He should have brought a bottle of wine, at least. What was he meant to do now? Recite poetry, look at the stars, think about the mysterious woman’s eyes burning into his own… wonder, perhaps, if his current life of scandal and sin was beginning to grate upon him. Beginning, however slowly, to leave him unsatisfied.
Maybe, maybe, he wanted more.
A soft rustle of skirts briefly distracted him. Half-turning, still fixated on his own misery, James didn’t recognise the figure at first.
Only her gasp made him stop, and look again. Look at her from the top of her head to the tips of her shoes; every slim, dark-haired, blue-eyed inch of her.
He had seen her before. In shadow, yes, unspeaking, yes--practically part of the furniture. A silent, commonplace, utterly ordinary fixture at a great number of the balls James had attended… and the teasing, severe temptress of the Cappadene Club.
Well. James’ eyes narrowed, his lips curving into an irrepressible smile. We meet again.
Catherine’s first instinct was to run. She certainly wasn’t very good at running, and was more than likely to break an ankle given the heaviness of her skirts--but if the alternative was being trapped in the close-walks with James Hildebrande, breaking a limb seemed preferable.
He recognised her now. There was no escaping his expression; a new, marvelling attention that made her feel hot, flushed from head to toe. The warm breeze of the evening blew against her reddening cheeks, making her feel unaccountably exposed.
He couldn’t possibly remember her name. Catherine prayed silently, staring at the man as if he were a lion ready to pounce. Please, Lord, let him not remember by name.
James bowed, low and impeccably elegant. The man was so dreadfully suited to twilight; the air of danger he carried with him, the light, sprightly air of mischief and sin, twinned so perfectly with the gathering dark. ‘My lady. As much as I wish to refer to you by name, I do not know it.’ He straightened, his eyes boring into hers. ‘But I know that you name has been spoken in my presence before. We move in similar circles.’
She was safe. Safe for now, at least--but really, safety was an abstract concept when it came to the most scandalous duke in London. Catherine bowed her head in assent, her cheeks burning, faintly aware that she was trembling.
Logic would save her. It always did. Lydia was only a little way away; she had urged Catherine not to wait for her as she went to purchase a strawberry ice. She would arrive at any moment, loud and expansive, and everything would return to normal.
Pity. Her disappointment shocked her as much as the situation did.
‘Well?’ James spoke more softly. ‘Will you deny me the luxury of knowing your name?’
If she told him her name, everything was lost. She would know no peace whatsoever. Catherine, fighting the urge to tell him everything he wished to know, primly nodded.
‘Defiant to the end? No matter. Now I can see you in a…shall we say, an uncharged context? I knew I had seen you somewhere before.’ James’s face was alive with glee; Catherine wished she didn’t find his clear happiness at having found her so very attractive. ‘You, madam, are a lady of the ton.’
‘You forget every propriety, Your Grace.’
‘I forget every propriety? My dear lady, do you not recall where we last met?’ James moved closer; Catherine shrank backward, pressing herself against the hedge of the close walk as he held up his hands. ‘Wait. Calm yourself. I may have forgotten propriety, but I have certainly not forgotten civility.’
‘How can I know that? I am unchaperoned. My friend is--is elsewhere.’ Catherine thought of how interesting Lydia would find this encounter, heartily cursing her in the privacy of her mind’s eye. ‘I have no idea what you may say or do.’
‘Nothing that impugns your honour, or my own.’ James slowly lowered his hands; Catherine saw the new note of seriousness in his finely-moulded face. ‘Believe me.’
Against her better judgement, Catherine relaxed a little. She stepped away from the hedge, awkwardly brushing a leaf off of her shoulder as she stared at James.
It was certainly unusual, speaking to the man in the fresh air. It was definitely unusual meeting him clothed. Catherine, inwardly steeling herself for what she knew would be an uncomfortable conversation, tried to resist an inward flutter of delight at how splendid the man looked in the twilight.
‘Your Grace.’ She curtseyed stiffly. ‘Introductions are required. For you, if not from myself.’
‘You must be joking.’
‘Your Grace.’ Catherine looked at him with narrowed eyes, her heart beating faster. ‘I have decided introductions are to be required, and so they are.’
‘Ah. There she is. The lady I remember so very well.’ James’s eyes flashed with humour; Catherine bit her lip as her throat tightened. ‘I wondered where she had gone.’
‘Unless you make a formal introduction, Your Grace, I will leave forthwith.’
‘Forgive me, my lady, but you could leave now. I certainly cannot prevent you.’
‘And I--I do not wish to leave.’ Catherine forced the words out; she saw James’ eyes widen with surprise. ‘So make your formal introduction, please, before I am forced to inconvenience myself.’
Admitting that she did not wish to leave such a potentially scandalous situation meant, in effect, that she had already lost. Catherine waited for a wave of shame to flood her, growing more and more shocked when it did not.
She stepped back as James bowed.
‘I am His Grace James Hildebrande, Duke of Staunton. Irritable, unreliable in both fortune and favour, and with a distressing tendency to corrupt all of those around me.’ He smiled a soft, devastating smile; one that made Catherine feel as if she had grown wings. ‘I think we can both agree that I am in desperate, desperate need of discipline.’
‘Almost faultless.’ Catherine shook her head, repressing a smile. She knew she was meant to feel awkward beyond measure; she was uncomfortable, certainly, but amused as well. ‘And you would never believe my real reason for being in such an establishment.’
‘I can think of many reasons, none of them suitable for discussion in a public place.’
‘Then resist the urge to be unsuitable, Your Grace.’
‘Staunton. Please.’
‘Your Grace.’ Using anything less than his title would be a grievous mistake. Catherine smoothed down her skirts, attempting to be brisk. ‘If you must know, I was there to organise their accounts.’
‘Goodness.’ James paused. ‘An unexpected explanation.’
‘Why?’ Irritation rose in Catherine’s chest. ‘Because a woman is not fit for numbers?’
‘I beg your pardon? Of course not--my mother is better at bridge than my father, and can trounce any foolish challenger at chess. Logic is a female preserve, if one considers the idiocy of most actions undertaken by those who share my sex.’ James paused. ‘Fitness for numbers is not the question, here. My question, an understandable one, would be why a lady of such evident quality as yourself has been forced to exchange her labour for money.’
‘An understandable question, yes, but not one that I feel any need to answer.’
‘A lack of answer will leave me most powerfully concerned.’
‘Then you shall have to rest with your concern, and make peace with it.’ Catherine sniffed, trying to look arrogant, even if she felt wretched. ‘You were the one who assumed I was a--a--’
‘A discipline mistress.’
‘Yes.’
‘I did, if you’ll recall, ask if you were the discipline mistress. You might very well have refused.’
‘You did.’ Catherine swallowed, trying to speak as quietly as possible. The hedges of the close-walks concealed them, yes--but sound would travel, even if she whispered. The idea of whispering to James Hildebrande, attractive as it was, would only make everything so much worse. ‘And you barely gave me a moment to reply, or--or do anything at all, before you began--’
‘Disrobing? Yes.’ James leaned forward,
his half-smile positively feline. ‘And I’d be a damned liar if I said I didn’t enjoy it.’
No combination of phrases seemed adequate as a response. Catherine, wishing fervently that she were a swooning sort of woman, settled for closing her eyes and taking a slow, deep breath.
‘You may try and escape the fact of the matter, but it remains. I enjoyed disrobing in front of you very much. I enjoyed taking myself in hand in front of you, and showing you how the sight of you brought me to a peak of pleasure I hadn’t felt in years.’ James spoke more quietly now; Catherine kept her eyes closed, the man’s words a softly-spoken waterfall of pure sin. ‘I wish for you to know that. Even if we never speak again, or associate with one another in any capacity, I feel it my duty to inform you that you have inflamed me. And if you are as brave as I believe you are, you will agree that you enjoyed it almost as much as I did.’
That was the crux of the matter. That was the shameful truth. Catherine, trying not to tremble, opened her eyes.
He was beautiful. Not merely handsome, beautiful. A beautiful, titled reprobate, with a reputation as indelibly marked as his bedpost. The very last person that she needed at such an atrocious, painful point in her life.
‘Tell me you enjoyed it.’ James’ voice grew softer still. ‘Please. I--I find myself most passionately in need of your enjoyment.’
Catherine opened her mouth, then closed it again. She squared her shoulders, parting her lips once more, only to wilt under his gaze. If she could just find the correct combination of words, the perfect arrangement of thanks, of acknowledgement, of… of refusal…
… Oh, there was nothing else for it.
She moved forward. She saw James’ eyes widen, his smile fading to a look of exceedingly gratified surprise, as she pressed her lips to his.
This was how people were meant to kiss, yes? A simple pressing of the lips. For a confusing moment Catherine wondered why it was considered so very special; all they were doing was standing still.
She gasped as James’ hands moved to cup her face. Her parted lips were matched by his own; suddenly his breath was hers, his hoarse sigh of pleasure was hers, and Catherine understood just why people valued kisses so very much.
Time stopped. Everything stopped. All was pure, thrilling, charged sensation, spiralling through her like light… and then it was broken, finished, and Catherine found herself sighing with pure need as James spoke to her again.
‘So you did enjoy it.’ Slowly, surely, he moved them both until Catherine’s back rested against the solid hedge. His fingers stroked over her cheekbones, sending spark through her skin as he moved his hands to her waist. ‘I was beginning to worry.’
‘Of course I enjoyed it.’ The words came unbidden to Catherine’s lips, scorching the air. ‘You are--you are hardly unknown to the ton, or the women in it. Of course the sight of you before me in--in that state--was enjoyable to me. And you are the worst sort of devil for making me say it.’
‘Think of me as the devil. I do not care, as long as you keep thinking of me. Keep speaking to me thusly.’ James’ words were hot in her ear as he kept her pressed against the hedge, his hands moving from her waist to her breasts with slow, expert skill. ‘How did you dream of me?’
‘Not like this.’ Catherine laughed breathlessly at her own past innocence, the simple words and looks she had so rapturously wished for. ‘Nothing anywhere close to this.’
‘I see.’ James looked at her directly. ‘Then I am a disappointment to you?’
‘Of course not.’ Catherine blinked. ‘One’s dreams attune to one’s reality. If anything, I am the disappointment. You came looking for a discipline mistress--’
‘And found a sarcastic, bespectacled, delicious accountant.’ James smiled. ‘What dreadful sort of idiot would be disappointed with that?’
Catherine had no ready answer. What she did have were kisses; soft, sighing ones that seemed to come from the very core of her being, lavishing lust and gratitude in equal measure upon the man with his arms wrapped around her. When she finally came to her senses, realising with a jolt that this sort of conduct must not, could not continue, she pulled away with a whimper of shock.
‘Oh, Lord, forgive me.’ She held a hand to her mouth, eyes wide as she stared at James. ‘I know we must not--that we should not have done--oh, goodness. I believe I am most terribly nervous.’
‘If this is a result of nervousness, then I hope you never manage to calm yourself.’ James reached out a hand; Catherine trembled with pleasure as his fingers met her waist again, pulling her closer. Now she could feel the heat of the man; breathe in the scent of him, the smell of clean, warm soap. ‘Be as nervous as you like.’
It was as if a dam had broken somewhere in her. Some steely inward wall that had kept all her most troublesome sentiments at bay had been deeply, irrevocably breached. Catherine, with a whimper of frustrated, helpless need, pressed her mouth to his as her arms wrapped around his neck.
‘But we cannot.’ She murmured the words reluctantly in-between kisses, her body aflame. ‘Your reputation is--is exceedingly well-known.’
‘My reputation is well-known, yes. I would hate for it not to be.’ James’ teeth brushed against Catherine’s throat; Catherine gasped, melting further into his arms. Oh, how delightful his tongue felt as it glanced against her skin, licking where his teeth had touched her. ‘More specifically, I am glad you know it.’
Catherine couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Why does my knowledge of your rakehood make you glad?’
‘Because I want you to know that you will enjoy my attentions. That I am skilled enough to give you pleasure.’ James’ teeth grazed her neck a little harder; Catherine’s eyes fluttered as a jolt of pleasure shot through her. ‘My desire rests upon your tranquillity. Your trust.’
‘I trust you.’
Catherine regretted speaking the words as soon as she had said them. Now, in this specific moment, she trusted him; not in a wider sense.
Not in a way that would make her seem like a foolish, inexperienced, lovesick girl.
James’s answering kiss was long and uncompromising. There was a rawness to it that Catherine knew she lacked the expertise to comprehend. All she could do was submit to it, feeling the pleasure build within her, until they finally broke apart.
‘I am glad of it.’ James was panting. ‘More glad than you can know.’
Catherine, words failing her, reached for him once more. With a passionate sigh, her fingers tightly entangled in James’ hair, she pulled him a little to the left--into a hedgerow-covered niche, behind a large, ornamental urn.
They were hidden, here. Just as they had been in the Cappadene Club. She was free to be illogical, lustful, hungry--so hungry for his touch that she moaned, biting her lip, as his hands tugged harshly at her bodice.
There had been a picture of an act similar to this on the wall of the Cappadene Club. The woman’s mouth had been open; open in ecstasy, presumably. Let him touch her breasts, please, let him touch them--oh, how sure his fingers were, how splendid as they stroked over her newly exposed flesh.
‘You feel how I dreamed you would.’ James’ voice was rough, reverent as he gently pinched her nipples. ‘Better than dreaming.’
As caught up as Catherine was in the splendour of the moment, her logic never failed her. ‘You have only had a night to dream of me. It seems highly unlikely that you did dream of me, given the relatively short amount of time that we--oh!’
She gasped, shocked beyond measure, as James bent his head to her breasts. As he drew a nipple into his mouth, caressing her swollen flesh with his tongue, Catherine felt a wave of pleasure so violent her knees buckled.
This couldn’t possibly be done, could it? Kissing her breasts with such unchecked passion, licking, loving her with his tongue--how could it be allowed? How were married women not pulling their husbands back into bed every day, unlacing their nightgowns and begging for this?
When James pulled away, she moaned in pure frustration. Ja
mes pressed his forehead to hers, breathing hard, his hands reaching up to caress her nipples as he spoke.
‘I have been dreaming of you ever since last night, asleep or not.’ James gently brushed the tip of her nose with his own, squeezing her nipples hard enough to make her gasp. ‘If you keep attempting to reason this away, dear lady, I will be forced to redouble my attentions.’
Catherine sighed with longing. ‘I will use every ounce of reason that I have.’
James’ smile was delicious. ‘Thank God for it.’
They fell upon each other once more, hungrier still, their sighs and gasps melting into the hedgerows. Catherine, knowing that she should not be doing anything close to what she was doing with James Hildebrande, dreamingly considered all the reasons for stopping as she pushed ever onward.
You do not know him. And yet, it felt like she did.
This is unacceptable conduct. And yet, she didn’t care anymore.
He is an inveterate rake. And yet, as seconds stretched lovingly into minutes, he became more and more her rake…
You are not meant to be enjoying this!
And yet…’
‘I wish to kiss you.’
‘You may kiss me without restraint.’ Catherine blinked. ‘I assumed you were already doing so.’
‘Once again, your innocence astounds me.’ James’s soft, marvelling look removed every trace of mockery from his words. ‘I wish to kiss you everywhere.’
Catherine looked down, her cheeks reddening as she stared at his hands on her breasts. ‘You have already kissed me everywhere that can be kissed. Have you not?’
James’s answering smile let her know that she had made a mistake--but that she should not be embarrassed by it. Catherine, a burst of shy laughter escaping her throat, closed her eyes.
‘You have not.’ She opened her eyes again, gasping as James’s hand moved through her skirts. Bunching them in his fists, making short work of the abundant fabric, his fingers soon caressed her bare calf. Lifting her leg up with a brief, surprising burst of strength, James moved his hand up to her thigh. ‘But I--’
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