by Lora Darling
Lifting her skirts, she went the way of Westhaven, determined to bypass Society, find the gallery, make use of Benoit’s promised services, then call it a night. By this time tomorrow, she should be well on her way home.
Chapter Eight
After a ridiculous amount of time spent looking for a gallery, which clearly existed alongside Avalon or some other mythical place, Eirene decided to admit defeat. With her hair sagging in its pins, her gown clinging to her in uncomfortably damp places, and her patience long lost, she traversed a narrow corridor for the third time and stepped into the dark solitude of a room she had passed during her failed search. The interior smelled of wood smoke and leather, reminding her of her grandfather. They were the scents that had followed him throughout his day, trailing in his wake or lingering after his departure. She inhaled deeply and instantly felt better.
“Bonjour.”
Eirene made herself dizzy as she spun toward the French greeting. “Benoit?”
It had best be him because she simply would not forgive herself for twice being in a situation with a strange man hiding in the shadows.
“Do you know any other Frenchman who might be waiting for you in a dark room?”
“You are supposed to be waiting for me in the gallery.” Though she doubted even Sir Francis Drake could locate said gallery.
“Had I done as instructed, you would now be in this room alone.”
A light flared, causing her to blink at the sudden brightness. When she regained her vision, it was to the sight of Benoit propped on the edge of a small desk. She could not help but wonder if men graced with such looks practiced such poses. It seemed ridiculous to imagine Benoit watching himself in a mirror as he arranged himself on various pieces of furniture, but how else explain the uncanny knack he possessed to always present himself in a way she found captivating?
She pulled her gaze away from the sight of his silk-clad calf, showcased to perfection as it was against the darkness of the desk front. “I do not believe Lady Palmer possesses a gallery.”
“It is located in the garden, within the skeleton of a rather fanciful folly, from what I hear. Impossible to locate unless one is given directions.”
Why the devil had no one told her that bit of useful information? It had been Hamish who had suggested Lady Palmer’s ball, and when asked to explain the choice, he had mentioned the popularity of the lady’s art gallery. Would it have pained him to mention the gallery was not located within the house? As for Lady Palmer, why have an art gallery outside? Why expose an art collection to the elements? What sane individual would do such a thing?
She recalled Lady Palmer’s fluttering headdress of peacock feathers and reassessed her use of the word sane.
“As fascinating as it is to watch you think, there is a rather important matter in need of discussion.” Benoit’s words drew Eirene’s focus back toward him, the picture he presented, and the reason behind the entire evening.
Turning back to the door, she pushed it closed but did not latch it. If her fingers shook as they released the knob, she pretended not to notice. After a deep breath, she faced Benoit. “All right then.”
She allowed her gaze to take in the rest of the room. It was a small space, boasting only a modest hearth, the desk beneath Benoit’s hip, a chair for whomever wished to occupy the desk, and a settee angled to benefit from the fire’s warmth. She frowned at the settee. Its upholstery sagged in the center, hinting at cushions no longer capable of providing comfort.
“It’s a rather sad space, is it not?” Benoit remarked from his perch upon the desk. “Especially considering the grandeur of the rest of the place. One has to wonder who uses this room. Certainly not Lady Palmer. I assume you met the woman?”
Eirene nodded but continued to eye the settee. Would the two of them even fit? Lying down seemed out of the question.
“Then you will agree she is more likely to decorate a room with a bit more joie de vive.”
“Of course.” What had he said? She found it difficult to listen while trying to reason out the positioning of her ruination. Perhaps if Benoit sat upon the settee, and she—
“People have managed to fornicate upon much less.” He spoke directly in her ear, causing her to nearly jump into his arms. Smiling, he grasped her upper arms lightly until she had regained stability. “You are looking at that poor settee as though it is a bed of nails.”
Eirene lifted her chin despite the heat flaring in her face. “I will trust your experience on such matters, monsieur. It is, after all, why I hired you.”
“Of course, but before I prove to you just how accommodating such a piece of furniture can be, there is something you need to know.”
Eirene stepped back from Benoit and began peeling off her long gloves. “Go on. I am listening.”
“Petley is quite determined to marry you, whether you wish it or not.”
Stopping with the second glove half off, Eirene stared at Benoit. “You make it sound as if the man plans to throw a sack over my head and drag me to Gretna Green?”
“I would not put it past him.”
She laughed. “Do not be ridiculous. Such things only happen in horrid novels. Lord Petley is a gentleman set to inherit a respectable title. He has a younger sister due to launch next season and a family name untarnished by past scandals. Why would you believe, for even a moment, he would do anything to threaten his future or that of his sister?”
“I was wrong when I told you he did not need your money.” The seriousness of Benoit’s tone opened the door to a trickle of doubt within Eirene. “His family is horribly in debt. The estate is close to ruin. If he does not marry well, he will not be able to launch his sister as anything but a desperate debutante in need of a fortune.”
“I see.” Eirene returned her attention to the glove and finished removing it. She folded it over the other, then brushed past Benoit to set them atop the desk. She stared at them while considering Benoit’s revelation. “If what you say about Petley is true—” She tossed a quick glance over her shoulder. “—and I have no reason to doubt you, considering you are not the first to issue a warning this evening, then it is more than fortuitous that after tonight I will be considered ruined goods. A man with Petley’s reputation will not wish to take a tarnished woman as wife.”
She waited for Benoit to agree, but he did not.
“Who issued the first warning?”
“Mister Westhaven.”
His gaze darkened. “You encountered Westhaven?”
“On the terrace, yes. He was sulking over the absence of his—”
“I do not care why Westhaven was sulking. Did he act the gentleman with you?”
“He was all that would be considered charming and mannerly. Though he was rather put out upon learning you told me he is in love.”
“He will recover. What did he say about Petley?”
“Nothing as specific as what you have laid out, just a warning to remember not all gentlemen are gentlemen.”
“I wish I could predict what Petley will or will not do.”
Eirene made a dismissive gesture. “I appreciate your concern, monsieur, but after tonight, I plan to quit London and return to the solitude of the country. My trunks are already packed, so you have my permission to think no more on the matter. Besides, I find it hard to imagine Petley’s desperation would cause him to forgo the rest of the season in order to chase after me. I am hardly the only wealthy, unmarried woman in all of England.” She saw from Benoit’s tight expression that, despite wishing to, he could not argue her logic. “Now then, shall we commence with my ruination?”
Unsure what else to do, Eirene moved to the settee and perched upon the edge of the sagging cushion. The item proved as uncomfortable as it looked. Back straight, hands folded in her lap, she waited for Benoit to do whatever it was men did in such situations. She imagined he would begin by removing some of his clothing.
Her gaze strayed toward his cravat. Did the situation allow for her to ask him t
o remove specific articles of clothing? Weren’t the rules of this false seduction hers to make? Yes. She rather believed they were.
“I would like you to remove your cravat, monsieur.” There. That had not been too difficult, and it had proved only mildly uncomfortable.
He made no move to obey. “Is that how this is going to go? You bark an order. I obey.”
“That seems the most efficient way to go about things, does it not?”
“Efficiency does not belong in a seduction, my lady.”
“This is not a real seduction, monsieur.” It would grow tedious if she had to continuously remind him of that fact.
“It might not be a real seduction,” he admitted while moving closer to the settee, “but there will be nothing false about the feel of my hands on your person.”
Well!
Eirene shifted in an attempt to ease a sudden bout of discomfort followed by a feeling of moistness. Had the cushion been damp when she sat down? Mortified to have overlooked the possibility, she shot to her feet and spun around to study the upholstery. The cushion revealed nothing save for the slight depression of her recent occupation.
“Did it suddenly occur to you the fabric might have fleas?”
She twisted to look at Benoit. “It felt moist.” Her words caused him to bite his lower lip in an obvious attempt not to laugh. “Why is that amusing?”
He shook his head. “I refuse to answer that.”
“Clearly you also refuse to remove your cravat.”
“Ask nicely.”
She rolled her eyes. “Will you please remove your cravat, Monsieur Benoit?”
He lifted his hands and began pulling at the knot. “In private you can refer to me as Monsieur Cloutier. Or Adrien, if you prefer.” The knot came undone, and he allowed the crinkled ends of fabric to hang loose. “I assume you wish to have me do this as well?” He unfastened his collar before she could reply and splayed open the fabric.
Ah, there it was. The collarbone that had haunted her nights. Once more, it attracted her gaze as if it held the secrets to life’s most vexing puzzles.
“What is your given name, my lady?”
“Eirene,” she answered without thought. “As in the Greek goddess of peace.”
“You dressed accordingly for the bearer of such a name.”
She dragged her gaze to his eyes. “Pardon me?”
He gestured toward her gown. “I thought you a goddess when you appeared at the top of the stairs.”
“You are attempting to woo me again, monsieur.”
“My apologies.” He did not sound sorry.
“I imagine you would be more comfortable without your jacket, monsieur.”
“Considering you did not word that as a command…” He shrugged out of the garment. His movements pulled at his open collar, and she stared at the base of his throat, as if it were an oasis in a very hot desert. He carelessly tossed the jacket across the desk.
Eirene licked her parched lips. “There.” She cleared her dry throat. “Is that not more comfortable?”
“Come here, Eirene.”
She snapped her gaze to his. “Did I give you permission to use my name?” Though the sound of it wrapped in his honey voice just might replace her dreams about his collarbone.
He held out his hand. “Come here, Eirene.”
“Why?”
“Because I cannot ruin you from across the room.”
“But the settee is—”
“We will get to the settee in time.” He extended his hand. “Come.”
Eirene accepted his outstretched hand. His fingers curled around hers, then he eased her toward him. Close enough to place their joined hands at the base of her spine. The position thrust her bosom against his chest. She used her other hand as a barrier, placing it flat over his heart and locking her arm so he could not pull her closer without using force.
He smiled down at her, the position of the desk lamp casting half his face in shadow while leaving the other half dominated by one gloriously silver eye. “Go on then. Touch it.”
She shook her head, feigning misunderstanding even while her gaze drifted toward his collarbone. Not only was she in a position to touch, she could kiss it if she wished. What would it be like to run her lips along that hard ridge?
Benoit’s free hand covered the one she had braced against his chest. With ease, he guided it up toward his open collar then inside the parted fabric to place the tips of her fingers over his collarbone. She spread her fingers, and he released her hand, leaving her free to explore at will.
And explore she did.
Like a fascinated child petting their first pony, Eirene dragged her hand all the way to the curve of Benoit’s shoulder, causing his shirt to pull against the still fastened buttons. Part of her was aware of him seeing to the matter, but only because the fabric loosened enough to allow her to curl her hand up over his shoulder. His skin radiated heat like a well-tended fire.
Without thinking. Without considering the whys or why nots, Eirene dipped her head and placed her lips against Benoit’s collarbone. He shuddered beneath her touch. The shoulder muscles pressed to the underside of her wrist flexed. His breath fanned the loose tendrils of her coif. Taking note of such things added to her boldness. Parting her lips, she touched his flesh with her tongue.
****
Adrien dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling.
Eirene Rowe-Weston was attempting to kill him. There was no other explanation for her maddening behavior. The wet glide of her tongue weakened his knees and sent a hot rush of blood to his groin as though he were a lad barely out of short pants. For a man accustomed to the feel of a woman’s tongue elsewhere, his reaction to Eirene licking his damn collarbone was nothing less than shocking. God help him if she decided to explore points farther south.
He’d go off like a damn cannon.
As it were, when her mouth reached the hollow of his throat and her tongue began a slow glide up toward his Adam’s apple, he cursed the gods of yore for not gifting him with the patience of a saint. He could not take another moment of her questing lips.
Taking hold of her elegant coif, he dug his fingers in amongst the pins and pearls until he found her scalp. She gasped against the underside of his chin, her breath hot and moist. He tugged, and she came away with an open-mouthed rasp of shock. He looked down into her wide copper eyes, then farther, to the sheen of moisture on her lower lip and the exaggerated puffiness of the upper. It was too much for any man to tolerate.
“Mon Dieu, tu es magnifique.” And she was the most magnificent creature he had ever laid eyes on. Still gripping the back of her head, he anchored her for the descent of his mouth. She exhaled as soon as his lips covered hers. She tasted of tea and mint, and it made him aware of the tepid champagne that likely flavored his own mouth. She did not seem to mind.
The hand she had curled over his shoulder rose to cling to his nape. She held on for dear life, as if his kiss were the only thing preventing her from drowning. Funny that. Considering he felt as if kissing her had knocked him head first into a typhoon. Blood roared in his ears and in his groin. His heart knocked against his chest in a painful staccato he hadn’t felt since stepping foot onto that small English ship off the coast of Dieppe. That had been fear of the unknown. Fear of failing to reach safety. Kissing Eirene sparked an entirely different level of fear.
Fear of never kissing her again.
Her tongue snaked alongside his. He could not have said which of them had initiated the contact. Their mouths were one. Their breaths mingled until he breathed for her and she for him. He’d never felt anything like it. Her fingers pulled at the hair above his nape, and he could have sworn he tasted the desperation of her touch. Her fingers reached higher into his hair, and he thanked the stars he had worn it loose. Who would have thought the feel of a woman’s hand on his scalp could be erotic? He had had his hair pulled and tugged by lovers in the past but never had he particularly enjoyed the feel.
; Eirene did not pull or tug. She explored. Fingers spread wide, she burrowed through his hair until her palm lay flush against the back of his head. The possessiveness of her touch was staggering and not a single bit off putting. Had it been possible, he would have ripped his heart out and dropped it at her feet.
Jesu.
The thought brought the kiss to an abrupt end.
Recalling the purpose behind his presence at Lady Palmer’s ball, Adrien corralled his wayward emotions, then released Eirene. “It might be time to adjourn to the settee, my lady.”
She blinked at him, then darted her tongue out to taste the fullness of her upper lip. Adrien had to avert his gaze lest he snatch her back into his arms for another ravishing kiss.
“Yes, of course.” Her breathy voice only added to his torment. She glanced toward the settee, a frown marring her perfect brow. “I must admit to doubting whether it is big enough—”
“It will do,” he interjected while taking her by the hand and leading her the short distance from desk to settee. Without releasing her, he sat with his arse flush to the back of the cushion and his shoulder blades digging painfully into the maker’s sad attempt at a decorative, carved, wooden camel-back. Bloody hell, the floor would be more comfortable. Ignoring the protests of his body, he gave Eirene’s hand a light tug. “Sit on my lap.”
To her credit, she only hesitated for a moment before angling herself to sit sideways upon his thighs. He stopped her with a hand pressed to her hip. “Astride.”
“Oh.” Her gaze flicked down to his lap. He sat with his feet planted and knees spread. No doubt a shocking sight given her lack of experience in such matters.
“I am firmly encased in my breeches, Eirene. There is no harm in you sitting upon my lap.” Her gaze flew to his face, and he took note of the doubt. It seemed she was not so inexperienced that she did not recognize a cockstand when she saw one. “You must trust me.”