‘I am terribly worried about kissing someone else. About… about doing anything of that nature with anyone else.’ Poppy’s soft, plaintive murmur was almost more than Grancourt could bear. ‘I worry that no-one will ever want to kiss me.’
‘That’s bollocks.’ Poppy’s eyes widened at the use of such language; Grancourt continued regardless, his body hard and aching for her touch. ‘Every man who gets within ten feet of you wants to kiss you.’
‘Oh.’ Poppy paused, looking up at him with her head tilted slightly. ‘Does that mean that you want to kiss me?’
Bollocks, bollocks and double bollocks. Grancourt bit his lip, looking down at her in pained silence, determined not to answer.
‘In any case, not being kissable is not my only fear.’ Poppy shrugged. ‘I fear that someone will want to kiss me, but that I will not know how to do it properly. That I will do it so badly, so atrociously, that all chances of an advantageous marriage will be lost thanks to my lack of skill. I rather believe everyone expects me to be skilled in the art, given Richard’s dabbling in things I am not supposed to know about. And if I only had someone to practice these things with, someone good and kind and safe, then I would feel ever so much more—’
She stopped, her final word dissolving into a rapturous sigh as Grancourt kissed her.
It was as light as he could possibly manage it. A slow, delicate brush of lips, requiring every single ounce of self-control that he possessed—but he was still lingering, still tasting her, reaching out to cup her smooth, flushed cheek against his palm. Still trembling, down to his core, as he pulled away.
All was lost. All was lost, completely lost, and he had never felt more alive.
‘Do not call me safe, Poppy.’ Damn his voice; so hoarse, so raw. So close to revealing everything he felt. ‘Please. Anything but that.’
‘I shall call you anything I like.’ How beautiful Poppy was, staring up at him, her lips flushed and rosy. ‘Anything I wish. Unless… unless you kiss me again.’
Do not call me safe. Grancourt’s words spread through Poppy in much the same way as the whisky had, unbarring parts of herself that she had never had the courage to acknowledge. Grancourt wasn’t safe, but he was safe, but he wasn’t… he was a lion that could devour anyone he chose, anyone at all, but with her he was a house-cat.
No. He was still a lion; the hairs on the back of her neck were stiff, revelling in a danger that felt as delicious as it did exciting. Poppy, frowning as she considered the metaphor, happily let it slip her mind as Grancourt’s mouth covered hers again.
‘Ohhh.’ She couldn’t help sighing at the feel of him; how sensuous his lips were as they brushed up against her own, parting them, coaxing her into a small, high gasp of pure pleasure as she felt his tongue gently stroke the roof of her mouth. How on earth did ladies and gentlemen, once promised to one another, not spend every moment of their days kissing?
‘Do that again.’ She hadn’t meant to speak, the order had come from somewhere deep within her. ‘I… oh, dear. I do not wish to command you.’ She swallowed as Grancourt looked at her, his breathing ragged. ‘I do not know if I can command you. Not really.’
‘If you could not command me, Poppy Maldon, then we would not be here,’ Grancourt’s hand moved to her neck, his thumb tracing the corner of her mouth with a covetous need that made her shiver. ‘You command me utterly.’ He scowled; Poppy smiled in recognition of his habitual expression. ‘The least you could do is admit it.’
Command him utterly? Those words worked as well as his previous ones; there were new sentiments, or perhaps very old ones, patiently flowering in the back of Poppy’s mind… but no, now was not the time to consider them, with her own body begging her to explore more immediate sensations.
‘I admit it. I admit to anything.’ She threw his hands around his neck, her fingers finding thrills of pleasure in the silken feel of his thick, dark hair. ‘Kiss me again, until I tell you to stop. I command you.’
What absurd words to say! She knew she sounded like a courtesan—at least, she assumed she did. Poppy wondered somewhat treacherously if Matilda had ever said anything similar to one of her protectors, before abandoning the thought as Grancourt began kissing her once more.
Perhaps she was beginning to understand why ladies and gentlemen didn’t spend all their time simply kissing. The more she kissed Grancourt, the more kisses she wanted in return; deeper ones, rawer ones, full of the deep, delicious sounds she heard humming at the base of his throat whenever she was more daring in her explorations. More than that, she wanted his kisses in places that she wasn’t entirely sure she could be kissed.
Her shoulders. Her breasts, still confined in her gown; her nipples were achingly, uncomfortably stiff, so sensitive against the linen of her shift that it made Poppy want to scream. If his mouth felt so divine against her own lips, his tongue so masterful as it caressed her own… how would he feel on the parts of her she had only ever tentatively stroked in the privacy of her own bedroom?
‘I have another command. One that I am not entirely sure you will like.’ Her voice sounded huskier than usual; Poppy cleared her throat, attempting to sound less as if she were begging. ‘You… you must kiss me in places other than my mouth.’
Grancourt’s stare could have melted stone. ‘Are you trying to kill me, Poppy?’
‘Of course not.’ Poppy drew back, a little hurt. ‘Why on earth would you say such a thing?’
Grancourt’s harsh, broken sigh only made her body feel more awake, more tremblingly alive. ‘Do you really wish to see what I mean?’
‘Absolutely. I insist.’ Poppy bit her lip. ‘I really cannot possibly imagine how you are in danger of—’
She stopped as Grancourt took her hand. Taking a moment to press a soft kiss to the underside of her wrist, he moved it underneath the mass of blankets that lay pooled at his thighs.
Oh. Poppy, a new shiver of strange, illicit delight running through her, gently pressed her fingers to what she realised was Grancourt’s very rigid cock. The contrast of his soft buckskin breeches against the stiff flesh beneath was yet another delicious shock; an unexpected pleasure, among the thousands of others that had made themselves felt tonight.
She could no longer pretend that what she and Grancourt were doing was anything close to innocent. She could no longer pretend she wanted to be innocent. Grancourt had never been anything resembling a house-cat; he was a lion, red in tooth and claw… but he was her lion.
And maybe, just maybe, she was a lioness.
‘Do you see now? That you are killing me?’ Grancourt’s mouth hovered at her ear; his teeth grazed her earlobe, sending sparks through Poppy’s being as she cupped his shaft. ‘As I said, Poppy… do not call me safe.’
‘I shall not.’ Poppy swallowed. She pressed her fingers shyly against Grancourt. ‘But you shall not call me safe, either.’
The look in Grancourt’s eyes was almost forbidding; there was a hint of something there that filled Poppy’s heart, making her tremble. Oh, if only she could be looked at like that always… as if she were the only woman in the world, and always had been.
‘You are not safe.’ His voice was almost a growl. ‘You are very, very dangerous.’
Poppy, sighing in rapture as his mouth covered hers again, had to agree.
She didn’t remove her hand from Grancourt’s rigid member. She didn’t want to; she didn’t want to do anything that wasn’t this, kissing him with increasingly feverish joy, her sighs slowly ripening into moans that embarrassed her at first. Thank goodness for the fourteen revellers that were slowly filling the inn; Poppy could hear their disorder through the walls, their rabble-rousing, and felt nothing but gratitude. Their merriment made her safer here; made her freer to move closer to Grancourt, climbing clumsily atop him, wanting to look at him beneath her.
‘I do not know if this is done.’ She bit her lip, the feel of her bare thighs against his breeches both forbidden and thrilling in equal measure. Grancourt’s hand
s moved to her hips; Poppy smiled, sighing as he moved her. How delightful it felt, being moved for his pleasure; the idea that she was giving him pleasure through the sheer fact of her presence fuelled her. ‘Will you permit me?’
‘I am incapable of stopping you doing anything you want. This is—ah!—well-established.’ Grancourt reached up one hand, resting it brazenly against her breast as Poppy gasped. ‘Will you permit me?’
‘Yes.’ Poppy did not know exactly what she was permitting, but she nodded eagerly. If it was connected to Grancourt’s hand on her breast, the warmth of his palm making the cotton of her dress feel whisper-thin as he stroked his thumb over her stiff, swollen nipple, then she would happily permit anything. ‘Absolutely.’
‘We should not be doing this. We should not be doing this at all.’ Grancourt muttered the words; Poppy wondered if he was saying it more to himself than to her. Even if what he said denoted reluctance, his grip on her was as deliciously tight as ever. ‘This.. this is wrong.’
‘I know that you are correct. We are not meant to be here together at all.’ Poppy leant down, kissing the hollow of Grancourt’s neck as he swore violently beneath her. ‘But I cannot help thinking that such a lack of supervision is a boon. For… scientific purposes.’
‘Scientific purposes?’ Grancourt’s hand was firm, unyielding as he cupped her breast, making her shiver as he stroked. ‘Is that all I am? An experiment?’
‘Of course.’ Poppy sighed gently with frustration, smiling as she shifted under Grancourt’s touch. ‘What else could you possibly be?’
It was only as she spoke the words that she realised how cruel she sounded. How terrible she sounded, without explaining the motives behind her reasoning. Grancourt was too handsome, too worldly, too old, too attached to her brother, too… too unsuitable. Too beyond her reach.
What was the point of hoping for things that could never be, when she could seize the lesser pleasures that came with an illicit, never-to-be repeated night of exploration?
After all, that was surely all Grancourt wanted.
Didn’t he?
Poppy wasn’t sure of her assumptions. Not anymore. In the strange, torrid moment of indecision, of discovery, Grancourt appeared to make the decision for her. Moving his hands to her waist, his touch suddenly more instructive than it was ardent, he gently lifted her onto the other side of the bed.
‘Enough, now.’ He sat up, exhaling slowly; Poppy wanted to reach out, to hold him again, but couldn’t. ‘We go no further.’
‘And why not?’ Poppy looked at him in pained incomprehension, slowly drawing the blankets drawn up to her neck. She felt cold; terribly cold. ‘Why can we not?’
‘Because I refuse to ruin you.’
‘But I am asking you to! I am asking you very nicely!’
‘Why? Because you wish it?’
‘I do wish it! I wish it very much!’ Poppy threw down the blankets, staring beseechingly, wondering how it had all managed to go so horribly wrong.
‘And why do you wish it?’ There was a hint of hunger in Grancourt’s gaze, something raw and sad. Something that caught at the trembling, fragile feeling in Poppy’s heart. ‘Why?’
‘I…’ Poppy looked down, not knowing how to express the sentiment she felt burning in her breast. ‘I do not know.’ With a burst of energy, she tried again. ‘You—you said that I commanded you! I am commanding you!’
‘You could command me to do anything under the sun, and I would. You know that.’ Grancourt’s stare was naked, burning; his voice, so different to his usual harsh tone, made Poppy shrink back. ‘But you could cannot command me to… to be unfeeling. To—to not feel.’
Feel?
Oh.
Grancourt… felt things?
From the look on Grancourt’s face, she had ruined everything. Or at least complicated everything, complicated everything most terribly—including her own soul, which was full of the most wrenching sentiments. Sentiments that Poppy was simply not worldly enough, or sober enough, to categorise.
‘I am so sorry.’ She sank back down onto the bed, laying her head weakly against the pillow. ‘I… I have made a terrible mess.’
‘No.’ Grancourt’s grim smile covered what looked to be an avalanche of sentiment. ‘There is no mess, because nothing has occurred. And… and it is late. It is time for you to sleep.’
The whisky wasn’t making Poppy feel good. Not anymore. It made her feel small, and sick, and sad… and alone, very alone, despite Grancourt’s presence beside her.
She had hurt him very badly. Even though he was trying his utmost to hide it, Poppy could sense the sadness in his movements as he gently plumped up her pillow, drawing the blanket over her. She saw the hurt in his eyes as he looked down at her, his hand lingering briefly against her cheek before he turned away.
‘Enough, now.’ His voice was absurdly gruff, but Poppy found none of her usual humour in it. ‘Time to sleep. Nothing has happened.’
‘I… I do not believe you.’ Despite her intense unwillingness to sleep, the whisky was making Poppy’s head heavy as she curled into the pillow. ‘I feel as if everything has happened.’
‘Not true.’ Grancourt’s voice lowered. ‘You said it yourself. A scientific exploration, cut thankfully short.’
Poppy swallowed, wondering why she felt so close to tears. ‘Yes. I… I say ever so many things.’
Grancourt didn’t respond. Falling asleep, not wanting to relinquish control despite the heaviness of her limbs, Poppy wrestled with the words she wanted to say.
I say ever so many things. I am wrong, very wrong, about some of them.
Grancourt had lived through periods of intense unpleasantness. The death of his parents, a brief period of bankruptcy, the slow and painful regrowth of the family fortunes; all of them had required nerves of steel. In terms of pain, however, pure, horrid agony, nothing was quite as bad as seeing Poppy’s face when the morning sun had shone through the windows of the inn.
He had left the room as Poppy had prepared herself for the day. He had left money on the bedside table, seeing no sign of any waking soul, innkeepers included, as they had both silently exited the inn. He had heaved their luggage without complaint to the nearest coach-house, where a carriage was procured for them at short order.
He had sat in stunned, awkward silence opposite her, as the carriage had travelled without incident to London.
There had been no discussion of what had occurred. There had certainly been nothing established as to what would be said, or not said, or lied about… but Grancourt knew, as he deposited Poppy at Maldon’s relatively modest family townhouse—so different to his glittering Mayfair pleasure-house—that she would say nothing. She had fallen into Maldon’s waiting arms, smiling as usual, her voice already filling the cool air with a highly edited version of events.
‘Oh, yes, the coach broke down… it was quite the adventure. His Grace was terribly kind—he found an inn, and food for me, and was most attentive to my welfare…’
‘Oh, Grancourt.’ Maldon had taken his hand, his face full of relieved gratitude. ‘I cannot thank you enough.’
‘Thank me later.’ Grancourt had barely managed to smile. ‘I’ll be at the Club.’
He had gone without saying goodbye to her. He had spent the afternoon at Simpkins, nursing a glass of brandy, waiting for the other Bad Dukes to arrive with an irritation that bordered on fury… and when Bale, Selby and Harding had arrived, with the welcome news that Maldon intended to dine at home that night, Grancourt had made the decision to unburden his soul.
He did not like unburdening himself. He had never previously felt the need to unburden himself, and had thought pretty poorly of those who did. The relief he felt as he stammered out a brief account of his conduct was bracing, yes… but then came the results.
The back room quickly became a hive of unexpected activity. Victor Bale paced back-and-forth, gesturing wildly, flanked by Harding and Selby, as Grancourt sat glowering in his usual chair. The door
, firmly barred to all interfering butlers and valets, practically shivered under the righteous invective raining down on Grancourt’s head.
‘You hypocrite!’ Bale pointed a triumphant finger at Grancourt, his scarred face showing an incalculable mixture of shock and triumph. ‘You blustering, know-it-all, hypocritical bastard! I knew it! I knew all of your nonsense about courting was covering up something sordid!’
‘No you bloody well didn’t.’ Grancourt scowled from his chair as if he had the moral high ground, even though he was very aware that he did not. ‘And it wasn’t—it isn’t—oh, buggering hell.’
He folded his arms, shaking his head. There was no way to say in clear, convincing terms that it wasn’t sordid, was there? Not without being unspeakably sentimental. Given the briefest, barest facts that he had lain at the feet of the Bad Dukes Club, they were understandably gleeful about his apparent fall from grace.
Still. It hurt. Hurt more than he had thought it would, to hear all his unwise moralising come back and bite him in his most sensitive parts.
‘Bale may not have known, but I did.’ Selby looked languidly at Harding, who softly bowed his head with a hint of a smile. ‘And I think Harding had an inkling. I’ve known about it since her coming-out ball. You spent the night looking as if you’d been struck by a carthorse.’
‘Poppy, Grancourt?’ It was Harding’s tone of gentle reproach, combined with the slight furrow of his brow, that hurt Grancourt the most. ‘Of all the people to lust after, to damage… you really had to pick the most violently unsuitable person to—’
‘I love her. Damn all of you to hell and back for making me admit it. I love her.’ Grancourt rose, his voice shaking with rage as he pointed at his silenced friends. ‘It is not a passion, or a thrill, or a sentiment that will vanish with time. Believe me, I have tried to banish it. I am in love with her, and would die for her, and would kill for her, and if you all keep talking about it as if I fell in love with her to spite all of you then I am going to take my gun and—’
Private Passions Page 100