She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow’d to that tender light—
The door to the library clicked open and Nate turned in his seat.
Sophie.
It was as though Byron’s lyrical poem was an incantation, and upon reading it aloud, Nate had summoned her, the beautiful girl who haunted his dreams and made him yearn for things he shouldn’t.
She gasped when she saw him rising to his feet, and a bright pink blush washed over her cheeks. “Oh, Lord Malverne. I’m so sorry. I had no idea . . .”
She started to back out and close the door, but Nate called, “Wait. Don’t leave on my account.” He held up the volume of poetry. “I couldn’t sleep so I thought I’d try to read.”
“It seems we both suffer from the same affliction.” Sophie stepped into the room again and closed the door with a soft click. “Would you mind terribly if I looked for a book too?”
“No. Of course not.” Book still in hand, Nate gestured about the room. “Take your pick. That’s what they’re here for after all.”
Sophie smiled softly. “Yes.”
She traversed the richly hued Persian rug on slipper-shod feet and stopped before one of the towering bookcases. Nate lounged back in his seat again, and as he sipped his cognac, he couldn’t resist the urge to drink in the sight of Sophie Brightwell in her night attire. Over her white cotton night rail, she wore a dressing gown of dusky blue velvet, and her glorious raven black hair was unbound; it cascaded in waves down her back, almost to her waist, like a black silk waterfall. His fingers itched to run through it. To arrange it about her when she was naked.
Jesus Christ, he needed to stop his thoughts right there. He didn’t want to sport an erection in front of the poor girl. She’d come in search of something to read, nothing more.
To his surprise, she joined him at the fireside with her chosen book, claiming the wing chair on the other side of the occasional table. The sweet floral scent of her that reminded him of roses—whether it was the soap or perfume she used, he wasn’t sure—teased him and made his loins tighten with longing. He took a larger sip of the cognac, praying it would douse the desire stirring in his veins.
Clearly oblivious to his internal struggle and the potential danger she was in, Sophie leaned closer. “Do you mind if I ask what you’re reading?” she asked, nodding at his book.
He closed the volume and turned the spine away so Sophie wouldn’t see it. Perhaps it was cowardly, but he was reluctant to admit he’d been reading a poem that reminded him of her. “Poetry.”
He also wanted to change the subject in case Sophie asked him something about the book and he inadvertently revealed too much about his inadequacy, so he added, “What have you chosen?”
She smiled and showed him the cover. “Sense and Sensibility. It’s the loveliest novel. One of my favorites. The author, Miss Jane Austen, has a wonderful way with dialogue. She’s penned the wittiest lines. And the reader is always assured of a happily ever after.”
He cocked an eyebrow, amused by how passionate she was about her topic. “Oh, really?”
“Yes. The stories are actually quite entertaining commentaries about society, but what I love most is how the hero and heroine always find their perfect match. Some might say they are silly, romantic books, but I would counter, what is wrong with romance? Isn’t that something each of us yearns for? To have romance in our lives?”
“Perhaps. But real life isn’t like a book.”
“No. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t wish for happiness and love. Life would be rather dismal and lonely without them, don’t you think?”
“Touché.” Nate didn’t wish to state that he didn’t believe in happily-ever-afters anymore. Her enthusiasm shone in her beautiful blue eyes and in her smile, and he didn’t want to be responsible for smothering it with his cynicism. Not tonight at least.
Sophie continued, “When you’re finished with your book of poetry, perhaps you might like to try reading my favorite novel by Miss Austen, Pride and Prejudice. I’ve heard that even the Prince Regent is a great admirer of the author’s work.”
Nate inclined his head. “I believe I’ve heard that too.”
“Well . . .” She shifted to the edge of her seat as though she were about to rise.
“Would you like a sherry? Or something else?” Nate gestured toward the cabinet near his father’s desk that contained various bottles and decanters of alcohol. He raised his own tumbler. “I sometimes find a small nip helps me to sleep.”
Sophie bit her bottom lip. “I really shouldn’t.”
“Of course.” Disappointment settled like a stone in Nate’s stomach. He’d been foolish to even suggest such an improper thing. “It was wrong of me—”
“But yes.” Sophie smiled at him shyly from beneath her long, dark lashes. “A sherry would be lovely.”
“Oh. Of course.” He smiled back. “I’ll get you one.”
When he returned to the fireside with the sherry and another decent nip of cognac for himself, Sophie had picked up the copy of Hebrew Melodies and was looking through it.
“Have you a favorite poem?” she asked as he handed her a small crystal glass.
Nate winced as he took his seat. He didn’t want to lie to her, so he said, “To be perfectly honest, I’ve never read it, or indeed any other book of poetry. I only just picked it up because it was lying on the table.”
Sophie looked at him, her expression soft. “The other week you mentioned you’re not fond of reading. Charlie mentioned it to me too.”
“Did she?” Oh, hell. He gulped down a mouthful of his drink. What else had his blasted sister said? Did Sophie know how much of a struggle it was for him? His lackluster academic performance at school? He’d never shared such a detail with a woman before. Only his family and closest friends knew of his problem.
Sophie nodded and sipped her sherry before adding gently, “She also said it was your older brother, Thomas, who taught you to read a certain set of memoirs when you were thirteen. The ones you’ve read from cover to cover . . .”
Heat crept up Nate’s face, and he swallowed back more cognac, almost draining the glass.
A small crease appeared between Sophie’s delicately drawn eyebrows. “I’m sorry. I’ve upset you. I shouldn’t have said anything. But I just thought you should know that I knew.”
“No. It’s all right, Sophie,” Nate said with a sigh. “Everything Charlie said is true. Reading, and indeed writing, can be a struggle for me.” He shrugged and offered a weak smile. “I suppose not everyone can be good at everything.”
“Yes.” Sophie sat forward, her glass of sherry clasped tightly in her elegant fingers. “For instance, I’m hopeless at playing the pianoforte. I’m all thumbs. And I cannot draw to save myself. When I was at Mrs. Rathbone’s academy, the drawing master used to cringe in horror whenever he saw my feeble attempts. He once likened one of my still life drawings of a bowl of figs and grapes to a bowl full of squashed dead toads. Apparently it was an abomination to the eyes.”
Nate appreciated her attempt at levity, and his smile grew wider. The funny thing was, now that he knew Sophie was aware of his “secret,” and she didn’t seem at all perturbed, it didn’t feel quite so burdensome. He was actually relieved.
He suddenly wondered how he would feel if she knew more about the things he kept hidden. She was already curious about his time in the military. And she must have questions about Thomas. The longcase clock in the hall outside chimed the half hour.
Sophie took another sip of her sherry and then set the half-drunk glass down on the table beside Byron’s book of poetry. “It’s growing late. I’d probably best retire,” she said softly. She pre
ssed her book to her chest but then she suddenly reached across the table and laid a small hand on his arm. “Lord Malverne, I just wanted to say, if you ever needed . . . I mean, if you ever wanted help . . . while I’m here . . . you see, I helped my sister Jane learn to read when she was younger. She had terrible trouble for many years too.”
“Thank you.” Nate squeezed her hand. “You’re very kind. And sweet.”
Oh, damn. Why had he used that word? His gaze met Sophie’s, and that was a mistake too. For in her wide blue eyes he saw a reflection of how he’d been feeling for days, if not the past few weeks. Hell, if he were honest with himself, he’d felt like this ever since she first arrived at Hastings House.
There was heat and longing. Anticipation and hesitation. And another emotion he dared not name because men like him didn’t believe in it.
Couldn’t believe in it.
He swallowed and his gaze dropped to Sophie’s mouth. Was she remembering every single detail about their tryst the other night in the garden? And what he’d done and said to her in her room?
So fucking sweet.
“You should go,” he murmured huskily, desperately trying not to think about Sophie Brightwell naked and willing in her bed. Or his. Or anyplace, including this damn library. But yet again, just like in the garden at Astley House, his body wouldn’t cooperate. His hand wouldn’t release hers. Indeed, he felt Sophie’s fingers curl around his forearm a little bit more as though she didn’t want to let go of him either.
Her chest rose as she drew a shaky breath, and above the neckline of her night rail, he could see her pulse fluttering like a trapped butterfly beneath the satiny skin of her neck.
“Yes, I should,” she whispered. And then, before he could summon the will to say good night, Sophie slid from her seat and into his lap, and her mouth covered his.
Yes. Oh, sweet Jesus, yes. Nate dropped his tumbler of cognac onto the floor, and his hands came up to cradle Sophie’s beautiful face. She kissed him with wild abandon, her tongue slipping boldly between his lips, her fingers spearing through his hair. It seemed she’d been craving him with a burning intensity that matched his own.
Somehow, shy, sweet Sophie Brightwell had transformed into a passionate seductress who wasn’t afraid to take what she wanted.
And it was clear she wanted him.
Her hands slid to his shoulders, then beneath his banyan. Her fingers kneaded his pectoral muscles through the thin cambric of his shirt, and his need escalated. Spiraled out of control like she’d sparked a wildfire inside him. Could she feel his cock hardening, pushing into her thigh?
Cradling the back of her head, he dragged his mouth from hers and she whimpered.
“Sophie . . .” She’d rendered him breathless, and he needed to draw much-needed air into his lungs before continuing. “My sweet Sophie, we should stop before we go too far. Before I go too far.”
“I trust that you won’t,” she whispered, touching her forehead to his. She shifted on his lap, and his cock throbbed. “I know you want me. Please don’t send me away.” Her fingertips feathered along his jaw and down his throat where his own pulse beat like a bass drum, hot and heavy. “Just think of this as another lesson you’re giving me. An advanced lesson in passion. All the skills I’ll need to tame a rake. I know there are things we can do. Things you can show me. I will still be a maid and no one will ever know.” She kissed his jaw, then flicked his earlobe with her hot tongue. “Please, Nate.”
God help him. How could he say no to such a proposition?
She might be young, she might be his sister’s friend, she might believe in fanciful notions such as true love and romance—there were so many reasons howling at him to say no to her—but right here, right now, he just couldn’t summon the will to refuse her.
He slid an arm beneath her legs and one behind her back, and with a low growl, he swept her up and then placed her gently onto a nearby chaise longue. Her beautiful black hair fanned out on the red silk damask cushions at her back, and he had the overwhelming urge to bury his face in the fragrant waves.
There were so many other things he wanted to do. To show her, just like she’d asked.
He sat down beside her, and his heart pounded a wild tattoo as he began to loosen her blue velvet robe. For so long he’d dreamed about what her breasts would look like, how they’d taste. He’d already caressed them in the dark, and through her clothes. He’d touched his tongue to her nipple. But it wasn’t enough. Nowhere near enough.
As the ribbon tie securing her night rail slipped free, Sophie’s kiss-swollen lips parted and her breath quickened. Her blue eyes, as dark and fathomless as the sea, were heavy-lidded with desire; she watched his face, perhaps waiting for his reaction when he pulled the neckline of her night rail lower.
He wasn’t disappointed. Not at all. Hot lust arrowed through him, heating his blood, as he absorbed the glorious sight of Sophie Brightwell’s perfect, pert breasts. High and proud and as round as apples, the ivory mounds were topped with deep red raspberry nipples.
Nate’s mouth watered as he cupped each globe reverently and grazed the pads of his thumbs over the tightly furled peaks. His voice was husky as he murmured, “You’re beautiful, Sophie.” He teased her nipples again, and she pushed herself into his hands.
“Please,” she whispered, “taste me.”
Nate didn’t need any more urging. Bending his head, he sucked one succulent bud between his lips, then flicked it rapidly with his tongue. All the while, his fingers plucked and tortured the other nipple. Whimpering, Sophie threaded her fingers through his hair, and her whole body arched.
“Oh, sweet heaven,” she panted. “Nate . . . that feels . . . oh.”
He smiled as he transferred his mouth to her other breast. He loved that the usually well-spoken, prim and proper Miss Sophie Brightwell was inarticulate with desire.
But he wouldn’t be satisfied until she was speechless.
He slid his hand to the hem of her night rail. It was already rucked up to her knees.
She’d said she wanted an advanced lesson in passion. The question was, did she really want to go this far?
* * *
* * *
Although she’d been rendered all but mindless with desire because of the exquisite yet torturous attentions Nate was lavishing upon her breasts, Sophie also became aware of his hand on her leg—the hot, heavy weight, the teasing caress of his fingers as they made small circles on the inside of her lower thigh. Was he going to touch her between her thighs?
She prayed that he would.
Before she came down to the library, she tossed and turned for several hours, thinking of Nate and how much she burned for him. The fact that he’d spent the entire afternoon and evening with her and Charlie only served to inflame the banked fire within her, so as she’d lain in her bed recalling Nate’s kisses and caresses, she’d tentatively touched her own nipples and the black curls hiding her feminine folds; they were damp, and she was so shocked at her wantonness, at the evidence of her desire, that she hadn’t been willing to touch herself any further.
But now, as Nate’s fingers continued to stroke the tingling flesh just inside her knee, she knew she wanted him to touch her in her most secret place.
Her sex ached for him.
With trembling fingers, she inched her night rail higher, hoping Nate understood what she wanted. Although she’d brazenly asked him to teach her more about passion, her courage failed her at the thought of actually putting her wicked request into words.
He must have noticed what she was doing as he raised his head from her breast and locked his dark, smoldering gaze with hers. “Are you sure about this, Sophie? Do you really want me to pleasure your quim?”
“Yes,” she whispered. A fiery blush scorched her cheeks at hearing him say such a thing, but that’s exactly what she wanted. “Very much. I know it’s wrong and perh
aps even depraved, but I want to know how it feels to . . .” She bit her lip, unable to say more.
Nate slid his hand farther up her thigh until his fingers rested just below her mound. “To come?”
“Yes.”
His smile was pure sin and the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. “It’s not depraved at all. It’s wonderful.”
Sophie let her legs fall open for him. “Show me then.”
“With pleasure.”
Quivering with anticipation and acute need, Sophie closed her eyes, and when Nate’s fingers drifted through her curls, she gasped. How would it feel when he—
Her thoughts scattered as Nate slid one, then two of his long fingers between her slick folds, stroking up and down, up and down in a maddening rhythm. At the same time, he suckled at her breast.
Oh, my Lord. Sophie clutched Nate’s head. The sensations engulfing her were indescribable. Overwhelming. And then he touched an excruciatingly sensitive spot at the top of her sex and she bucked and cried out.
Nate immediately covered her mouth with his, absorbing the sound. “Hush, sweetheart,” he whispered as he continued to rub and torture that little nub of pleasure with the pad of one clever finger. “We don’t want anyone to hear.”
Sophie whimpered by way of reply, and then Nate was kissing her again, his tongue tenderly ravaging her mouth as his wicked fingertips teased her quim without mercy. A powerful, irresistible force was building, tugging her toward something she wanted so very badly. A hot, mounting pressure that was almost too much to bear. She hovered on the edge of agony and ecstasy . . . and then, without warning, a bright burst of pleasure rushed through her. Consumed her.
Nate drank in her hoarse cry of elation as she shuddered and quaked, racked by wave after wave of bliss until, at last, she subsided into a helpless yet completely satisfied puddle on the chaise longue.
How to Catch a Wicked Viscount Page 20