Beyond A Wicked Kiss

by Jo Goodman

  Twenty minutes later, she was still conscious of her breathing. It did not matter that her eyes were still closed—she was as thoroughly awake as she had been before she'd taken her bath.

  "Bloody hell," she said under her breath. It was a credible imitation of the intonation West used when he had occasion to curse. She found it deeply satisfying. "Bloody, bloody hell."

  Pushing herself upright, Ria relighted the lamp and picked up the book she had taken from the library after breakfast. Scott's Guy Mannering had held her interest through three chapters this morning, but now she could not gather sufficient concentration to go on. After reading, then rereading, the same half-dozen pages, Ria finally gave up and set it aside.

  She threw back the covers and took her flannel robe from the foot of the bed and put it on. Her slippers had been placed at a practical distance from the bed so that all she had to do was step into them. The fireplace was her immediate destination, and she chose a poker from among the fire irons and jabbed at the logs until a great flame jumped from between them, and they were burning evenly again.

  Satisfied she would not catch a chill, Ria turned her attention to the window. The heavy maroon velvet drapes denied her a view of the starkly beautiful winter landscape. Through a slender parting in the panels, she could see that the moonlight was uncommonly bright this evening. The hem of her own nightdress was frosted by silver-blue light wherever it was touched by one of the slim bands of moonshine.

  Ria pulled back each panel and secured it against the wall with the matching velvet sash. She knelt on the upholstered window bench and rested her arms on the narrow sill. Her breath clouded a pane of glass at first, then slowly disappeared.

  The breadth of the landscape never failed to astonish her. This panoramic view of the estate was at once familiar and foreign, the former because she knew every curve in the ribbon of the road and in the lay of the land, the latter because each time she visited this place, the exploration of the countryside seemed as novel to her as the first.

  Compliments of the recent snow and this full moon's light, the fields were awash in crystalline splendor. The crests of drifted snow sparkled, and the long boughs of the firs were swept gracefully downward by the weight of the snow. Several deer wandered cautiously away from the wood in search of food. Farther still in the distance was the lake. Iced over, it was almost indistinguishable from its surroundings, but Ria knew where to look for it. She stared at it for a long moment, toying to make out its perimeter, when a movement along its southern bank captured her attention.

  At first she thought it was deer come looking for water. The size, though, puzzled her. She rubbed at the glass with the sleeve of her robe to erase the last vestige of condensation. When the clarity of her view still did not satisfy, Ria threw open the window.

  The air was bracing, and the first icy gust shivered the drapes and flattened Ria's robe and nightdress against her chest. A moment later, the wind stilled, and Ria could draw a full breath. She leaned out the window, her pale braid falling forward over her shoulder so that it hung like an icicle.

  Eyes narrowed, her stare intent, Ria was able to make out the shape of horse and rider. She could not be sure that it was Draco and West, but intuitively she knew it to be true. To what purpose would a stranger detour from the road and go down to the lake? Moreover, to that particular curve in the lake's bank? She wondered that he had the courage to go there. It must be a place fraught with unpleasant memories. She had not often gone back, and her memories were rather more vague than she suspected his would be.

  Ria's right hand lifted absently, and she massaged the back of her neck. When she realized what she was doing, she smiled a trifle wryly and let her fingers fall away. An old habit, she thought, one that gave her an odd sort of comfort when those uncertain and unsettling memories came to the forefront of her mind.

  She watched for as long as she could withstand the cold. She followed West's progress away from the lake and back up to the road and lost sight of him in one of the curves. By the time he reappeared, she was shaking with the effort to stay in the open frame of the window. Her fingers were stiff and clumsy when she reached for the latch, but she managed to secure it after a few attempts. Hugging herself until she reached the fireplace, Ria thrust her hands as close to the flames as she dared. Droplets of water fell to the floor from where the end of her damp braid had actually frozen and was now melting. Ria unplaited her hair and combed through it with her fingers.

  He was finally returning. The realization had the power to ease Ria's mind as well as disturb it. She remembered his clipped and chilly accents from the previous night when she told him she could think of no reason she would have to trouble him again. Then you underestimate yourself, he had said. I'm certain something will occur to you if you apply yourself.

  God's truth, but she was out of patience with him for being right.

  * * *

  West let himself into his room and found Finch was waiting up for him, or nearly so. The valet was snoring softly in a wing chair that had been pushed close to the fireplace. Finch's plump arms rested comfortably on the curve of his belly, and his feet were propped on a three-legged stool. West woke him by stomping his boots rather loudly, because to let him sleep on would have been the graver insult.

  Finch was at the ready immediately, and West pretended not to have noticed there had been a moment's inattention to his duties. They had gotten on well for years in such a manner, and West was confident that so it would go.

  "Was there much in the way of speculation regarding my absence?" he asked as Finch unwound his stock.

  "Enough that I felt compelled to start a wager book."

  West ignored that dry retort. "Did Miss Ashby ask after me?"

  "No."

  "That either proves that she is learning some restraint or that she concluded for herself where I had gone."

  "I suspect it is the latter," Finch said as he assisted West out of his frock coat. "She impresses as being capable of deciphering your cryptic missive."

  "I also suspect it is the latter, but that is because I cannot conceive she has mastered restraint."

  "She has not yet bloodied your nose. That is always a good sign."

  West frowned. "You will have to explain that remark. I have treated her in every way respectfully. She has had no—" He stopped because Finch's rounded countenance was clearly skeptical. "What have you heard below stairs? No doubt there is gossip."

  "It seems you were caught out in a provocative pose."

  "Provocative? What the devil does that mean? I was kissing her."

  Finch shrugged. "Provocative is how they're telling it in the kitchen. Mr. Hastings—he is the first butler—has been disapproving of such talk, but it goes on outside of his hearing. Some of the speculation is that you went off to secure a special license."

  "Swear you are jesting."

  "If you insist."

  West groaned softly. "You did not encourage that kind of talk, I hope."

  "I did not participate."

  "Except for initiating the betting book."

  Finch's smile was maddeningly inscrutable. He turned back the covers on West's bed and inserted a warming pan at the foot. "Will there be anything else, Your Grace?"

  "No. See to your own comfort, Finch. I am for sleeping late and taking my breakfast here."

  "Then I shall see that you are not disturbed." He gathered up West's clothes for laundering and pressing and laid them neatly over his arm. "Good evening." It seemed to him that his employer was asleep before he had exited the room.

  * * *

  Ria waited until she heard Finch's retreat in the direction of the servants' stairs before she stepped into the hallway. It had been a narrow thing, for she had almost been at West's door when it had opened. She ducked into the nearest available room—Margaret's private reading salon, as it turned out—and remained there until it was safe.

  She slipped into West's bedchamber as silently as she had the night befo
re and approached his bed. He was sleeping on his side, facing the fireplace. That golden glow highlighted the angles of his face, the thrust of his jaw, the patrician cut of his nose, the sculpted line of his cheek. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes and another shadow that was this day's growth of beard across the lower part of his face. He did not have the look of one in an easy sleep. In contrast to the night before, he appeared older than his years, more world-weary than simply tired.

  Ria stood there for more than a minute as she debated the wisdom of waking him. He was unlikely to appreciate the anxious state that had prompted her to leave her room. He would expect her to act more circumspectly, or better, not to act at all. They were very different in that way. Unease pushed her to do something, while discomfort quieted him physically and roused his dark humor.

  She wondered what she might learn from him. Was it possible she could sleep as deeply as he was now? She turned to go, and that was when she saw the slim book lying on the table just inside the door. Curious as to why he would place it so far from his bed if he meant to read it, Ria crossed the room to pick it up. She tried to read the gilt lettering on the spine by holding it up to the firelight. It was not lettering at all, she realized within a few moments of studying it more closely, but decorative embellishment, like scrollwork in the mantelpiece and wainscoting. There was nothing on the cover to indicate the contents.

  She walked closer to the fireplace to take advantage of the light and opened the book. If she had bothered to suppose what might be contained inside, Ria would have said it was verse. It wasn't, as it turned out, nor was it anything she might have had imagination enough to guess.

  Heat rose in her cheeks as she stared at the illustration confronting her. Curiously enough, though it seemed to span both pages and little in the way of margins remained, the picture on the left was upside down. On the right a beautiful young woman lay in a pose of complete abandon. She was not naked, but her clothing had been arranged to make her very nearly so. Her arms were raised overhead and she grasped an iron headrail with her fingertips. The scooped bodice of her gown had been cut away along with her corset and chemise, and her full, sweet breasts lay bare, the nipples puckered and ripe as though for plucking. The hem of her skirt and all of her petticoats had fallen back to the level of her waist. Her hips were angled upward, supported by two large pillows that had been placed there for such a purpose. Her thighs were parted and the dark hair of her swollen mons glistened.

  Ria's eyes swept upward to the woman's face, every detail masterfully rendered there by the skilled artist's hand. Her eyes were not entirely closed but lowered to half-mast, shaded by long lashes. Her mouth was parted, the lips were dewy, and the tip of her tongue could be seen either in advance or retreat. The long, slender neck was arched, her chin thrust upward. The woman's ebon hair lay in a tangle about her head and influenced the look of her as untamed, almost feral. The effect of the whole was an agony of delight or pain; it was not possible to know.

  Kneeling at the foot of the bed and between the woman's legs, was a man of such perfect proportion and well-defined masculinity that Ria thought he must be the artist's idea of a god stepped down from Mt. Olympus. Unlike the woman, he wore no clothes at all. The muscles of his arms were sculpted, as were his buttocks and thighs. One of his hands rested on the woman's right knee, the other grasped his considerable erection as though he meant to guide something more than his courage to the sticking place.

  Ria placed her knuckles against her mouth to stifle the nervous giggle this last errant thought produced. Because she had been slow to react and some small sound had escaped her throat, she quickly glanced over her shoulder to see if West had awakened. She sighed, relieved that he had not.

  Ria was discomfited by what she held in her hands, but mature enough not to believe she would experience all the fires of hell for examining it. To that end, she turned the book around so the picture that had been upside down was now righted. It was a different couple on this side of the page. Here a man stood with his back to a marble column. He was wearing clothes that had been in fashion more than a score of years earlier: a coat lined in satin with braided cuffs and large buttons, a heavily embroidered waistcoat, and black, tight-fitting breeches with white stockings and buckled boots. On her knees in front of him, face and arms raised as though in supplication, was a woman whose powdered hair was carefully coifed in curls and ringlets. She wore a gown with a cinched waist, laced bodice, and flared sleeves. The man's pelvis was thrust forward, the flies of his breeches open, and he held her raised head between his large hands. In profile the intent of his actions was clear. He meant for the woman to take his jutting, swollen cock in her mouth.

  Another partially strangled sound escaped Ria's throat, and she felt a stirring between her thighs that was more unwelcome than unpleasant. She did not know how to think about her disappointment when she turned the page and found it was identical to the one before it. She turned another and another and found they were all alike. It was the same when she reversed the book again and regarded the woman and her Greek god on the bed. Every page was like every other.

  "Can you not determine how it works?"

  The book fell from Ria's nerveless fingers and thudded to the floor. She spun on her heel and glared at West. He was reclining on his side, his head propped on one elbow. His coppery hair was a crisscross thatch, and his eyes had a certain slumberous appeal, but he looked perfectly at his ease, in no way weary as she had noted earlier. It seemed, no matter how improbable, that he was enjoying himself. Ria did not think she was mistaken that it was amusement lifting the corners of his mouth.

  "Bring it here," he said.

  "I... I wore my slippers."

  West's grin deepened as his eyes dropped to her feet. He could not recall that Ria had ever been more off her stride than she was right now. "Yes, I see. It was good of you to remember." He pointed to the book. "Go on. Pick it up and bring it here."

  Ria stooped. She continued to regard West somewhat warily as her fingers searched out the book's smooth leather binding. She caught one corner, edged it closer, then took it in hand as she stood again.

  West indicated the space in front of him at his bedside. "Here." He noted that she walked forward slowly, with all the enthusiasm one might rouse for those final steps to the gallows platform. "I won't show you if you'd rather I didn't. I shouldn't anyway, so some encouragement on your part will be required."

  Ria reached the bed and held the book out to him. "Did you find it here?" she asked. "Is it Tenley's?"

  "If I found it here it could have been the duke's," West said. "Do not worry, though. I did not pluck it from this library." He took the book from her hand and opened it to a random page. His brows lifted a fraction as he regarded it, then Ria. "It is rather explicit, is it not? I gather from your expression that you have not seen the like before."

  Ria shook her head. "I didn't know such things existed."

  "That is because you had governesses and tutors while I went to a school for boys where things like this are as treasured as sacred relics."

  "Then it's yours."

  He chuckled. "No, not mine. I have borrowed it, so I suppose it is mine for the time being." An expression he could not quite define flitted across Ria's face. "That disappoints? Intrigues?"

  "Confuses."

  "That is all right, then, because I am confused as well. What are you doing here? I can safely assume you did not come for this." He watched her eyes stray to the open book, then lift quickly. Her curiosity was a palpable thing, but he pretended he had not observed it. He casually closed the book around his index finger. "I only arrived a short time ago. I should have thought you would be enjoying sleep at such a time. Were you perhaps waiting for me?"

  "If you mean was I staying awake in anticipation of your return, then no, I was not."

  "You are a very poor liar. I would wager that if you sucked on a lemon, your features would not pucker so severely."

  "I was dist
urbed from my sleep by a noise in the hallway, and I rose to investigate."

  "I admire the way you do not back down from the lie. It is a good strategy if one starts off well, but I have already informed you that you did not. Still, carry on as you wish. I am a rapt audience."

  Ria sighed impatiently. "Will you not show me the workings of the book?"

  West grinned. "Of course. We will get to the other later." He pointed to the bedside table. "To fully appreciate this, more light is required."

  Ria was not certain he was talking about her appreciation of the book, but rather of his appreciation of her reaction to it. She wondered at what point she had become his entertainment. "Perhaps not."

  "Very well. As I said I should not do it." He removed his index finger and set the book beside the unlighted candlestick. "We have come again to the point of your visit. I make it to be less that twenty-four hours since you left my bedchamber in a high dudgeon, vowing never to return."

  "That is an exaggerated account. I was not so dramatic, either in manner or phrasing."

  West moved closer to the middle of the bed to make room for her on its edge. "Come, else I shall have a kink in my neck."

  Ria sat down much as she had the night before, turning slightly sideways so she might face him, and drew up one leg. "I want to know what occurred while you were gone. Tenley thinks you were meeting with Mr. Ridgeway on pressing matters regarding the estate. Margaret thinks you suspect my strong feelings for you and panicked. I think you were in Sunbury making the acquaintance of Mr. Beckwith."

  "All intriguing possibilities. If it was Lady Tenley who believed I had taken off in such cowardly fashion, who is it that thought I was procuring a special license?"