by Eva Leigh
She glanced toward Sebastian. He wore a wide smile, his expression both intent and delighted, and to see him so elated by watching this timeless custom made her insides cartwheel.
I want him to always look like this. Enthralled. Happy.
When the men’s dance finished, the same barrel-chested man strode into the middle of the green with his arms upraised. The music stopped and voices quieted.
“Now comes the best part o’ the night,” he announced. “The Lass-Lifting Race!”
A cheer went up.
“Your pardon,” Sebastian said to a passing bearded man. “I’ve heard about this but I don’t know what it is—the Lass-Lifting Race.”
A grin split the man’s face. “On a field just past the church, the lustiest lads race toward their lasses, then they pick ’em up, put ’em on their shoulders, and the two of ’em turn around and race back. Plenty o’ mischief, both ways.”
More giddiness coursed through her. This was very far from a ballroom—and she adored it. “What do the winners receive?”
“Win?” The man scratched his head. “Ain’t no winners, missus. At the end, everyone gets strawberry and rhubarb pies, and the night’s over.”
“Looks like it might rain.” Grace glanced at the cloudy sky.
“Then we just get nice an’ muddy,” the man said with good humor. He peered at Sebastian. “You running, my lad and lass?”
Sebastian opened his mouth as if to immediately decline. But then he glanced at her, a mischievous light in his eyes. “Shall we?”
The idea of Sebastian carrying her on his shoulders while they ran across a field in the middle of the night was . . . delightful. She felt every inch of his skin where their hands interwove. She’d feel even more of him if he carried her.
“Oh, yes,” she answered.
Sebastian beamed at her and she beamed right back. They would have gone on grinning at each other like fools if the bearded man hadn’t said, “Best get a move on, you two. They’re taking their places on the field as we speak. Don’t want to be late starting or else they throw parsnips at you.”
The man ambled off.
Most of the revelers streamed out of the square and toward the church. Several dogs accompanied the procession, barking with excitement, while men carried torches to light the way.
“This truly is mad,” Grace felt compelled to point out to Sebastian.
“So it is,” he said jauntily.
They both hurried after the villagers. She had impressions of a few shops, and more cottages, many with tidy gardens. Fences bent with time lined the dirt road that led them past the church to a vast, dark expanse. People with torches stood to one side of the field, and about a hundred yards away, more villagers with flickering torches marked the other end of the meadow.
At the closer side of the field, men ranging in age from barely into their teens to hovering close to middle age prepared themselves for the race with deep knee bends, stretches, and arm swings. Almost all of them had shucked their coats and waistcoats, and some boasted brawny, burly frames, while others were lean and pared down. Women stood with the torchbearers at the far end, and they called out encouragement to the men.
“Better ready yourself, fine sir,” a villager cried to Sebastian.
To her dismay, Sebastian released her hand, but to her delight, he pulled off his coat, waistcoat, and neckcloth. The fine fabric of his shirt clung to him, and she wished there was a precedent for running the race bare-chested. Alas, it was not to be, yet she still enjoyed the sight of him in only his shirtsleeves.
He caught her ogling him, and instead of a look of warm amiability, he sent her a smile she could feel between her legs.
What she felt for him was far from friendship—but she didn’t want to call an end to tonight. She wanted it to last forever, the air crackling, though she couldn’t tell if it was from the incipient storm or the pull between them.
With a start, she realized he felt the attraction, too. And it all made sense now, the dance they’d shared at the ball, and the tension between them in the carriage on the way here.
He wanted her. As she wanted him. Their kiss had planted the seed, and now it flowered brightly.
Maybe it was only physical attraction, but it still ensnared her, still called to her.
“Off you go.” He nodded toward the other side of the field. “And be certain to cheer for me.”
“I’ll shout loudest of all.”
Still shaking from her revelation, she walked as briskly as she could across the field. Tall, wet grass clung to the hem of her skirts. Without Sebastian close by, the night was cooler, the dark night sky farther away. Should she have said something to Sebastian? That she shared his desire? There seemed no right answer. She was caught in a cyclone and had no bearings.
She neared the line of women waiting with the torchbearers.
“A fancy miss come to join us,” a woman in a blue dress said, but her voice was light with humor.
“Got her a fancy fellow, too,” a redhead teased. “He won’t beat my Charlie.”
“I thought there were no winners,” Grace said.
“No winners,” the woman in the blue dress agreed, “but who don’t love a good gloat?”
Grace took her place between the woman in blue and the redhead. “Then prepare yourself to listen to my man gloat.”
Heat rushed into her cheeks. Had she just referred to Sebastian as my man? It had slipped from her without thought. But he wasn’t her man.
She cupped her hands around her mouth. “You can do it, Sebastian! Trounce them all!”
Her heart leapt when he waved at her. Likely ladies of older times had the same jittery anticipation when waiting for their knights to take to the field.
“Look lively,” the redhead said. “I see Sam Dawkins with his blunderbuss.”
At the other end of the field, a gray-haired man hefted an ancient firearm and aimed it up and away from the field. He shouted something, then pulled the trigger. There was a flash, and a boom.
The men surged forward.
After a night of maneuvering through the treacherous waters of a society ball, he eagerly awaited the chance to use his body. Talking was difficult, physicality was easy.
“You can do it, Sebastian! Trounce them all!”
Energy surged through his body at Grace’s yelled encouragement.
“Oi,” a man with wide muttonchop whiskers said beside him. “Them long legs o’ yours are goin’ to carry you home in shame when I thrash you.” He nudged Seb with his elbow.
For a moment, his anxiousness returned, clutching him tight enough to steal his breath. But he made himself attentive to physical sensations: the air, saturated with advancing rain, the smell of the meadow, the voices of the racers as they good-naturedly provoked each other.
He drawled, “How delightful that they let children run in the race.”
The man with the muttonchops scowled for a bare moment before he grinned at Seb. “That’s the way of it, lad. But,” he added, “it’s a good thing your lass got soft silk skirts to wipe away your tears when you lose.”
Any rejoinder Seb might have offered scattered when a middle-aged man appeared with a large, exceptionally old firearm. The weapon discharged with a thunderous clap. Then there was no time for thinking or analysis or anything at all except running.
He shot forward into the night. Behind him, the crowd cheered. Ahead of him, women shouted encouragement. He couldn’t quite make out Grace’s voice in the midst of the clamor, but knowing she was there, waiting for him, cheering for him, his body pulsed with strength and speed.
Something heavy knocked into him. He fought to keep upright as Muttonchops rammed a shoulder into his side. All the racers jostled with each other, giving shoves and sticking out legs in an attempt to trip their competition.
Seb pushed back. Gratification roared when Muttonchops sprawled in the grass, but it was short-lived as his rival shot back onto his feet and sped forward.
/> The gleam of the torches grew as Seb neared the other end of the field. Grace jumped up and down as she yelled, “Trounce their sorry arses, Sebastian!”
Closer, closer.
A moment later, he and the other runners reached the line of women. There wasn’t time for grace or manners.
“Mount me.” Seb spun around and dropped to his knees.
Grace climbed onto his shoulders, and only when he got to his feet did he realize that her crotch pressed against the back of his head and his hands held tight to her thighs. Her soft flesh pressed against his face, soaking him in her heat. Primal awareness thrummed in him.
Fuck yes.
“Let’s go!” Grace cried.
Seb snapped out of his daze. Right. The race.
Gaining his balance with her weight atop him took a few strides, but soon they were hurtling back down the field. He clutched her legs to keep her secure.
“Enemy ship starboard!” Grace exclaimed.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Muttonchops draw close, a redheaded woman riding the man’s shoulders. The other couple drew close. Then Grace let out a yelp as the redhead reached over to jostle Grace. Seb gritted his teeth as he battled to keep upright, but he gasped out a chuckle as Grace shoved the redhead. With his balance upset, Muttonchops stumbled, yet he kept his feet.
Torches loomed ahead. Seb pushed himself, running hard and holding tightly to Grace. She bounced with each stride he took, but she didn’t seem to mind the discomfort—she seemed too focused on yelling taunts to the other racers.
“Did a goat teach you how to run?” she shouted to a couple they passed. “I’ll fetch you some leading strings after we beat you to the finish line.”
He grinned like a madman. Who knew the clever herpetologist was also a fierce competitor?
Still, carrying her on his shoulders at a full run wasn’t the easiest task, and it was with relief that he spotted the finish line ahead. Not too far now. His lungs and legs burned, but he wouldn’t consider the pain. Not until later.
With a final burst of speed, he and Grace crossed the finish line. Shouts and claps and joyful chaos surrounded them.
Winded, Seb sank to his knees and Grace clambered off. He immediately missed the feel of her thighs around his face.
“Who won?” she demanded, her expression fierce. “Did we win?”
He felt his lips curve into a smile. Once roused, her competitive spirit was mighty. “Doesn’t matter,” he panted. “Not really. All that . . . matters . . . is running . . . the race.”
Her brow smoothed, and she smiled in response—filling his exhausted body with new life. “Wise Sebastian.”
A girl carrying a basket appeared and thrust an object into his palm. He peered at it as he staggered to his feet.
“The strawberry rhubarb pie.” Grace laughed.
He held the pastry up to her. “Your spoils, my lady.”
She took a bite, then licked up the flakes that clung to her lips. His groin tightened.
There was a deep rumble of thunder, and then the clouds opened up. Rain poured down, soaking everything. People ran in every direction, screaming with shock and delight.
Without thought, Sebastian grabbed Grace’s hand while also scooping up his discarded clothing, then broke into a run toward a wooden structure. A barn.
And then he was inside, hearing the sound of wood sliding into place. She’d closed the door. The barn smelled of fresh hay, but not of animals, and he couldn’t hear anything shifting in the stalls. It was almost entirely dark, save for bits of light working through the slats.
He and Grace stood inches apart. Raindrops glittered on her face and neck, and adorned the smooth flesh of her chest that rose and fell. Beads of water clung to her lips, and he wanted nothing more than to lick up those droplets. The race had heated his blood, but having her so close, seeing the hunger in her gaze, he was overwhelmed with the desire he’d tried so furiously to suppress.
There was an answering heat in her eyes. Heat that he craved and feared all at once.
She swayed toward him. “Sebastian.” Her voice was a siren’s, husky and rich, and she stepped closer to stroke her hands up his chest. Despite his wet clothing, her touch was fire.
“Grace.”
They spoke together. “Kiss me.” “Can I taste you?”
As she lifted up on her toes, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, he pulled her close, feeling the pliant, soft heat of her against his hardness. He loved the sensation of her pressed to him, this woman he’d wanted for so long finally in his embrace. Thank God.
And then he thought nothing at all as their mouths met.
Chapter 20
This kiss had none of their previous effort’s tentative, sweet exploration. It was hot and explosive. From the moment their lips met, they devoured each other with fiery demand. Their tongues lapped together, stroking, seeking to bring them closer, and closer still.
She was in a frenzy, whipped to madness by her need for him. He seemed lost in desire, too, the way he kissed and touched her with scorching possession.
One of his hands cupped the back of her head, the other skimmed down to cup her arse and bring her snug to him. Through her wet clothing she felt the thick ridge of his arousal. Shamelessly, she arched into him so he pressed into the curve of her belly. A rumble sounded from deep in his chest.
Intoxicating pleasure rose within her at that sound, that she should take this learned, thoughtful man and drive him into a fever of need—for her.
Together, they moved, barely breaking the kiss to chart steps toward a pile of sweet-scented hay. In silent agreement, they lay down. He stretched out beside her, bracing himself on his elbow as he gazed down at her. The way he looked at her . . . as though she was the sum of all things that mattered . . . it was far more intoxicating than any wine.
Her breath came in hard, fast gulps. “Take off your shirt.”
Though his gaze was afire, a corner of his mouth turned up in a smile. “Pleased to oblige.” He sat up just enough to whisk the garment off.
“Oh.”
She couldn’t formulate more astute words. Sebastian’s bare torso defied all her imaginings. He was lean and sculpted, from the definition of his pectorals to the ridges of his flat abdomen. Lovely golden hair curled on his chest and trailed down him, where a line of hair vanished beneath the waistband of his breeches. She didn’t miss the thick shape straining against the front of those breeches, but she managed to tug her gaze up to admire the carved musculature of his arms, and then venture higher to see him watching her carefully.
“You’re beautiful, Sebastian.” She stroked her hand up his bare flesh—it twitched beneath her palm—to curve against his jaw. Stubble grazed her skin magnificently.
He exhaled and a shy smile touched his lips. “I’m glad you think so. Because I think you’re the loveliest person I’ve ever known.”
They kissed, a long, slow, voluptuous kiss that unfolded in velvet waves. Her breasts became tight and heavy, and heat gathered between her legs. His large hand covered her breast and glided back and forth over her stiff nipple. Sensation careened through her and she couldn’t stop her moan.
Pulling back slightly, he asked in a gentle voice, “Have you done this before?”
“Not with another person, no.” It didn’t feel strange or shameful to admit this, not to him.
“On your own?” His own breathing was jagged.
“Don’t you?”
The column of his throat worked as he swallowed. “Oh, yes.”
“I should like to see that.” The thought of Sebastian’s hand gripping his own cock, stroking himself to release as he grimaced with pleasure . . . her skin tingled and she slid deeper into the waters of desire.
“My God, Grace.” He growled his approval. Then, “You aren’t afraid? Of sex?”
“I do read quite a bit, you know.”
He chuckled lowly. “Never underestimate the abilities of a scholar.” He lowered his head and
kissed her so thoroughly, all rational thought dissolved. He continued to palm and caress her breasts, making her writhe with pleasure.
She stroked him, too, discovering all the beautiful parts of him, learning his feel. He was satiny and tight, while the hair on his chest tickled/scratched her palm, and when she circled his nipple, she was rewarded with his sensual hiss.
The prickle of hay touched her skin as he gathered up her skirts. His hand was hot against her stocking-clad leg, and then she gasped as he found the bare flesh of her thigh.
“Yes?” he murmured.
“Do not stop.” A seductress’s voice had replaced her own, lower and more breathless than she’d ever heard it before.
Higher climbed his hand, and then he dipped into the opening of her drawers. She cried out as he delved between her folds and pleasure rocked her.
“Christ,” he rumbled. “You’re so wet.”
“I—” But she had no words. Not when he stroked her, up and down and in gorgeous circles at her entrance. His thumb found the nub of her clitoris, and she arched up with a moan as he lavished attention where she needed it most.
She reached out to palm his hard cock through the fabric of his breeches. He made a dark animal sound as his hips pushed into her touch. But it wasn’t enough. She wanted his naked flesh, and fumbled with the buttons securing his fall. He helped, tearing at the fastenings until the flap opened. Without hesitation, she wrapped her hand around his cock and the noise he made would delight her until the end of her days.
The feel of his penis was . . . exquisite. Thick and rigid and hot. She ran her hand up and down, testing the textures of silk and stiffness.
Grace managed to emerge from her pleasured haze enough to breathe, “Show me. Show me how you like to be touched.”
He wrapped his hand around hers in a grip that was far tighter than she would have used if left to her own devices. It was almost punishing, but the cords in his neck stood out as he groaned with pleasure. The round head of his cock stood proud of the foreskin, and a droplet of slickness emerged to coat her fingers.
“Like this,” he gritted, guiding her along his shaft. “Firm at the head, and all the way down. Yes. Yes.” He released his grip on her hand and she took over, stroking him.