be able to give her.
He turned his back on them abruptly, only to confront a spool of gleaming, claret red satin ribbon. His breath caught. He drifted toward it and caught the loose end, drew it slowly, languorously through his fingers, as if it were a strand of Elise’s hair finally unleashed. It would glow in her hair. It was merely a shade darker than her soft, soft mouth.
He dropped it abruptly.
Where on earth was Mr. Postlethwaite? Perhaps he was upstairs, availing himself of the chamber pot.
Opposite all the delightful female ephemera were a few things for gentlemen: cravats, stockings, gloves, and the like. He had no need for any of those at the moment.
Another shelf contained a very small selection of toys.
He paused and smiled and reached out to pluck up a wooden lion. Its whimsical little face was encircled with a mane fashioned of dyed wool, a stiff little tail protruded from its behind, and its legs were jointed.
He played with it for a moment, arranging it on the shelf in a pouncing position. “Rawwr,” he said very softly.
He pivoted when he heard a throat clear.
Postlethwaite was small, bespectacled, and, after he got one long, clearly educated look at Philippe, very nearly obsequious. The merchant could size up his customers in an instant, and he knew a lord when he saw one.
He bowed very low. “I am Mr. Postlethwaite, sir, at your service.”
“Lord Lavay, Mr. Postlethwaite. Will you kindly see if any correspondence has arrived for Alder House?”
“Of course, my lord. Straightaway, my lord.”
While Mr. Postlethwaite ducked into the back of his shop again, Philippe circulated idly again among the furbelows.
He paused in front of a case of combs and brushes. He knew so little about Elise. One of them was that she’d left home, a home she said she could not return to, with only a hairbrush.
One brush was tipped on its side, and he could read the initials on the back of it: ELF.
He frowned faintly.
A suspicion dawned.
Postlethwaite emerged with a few letters in his hand, and Philippe absently, wordlessly, reached out for them.
“Cunning little lion, isn’t it, Lord Lavay? And are you by any chance looking for a gift for a young lady?”
Philippe only half heard him. One of the letters was addressed in a hand he vaguely recognized.
He absently slit it open:
Dearest Philippe,
What a comfort and delight it is to hear your voice, if only by letter, though your handwriting has become prettier than mine! I will be in Sussex again before your assembly to see to my sister and visit with my cousins Lord and Lady Archembault, who are visiting with Lord Willam and his family. My hand will dream of its kiss, and I can think of no finer thing than to waltz with you.
Warmest regards,
Alexandra
Guilt pricked at him. The woman might very well be his future, but at the moment the idea of kissing Alexandra’s hand was jarring and farcical, and the very notion of it embarrassed him slightly, as if he were remembering something callow he’d done years ago, instead of just a short time ago. He half suspected that kissing Elise was the most genuine thing he’d ever done, and that everything in contrast seemed artifice.
Perhaps all he needed was to see Alexandra again.
He folded the letter and stuffed it into his coat pocket, all too aware that when he did, the muscles of his hand went taut.
“Yes, Mr. Postlethwaite. I believe I am looking for a gift. May I see the hairbrush, please?”
“Of course, my lord.” Postlethwaite unlocked the case and reached in, handing it to Philippe as if it had been a rare antique. Lavay took it gently, as gently as Elise had handed him that blue Sevres sauceboat, and drew his thumb over the initials tenderly. “Interesting story about this one,” Postlethwaite said. “A young lady traded it for two pairs of gentleman’s silk stockings, of all things.”
ELISE DROVE HER staff with relentless cheer. Enlisting the additional help of Henny, Evie’s maid (and promising her a healthy portion of Dolly Farmer’s salary), they set to work making Alder House ready for the festivities. The ballroom—really more of a large hall—was scrubbed and polished and cleaned to glittering opulence, the floors spotless and smooth and golden and nearly as bright as mirrors, the chandelier crystals buffed to icicle brilliance. A few potted plants had been obtained—she’d stretched the flower budget to get them; flowers had been acquired from local hothouses; and Seamus and a group of fellow musicians had been engaged to play in return for drinks and food and flirtation with the guests.
And she and Lord Lavay skirted each other, less in abashment, like the first time, than in the way one might be careful about getting too close to an open flame. It was a mercy. She herself felt as though the kiss had set her softly, permanently alight, and she was concerned it was obvious to everyone. She longed for a new word to describe the mixture of terror and elation she felt. Terration?
Elise reflected on the fact that up until she’d done the unthinkable and become, as Miss Marietta Endicott had said with some wry delicacy, with child, everyone would have thought her ordinary, if a little prone to speaking out of turn. But no: apparently she was destined to be tossed like flotsam and jetsam on a great stormy sea of romance, buffeted by feelings no mother of a six-year-old boy conceived out of wedlock ought to have, like joy and terror and lie-awake-in-the-dark-all-night lust. And then, awakening, wound in her sheets like some creature preparing to turn into a butterfly, sweaty from tossing and turning.
Because that kiss had not been a whim, or the frivolous impulse of the moment, or the stratagem of a practiced flirt, or simply because he was French. It had been a release of dammed longing and emotion, torturously sweet, erotic and terrifying all at once.
What she felt about Philippe bore as much resemblance to whatever she’d felt for Edward as an echo did to an actual voice. The anguish of that abandonment resounded still. What kind of woman would she be if she subjected her heart to that kind of risk again?
He of course didn’t want her at the expense of everything else he wanted.
Nor would she be the mistress. Ever. Not for her sake, and not for Jack’s.
She’d been provided with a list of guests to invite to the assembly—the Countess of Ardmay had advised Lord Lavay, naturally. Interestingly, it included all of the Everseas and all of the Redmonds currently present in Sussex—among other local personages who could be counted upon to enjoy themselves thoroughly and dance every dance and drink entertainingly to excess. She recognized most of the names. It was the sort of party she would never, in her current or former lives, be invited to attend. But she would see the glowing faces of women as they passed through the room they’d set aside for cloaks and for fixing trodden hems and coiffures. All women who would be free to dance with Lord Lavay.
And of course, the beautiful Lady Prideux was on the list.
Elise held that particular invitation in her hand as she would hold a snake.
And then she laughed, softly, in a sort of despair. Ironies abounded in her life, and Lady Prideux’s role in Elise’s seemed to have a second act.
And she thought of the expression on Philippe’s face when he said “home.”
She would do nearly anything, she thought, to make sure he had what he wanted.
It just couldn’t be her.
And so she took a deep breath, and into the stack of other invitations it went for the footmen to deliver by hand.
“YOU LOOK MANYAFEEK, sir.”
“If I look magnifique, my thanks to you, James. Congratulations again on winning the coin to
ss.”
Philippe’s mirror told him that he did, indeed, look magnifique, in a crisp, stark black coat and trousers, and a conservatively tied, spotless cravat billowing up out of a pewter-colored waistcoat. His face was ruthlessly shaved to a polish.
And thusly his footman-valet launched him back into his real habitat.
Philippe took the stairs slowly. The orchestra Mrs. Fountain had secured was playing a jaunty reel of sorts that gradually grew in volume, and the low hum of the mingled voices of his guests became more distinct, and as he reached the landing he took a long, deep breath. In came perfume and liquor, starch and bay rum, sweat, scandal. It was like that first hint of salt tang in the air before you actually see the ocean.
The scent of wealth.
The scent of his old life.
It was as second nature to him as the scent of the sea, and as peculiarly soothing. He knew precisely how to navigate it, and it had been too long since he’d done it.
He paused at the foot of the stairs, like a diver preparing to surface.
As a test, he tried to picture Alexandra, Lady Prideux, as he’d last seen her. He waited for . . . something. Something to lighten or stir in him. And his heart did seem at least a little gladdened by the idea of her, though it might simply be her association with happy memories. But he seized upon this with hope, because he had begun to fear that it would never stir for anyone or anything else but Elise Fountain.
HE WAS QUITE humbly surprised to feel proud of how splendid the house looked. The hall was awash with color and soft, dreamlike light, and everything and everyone seemed to glow. Smiles flashed brightly, silk and taffeta and the toes of boots gleamed, heels came down on the polished wood in the pleasing rhythm of a reel. He paused to savor it for a moment.
Alexandra was easy to see in the crowd.
She was impossible to miss; she’d always known how to dazzle. She had presence, but then, her very character was shaped by expectations she’d had since birth: that she would be lavished with attention. That people would court and enjoy and always welcome her.
It Started with a Scandal Page 18