by Eloisa James
Something in her expression dimmed a little and he wrenched his mind away from her bodice. Cleared his throat. “Shall we visit the summer house?” he asked, desperately.
“A summer house! You have one?”
He would do anything for that smile. The certainty of his vulnerability was so dangerous that he just walked beside her, silent as the grave. They walked toward the bottom of the formal gardens. “It’s more of a folly than a true summer house,” he said finally.
They rounded a last turn.
“As you see.”
Her mouth fell open.
“It wasn’t meant to be a ruin,” he told her, deciding honesty was the best policy. “Although I understand that ruins are becoming quite fashionable.” He cocked his head and tried to see it through her eyes. A romantic heap of stone, supposedly a disintegrating medieval castle? Or what he saw: another of his father’s imprudent failures, a building that was to be a proper summer house of stone, fallen to pieces after the builders were left unpaid?
Isidore walked ahead of him. She wasn’t wearing panniers tonight, and her gown followed the curves of her own delectable hips.
“Have you been inside?” she said, turning and looking at him. He could barely focus on what she was saying over the roaring in his blood. She was his, and he had to have her, to own her, to touch her, to kiss her, to…
She leaned back against the fragment of a stone wall and smiled at him. Was that an invitation? Who gave a damn?
With a muttered curse, he strode forward and picked her up, as smoothly as if he carried damsels on a regular basis. “The grass might be wet,” he said, hearing the roughness of his own voice.
She didn’t say anything, but she wasn’t struggling to get away. She just nestled there in his arms, a curvy perfumed bundle. He rounded the building and headed straight for the broken arch. Where the courtyard was supposed to be…
Yes. Tiles gleamed faintly in the moonlight. Fallen walls protected them from view…not that anyone was out wandering his gardens at this hour of night.
He put her down and stripped off his coat. He still couldn’t meet her eyes. She would be horrified if she knew what he was like, how mad in lust he was, mad enough to howl at the moon, to pounce on her like an animal.
“Simeon?” she asked. Her voice didn’t sound frightened. It was husky and caught a little on his name. There was something about it that made his groin clench. And then she combed her fingers through her hair, almost shyly, and he broke, lunged at her and yanked her against him. If he’d thought, he might have considered a gentleman’s kiss, a sweet meeting of mouths that would tempt her into opening her lips…
He ravaged her, took what he wanted, took her sweetness and the taste of her, the smell of her, the way her body swayed under his fingers when he kissed her, the way she murmured something, or perhaps moaned.
But in the back of his mind a voice was shouting for attention. He couldn’t just—he couldn’t just do what—
She was moaning, she was, just a little sound in the back of her throat but it was enough to make him mad. Surely he could just put her down—
Gently, of course.
On the ground? Cold and damp?
His bad angel spoke up again, telling him that his coat was as good as a blanket. For a moment he managed to look down at Isidore with a modicum of logic.
Her eyes were dazed and she had her hand wrapped in his hair. She looked like a woman in the grip of desire. She would…
No.
His good angel screamed so loud that even his most diabolic self shuddered. “I promised,” he said, and had to stop for a moment. She licked his lip, and it sent a stab of desire to his loins that could only be responded to in like manner. He had his hands around her again, lifting her slightly so that she fit snugly against him.
No.
“I’m going to show you how my body works,” he said, pushing her away.
Isidore’s mouth was slightly puffy, bruised. Her eyes were like shadowed wells. “Tomorrow,” she said, drifting toward him. “For now, let’s just kiss.”
He had to take charge. He had to be in control. He stepped back and ripped his shirt over his head.
There was an audible gasp and then a giggle. He risked looking at her.
“Simeon! You’re taking your clothing off—”
He leaned over and pulled off a boot, and the other boot. The stones felt cold under his stocking feet.
“I can hardly see you!” she protested. “The moon isn’t that bright and—” Her eyes were large and shining. She could see him well enough. He could see every shadow and curve on her, every inch of skin he wanted to kiss and lick…
He pulled down his breeches, paused for a moment and pulled off his stockings as well. If you’re going to be naked in the garden, you might as well be naked.
Then, finally, he met her eyes.
Her hair was tumbling around her shoulders, falling around her face in a way that made her look shy and retiring, like the girl he thought he wanted. Back when he didn’t know anything. Isidore might look shy, but it was a trick of the moonlight; her eyes were ranging all over his body, pausing here and there, sticking at his midsection until he almost started to grin, but he stopped. Waited.
She needed to know him in order to want him, he had decided.
“You have so many muscles,” she said finally. “Why?”
“Because I run.”
She came closer until she was a fraction of an inch from his skin. It was incredibly erotic, standing there naked before her in the moonlight. She reached out a finger and touched his chest. Her touch burned and he had to clench his fists to stop himself from reaching out to her. She rocked back on her heels and he felt her touch leave him.
“So how does your body work?” she whispered. But she wasn’t looking in the right place any longer.
His erection was standing out from his body, straining in her direction. He wrapped his fingers around himself. Her eyes flickered, darkened he thought, though it was hard to tell in the moonlight. “This is designed for your body,” he said. “Man and woman are designed to fit together.” He let his hand fall away.
Of course she was no timid miss. She wrapped her fingers around him and his head fell back. He caught a groan back at the last moment. “I’m glad it’s not hairy,” she said thoughtfully. “You don’t have very much chest hair, do you, Simeon?”
She loosed her grip and then just as he was about to answer, swept her fingers down the length of him. The words died and he couldn’t stop the muffled sound in his throat. She liked that; he saw a gleam in her eyes.
And that was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it? Because she was experimenting now, holding him close, sliding—
“No,” he managed.
“Yes,” she said, tightening her hand, sliding…And her other hand, it was—
Fire raced up his thighs. He put his hands on her wrists and pulled them from his body, holding them for a moment before he let them drop.
“No.”
She pouted and her lips were so plumply alluring that he forgot his plan and pulled her into his arms. She gasped and then fit herself to him perfectly, like parts of a piano coming together to make music. Like a violin reunited with its bow.
“You’re mine,” he said. His voice was guttural and not calm. Not soothing. Not in control. He didn’t even care. She put her lips against his chest and gave him a little kiss, and another. The touch of her lips burned. He couldn’t remember what the next phase of the plan was. But that part of his brain was still beating out the same reproach: gentlemen don’t make love to their ladies out-of-doors. It’s not proper. It’s not right. It’s not calm and collected.
It’s—
“I’ll show you,” he said, his voice catching because her hair against his cheek was as soft as spun silk and he just wanted to eat her. To lick her. It could rain on them and he would lick every drop from her body and keep her warm.
But the gentleman in him was sh
outing No. Still.
“Show me what?” Her whisper was languid, sweet. “Simeon?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t you want to help with my lacings?”
Madness fought with the plan, fought with civility, fought—and lost. “No.”
That was definitely disappointment in her eyes.
“When I—” What word was he supposed to use? Not cock and not pizzle. “This is is my prick.” The word fell harshly from his lips.
She surprised him; she’d probably always surprise him. She laughed. “The bawdy prick of noon!”
“Shakespeare was very fond of punning and pricks.”
“I like that word,” she said, reaching out. It was unfortunate that his brain stopped working the moment her cool fingers began running over him, touching him, tightening.
He tried. “When I—” The words were lost in a groan.
“Your naked weapon is out,” she said, gurgling with laughter. But he couldn’t join her in a game of Shakespearean quotes, not when his body was on fire. He jerked in her hand and she laughed again, the triumphant sound of a woman who’s discovered a power she didn’t understand she had.
“When I come—” he said, pulling himself together.
“When you what?”
“Come. Oh God, Isidore, if you keep doing that I am going to come.” He leaned into the pillar at his back. The marble was chilly and gave him some sanity.
“Do,” she breathed, swaying closer to him. Her hand was trapped between the silk of her skirts and the rough hair of his belly. But he didn’t want to frighten her, to have her disgusted.
He pushed her back. “Just watch, this time.”
Her eyes were huge, excited. He managed to pull his thoughts back from his groin. “In order for us to be successful between the sheets, we have to understand what makes the other person feel pleasure.”
She opened her lips but said nothing. Still, there was something in her eyes that made him keep going. “Tomorrow, I’ll ask you to show me.”
“Show you what?”
“What you find pleasurable,” he confirmed. “My body isn’t nearly as interesting as yours, but there are points that—” He put a thumb over his own nipple. “This isn’t as beautiful nor useful, but it feels pleasure.”
Her mouth curled in a little smile that affected him much more than his own touch on his body. He moved his hand down, deliberately, slowly, wrapped his fingers around his length. Slid his hand. Took his pleasure from the way she shifted back and forth, as if she was feeling heat between her legs, as if she were remembering the afternoon.
“It looks larger than it did earlier,” she whispered.
His body moved instinctively toward her, passionate to establish a rhythm that would satisfy and daze her, drive her to the pleasure he had felt.
“So when you lose control, what happens?”
The question hung on the air. He cleared his throat. “I eject fluid that contains my contribution to a future child.” And: “I wouldn’t describe it as losing control.” He let his hand fall away from his body.
She put her hand on him, and he instantly shuddered. The fire touched his spine, raced down his legs like a premonition of the future. “If I keep doing this—” she demonstrated—“wouldn’t you lose control?”
“No.” But it was a gasp.
“Because you never lose control?”
“Because that’s not—” he drew in a breath—“an accurate description.”
Her fingers dandled him, stroked him, fired him. “Are you sure that I couldn’t make you lose control?”
“You could give me the greatest pleasure,” he said. “As I will give to you.”
She smiled, lopsided, let her hand fall. “What else feels good?” He blinked. “Only those two parts of your body? That’s it?”
“That’s enough,” he told her.
She was smiling again. “Can I show you now what pleasures me?”
“The night and this place are too dark and cold for a lady,” he said, pulling his shirt over his head. His body was thrumming to a rhythm of its own, madness flaring in his blood.
“I thought our bed, perhaps…”
“But Godfrey is in the sitting room.”
“We shall have to be quiet,” she said, turning to walk out of the courtyard. The moonlight caught her hair, turned it to darkened spun silver, precious liquid light chiseling the curve of her cheek, the plumpness of her bottom lip, the wry wit in her eye.
He was just pulling on his boots when she paused.
“Of course,” she said, “it’s a good thing that all of this doesn’t mean losing control, Simeon, don’t you think?”
“Yes.”
“Because while I might be worried that I would make some sort of untoward noise and wake young Godfrey, I would never have to worry about you.”
He followed her. Years in the desert had taught him a number of survival lessons.
One of them was never to ignore a gauntlet thrown at your very feet.
Chapter Thirty-five
The Dower House
March 3, 1784
Honeydew greeted them in the entryway to the Dower House, as if disheveled dukes were all in a day’s work. “Your Graces,” he said. “If you would be so kind as to keep your voices down, the young master is asleep.”
Isidore took off her wet pelisse and handed it to him. “My goodness, Honeydew,” she said, “you must take yourself to your bed. It’s begun raining again.”
“There appears to be some small chance of flooding,” Honeydew said.
“Nonsense,” Simeon said. “We’re on a hill.”
“The bridge leading to the village,” Honeydew clarified. “I took the liberty of sending your lady’s maid to temporary lodgings in the village; if the bridge went out, we’d have to house everyone in the barn and Miss Lucille would not be pleased.”
“Are you staying in the village as well?” Simeon asked.
“I shall retire to the barn again tonight, Your Grace. We need to keep an eye on the silver.”
“Good man,” Simeon said briefly. “We won’t keep you.” He closed the door behind his butler, thinking that Honeydew was a man he’d always want at his back, whether on a camel or in an English country house. He was loyal and honest, through and through.
Isidore had vanished. Simeon poked his head into the sitting room. The fire was burning low, so he threw on a couple more logs and walked over to look at his brother. Godfrey was lying flat on his back. In the blurry firelight he looked unnervingly like their father. He even snored like their father.
Simeon listened to the noise for a few seconds and then began to grin.
The little bedchamber wasn’t directly off the great room; there was a small passageway, almost a hallway leading to it.
He paused for a moment, wondering if husbands knocked at their wives’ bedchambers.
Isidore heard him outside the door and her heart leapt so high it felt as if it were in her throat. What on earth was he doing? He wouldn’t go to the barn with Honeydew, would he?
Would he?
She looked down at herself, reclining on the bed. “Come in!” she called.
The door opened and she saw him in the doorway. She gave him a moment, looking down at herself, trying to see her body through his eyes. She was plump in the right places, she thought, and sleek in others. She’d lit candles, and the reflection of small flames darted over her skin, making her look like a marble statue, the naughty Roman kind. Her hair tumbled around her shoulders, and Isidore had arranged it so that one of her breasts showed and the other didn’t.
“You may come in,” she said, feeling a nervous giggle in the back of her throat.
He closed the door with great precision and then put his hands to his coat.
“No!”
He raised an eyebrow.
“It’s your turn to learn about my body.”
He walked over to the bed. “May I sit with you?”
“No!” H
e looked so large that he made her feel dizzy. He sat down in a chair and crossed his legs. The look on Simeon’s face made him look younger than she’d ever seen him. There was devilment in those eyes. You couldn’t look like that when you were buried in a smelly old house, surrounded by bills.
“I want you to pay very close attention to this lesson,” she told him, propping herself up on one elbow.
He had to wrench his eyes away from her breasts, but he finally looked up. “I do. I mean, I am.”
She couldn’t help grinning. She sat up all the way. “These are my breasts.” She actually never touched them very much. But his eyes made her bold. She let her hands curve around her breasts, sweet and firm, the way she would like to be touched. “This afternoon…” She shook her head.
His eyes were wide and clear. “Not right?”
“Your hands are very strong. I had bruises on my hips.”
“I apologize.” The look of desire disappeared from his eyes and he stopped looking at her breasts.
“That wasn’t what I meant!” she said hastily. “I liked it, but…I would like this even more.” She smiled at him and, just like that, all the desire came back into his eyes.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“No!”
“Just tell me if I’m ever holding you too hard,” he said. “I didn’t know. I need to practice.” Without even seeming to move, he was sitting at her side. But he didn’t touch her, just watched her hands, still holding her breasts.
Isidore felt a flush and she dropped her hands to the bed. “So lovely,” he murmured. He reached out with just one fingertip and ran it over the curve of her breast. “Beautiful.” The finger trailed over pale pink, touched her nipple and she jumped.
She couldn’t stop looking at his face. He was beautiful, not for a man, just beautiful. His eyes were fringed with thick lashes, still a little spiky from being in the rain. His cheeks were lean and he had the chin of a man who would always protect you, never leave you.