A Lady's Lesson in Seduction (4 page)

Perhaps he didn’t mean to kiss her at all. Maybe he’d decided she wasn’t worth the bother, and the second turn at mashing apples meant nothing.

Frances licked the foam off a cup of lamb’s wool and lapsed into uncomfortable reflections. It was better if he didn’t kiss her. If she let herself dwell on Lord Warbury’s kisses, she was in danger of forgetting her duty to Almeria. In fact, if he intended to marry Almeria, she shouldn’t kiss him at all.

‘There you are, Mrs. Burdett.’ Lord Warbury strolled up, brandishing a solitary mistletoe berry. ‘I’ve been saving you for last.’ He bent and dropped a chaste kiss on her mouth, and then whispered, ‘That doesn’t count. We’ll continue our lessons later.’

Why must he promise more kisses at the very moment when she’d decided she shouldn’t allow it? ‘It would be better not,’ she muttered.

His brows drew together; after a long second, while she squirmed under his contemplative gaze, he merely said, ‘Let’s see if my mother is ready to adjourn to the drawing room. Traditionally, we take the tea upstairs ourselves and leave the servants to enjoy their celebration without us.’

Soon they all trooped up to the drawing room. Over tea, she sent covert glances at both Lord Warbury and Almeria, trying to assess their attitudes to one another. The girl continued to flirt with the marquis every chance she got, but she toyed with the Folk cousins and their friend, too. As for the marquis, he flirted obligingly back, but he didn’t glower like Edwin when Almeria paid attention to someone else. Was he very sure of himself, or too mature to wear his heart on his sleeve? Or was he not interested in Almeria at all?

The younger people gathered about a table to play Speculation, and the Cutlows, Lady Warbury, and the Druid made up a table for whist. Relieved she needn’t try to play cards whilst in such a frame of mind, Frances gratefully retired to the sofa with her needlework and her confusion.

‘Trying to decide what to embroider next?’

She started; the marquis was looking over her shoulder at her stitchery. ‘I drew the design before I left London, but it seems my fingers won’t follow the plan.’ She gestured to a hodgepodge of stem and chain stitches she’d just made while thinking of other matters entirely. ‘That was supposed to be one or two flower stems, but somehow it became chaotic—as if the plant took over and grew on its own.’

‘That’s what plants do if you let them,’ he said. ‘If you don’t prune them and chop them. Pruning and chopping have their place, but so does growth.’ His voice made her shiver. ‘Wild, unrestrained growth.’

He wasn’t talking about plants anymore. She wasn’t ready for anything wild or unrestrained. She wasn’t even sure about more kisses.

‘I’m Almeria’s chaperone,’ she said, nodding towards the noisy game of Speculation. ‘It’s my duty to set a good example for her.’

‘You needn’t worry about Miss Dane. She may be a little chatterbox, but she is very aware of her worth. She won’t do anything foolish or give herself away to just anyone.’

Did he mean she would give herself only to a man of wealth and rank? If he wanted Almeria, why didn’t he just say so? He didn’t hesitate about anything else, she thought indignantly, and tried another tack. ‘She’s too young for marriage.’

He cocked his head to one side, watching Almeria laugh merrily at something Alan Folk said. ‘Not if she chooses the right man.’

That didn’t help, either.

‘Just because you didn’t like Timothy’s kisses, there is no reason to suppose she will have the same experience with her husband.’ He smiled. ‘It is also no reason for you to decide never to remarry.’

She stiffened, suddenly furious. ‘I don’t want to marry again, and I shan’t, and that’s that.’ She picked up her needle again and set the first stitch of a rose.

‘Then you had better have a passionate affair,’ he murmured.

‘I certainly will not!’ She stabbed the needle in and out, in and out.

‘Or at least some more kisses. Deeper ones.’

‘Hush!’ She glanced about, but no one was close enough to hear him.

‘Otherwise, you will moulder away into nothing,’ he said. ‘What a pity that would be.’

No, what a pity she couldn’t storm away and never see him again before she said—or did—something she would regret. She got back to work on what would be a very perfect, very cultivated rose. She would tame the wilderness of her embroidery if it meant unpicking and stitching it over and over again.

‘Set an example for Miss Dane by conquering your fear, not by being a Puritan,’ he said.

* * *

Frances paled so dramatically that he thought she might faint, reminding him unhappily of the day he’d quarrelled with Timothy, when she’d been so sad and wan.... Damn it, what had he done wrong now?

He seated himself next to her. He’d never been known for tact. In fact, his tactless handling of Timothy had proven fatal. ‘Are you unwell, Mrs. Burdett?’

‘I’m perfectly fine,’ she said, but she gazed fixedly at her needlework, and her hand trembled as she set the next stitch. ‘Why should you think I’m afraid? I’m
not!
’ What a lie. ‘And it’s none of your business anyway!’

‘I don’t mean to distress you. Only to…’ He couldn’t say he wanted to help her. That came close to revealing that he knew too much. She was already beginning to ask questions he couldn’t answer.

Ah. Timothy had probably called her a Puritan because she didn’t enjoy being bedded. Idiot, he thought, mentally cursing his dead friend, who also hadn’t realized that many whores only pretended to enjoy themselves. He’d been both furious and mortified when Cam had explained this to him.

‘To what?’ She scowled at him with hot, uneasy eyes.

To prove to her that Timothy had been wrong. He couldn’t say that. To show her what a passionate woman she truly was. He couldn’t say that, either.

He wished he could tell her everything. She was so comfortable and easy to talk to—but she wouldn’t be if he blurted out the truth.

Instead of answering, he stood. ‘I want to show you something.’ He put out an imperative hand.

‘What?’ she demanded, still suspicious.

‘Something my great-great-grandmother embroidered,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll find it interesting.’

She plucked at her stitchery with agitated fingers. ‘Damnation,’ she muttered under her breath. She wove her needle into the fabric by the edge of the frame and stood, as well.

‘It’s hardly that bad, is it?’ he murmured, holding the drawing room door open for her. ‘At the very worst I’ll drag you under the mistletoe and poke my tongue in your mouth.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ she said.

‘Good, because you’re not meant to be a Puritan.’

* * *

‘I’m
not
a Puritan,’ she snapped. She shouldn’t have reacted so strongly, but that word had brought back the last horrid night with Timothy and all the shame and misery she’d kept to herself for the whole past year.

‘That’s what I just said.’ The marquis lit one of the oil lamps that stood on a side table in the Great Hall. ‘So why not have some fun?’

She trod beside him up the wide staircase, trying to decide what to say. That it would be morally reprehensible? That certainly sounded puritanical. Anyway, she wasn’t a prude. She didn’t approve of rakes or unfaithfulness in marriage, but there had to be some leeway for single men and widows. There was the question of whether he wanted to wed Almeria, but when she tried to frame the words, they wouldn’t come.

Besides, one other reason overshadowed them all. Damn him, he was entirely correct. She didn’t know how he could tell, but she
was
terribly afraid.

A faint smile curled his lips. He led her into a paneled room with family portraits on the walls. ‘Why not indulge your natural passion?’

Fury, sharp as lemons, roiled up inside her. ‘Why should I? I have the right to avoid carnal passion if I so choose!’

‘As long as you truly do choose.’

What if she tried and failed once again? She’d wanted to please Timothy—of course she had—but this was different. She knew too much about herself now. Not only that, the more she saw of the marquis, the more she liked him. The thought of being shamed and shunned once again… She didn’t think she could bear it.

He closed the door, shutting them together into the gallery. ‘Plenty of those old Puritans made a practice of pretense, too.’

‘I’m not pretending!’ She was protecting herself. Shielding herself from pain.

His warm voice teased her. ‘What they professed was one thing, and what they thought and did behind closed doors, another entirely.’

A hot blush flooded her entire being. She’d had plenty of carnal feelings before marrying Timothy, the sort one enjoyed but kept to oneself. Timothy had snuffed out those feelings like a candle, pinched her flame cold and dead in a few short weeks. She’d felt almost nothing for a whole year. Hadn’t thought about love, hadn’t touched herself…and now, with his caressing voice and his casual kisses, Lord Warbury had lit that candle again, only it was more like a torch this time.

He winked. ‘I’ll wager you’re the same.’

She swallowed, eyes on the floor, embarrassed beyond words.

He put two fingers beneath her chin and tipped it upwards. ‘You’re not uninterested in pleasure. I
see
the fire within you.’

‘You can’t possibly see what’s—’

His eyes, half-lidded, burned into her. ‘Of course I can.’ He put his arms around her and touched her lips with his. ‘It may be a small flame now, but it will grow.’

She quivered at his touch, at the light in his eyes. At their closeness, at her breasts brushing his chest and his hands resting on her back just above her derriere. That fire was already growing; desire licked and flickered, flickered and licked through her breasts and belly and thighs.

It would come to nothing. Imagination and reality were horrid worlds apart. She thrust her hands between them, pressing them to his chest. ‘How do you know? It could just as easily go out. I don’t want—’

He kissed the words away. ‘It won’t go out if we encourage it.’ He blew softly, and in spite of her fear she laughed—uncertainly, to be sure. ‘Burn, little flame.’ He kissed her again. ‘In case you’re wondering how much encouragement, there are many, many berries on the mistletoe above us.’

She glanced up. A kissing ring swung gently from a hook in the ceiling. There must be a draft up there.

He licked the tip of her chin. ‘I put it there just for us. We’re going to kiss and kiss and kiss.’

She groaned and gave in, and his lips captured hers with soft, warm kisses, tempting kisses, making her want to open to the gentle probing of his lips and tongue. Making her want to taste him.

‘Feel free to invade me any time you like,’ he whispered. She grasped his shoulders and kissed him back, dabbing tentatively with her tongue. His tongue fenced lightly with hers. He licked her lips, and she licked his. She made a small noise of pleasure, shivering again, wanting,
wanting
.

Now his tongue became bolder, but instead of revolting her, the warm insistence of its caresses made her want to open more. To take him into her mouth, to taste and savour him. She couldn’t have kept her lips together if she’d wanted to, not when she could run them over the raspy skin of his upper lip and chin. Not when she could nip at his lips and lose herself as he sucked on hers. She heard her own tiny laugh of pleasure and twined her arms about his neck, pulling him closer, crushing herself to his chest. His hands roamed her back, rested briefly on her hips and squeezed, moved down to cup her derriere. He pulled her hard against him.

Oh,
no,
what had she done? She squirmed out of his embrace, panting. ‘We shouldn’t have. I’m sorry, so sorry. Thank you
very
much for kissing me. It was wonderful, but I didn’t mean to tempt you and then, and then… I’m sorry, but I just can’t.’

* * *

Cam thought she might burst into tears. What the devil? They’d been kissing and embracing, and things had being proceeding nicely, thank you very much, and he’d pulled her closer…

Ah. She’d noticed his arousal.

‘We were only kissing,’ he said. ‘And enjoying the feel of each other. Nothing more.’

Her worried eyes rested on the bulge in his breeches. ‘But—you’re erect. It’ll hurt if I don’t give you the relief you need.’ She stared at him. ‘Won’t it?’

‘No, of course not. Did Timothy tell you that?’ He didn’t need an answer. ‘It subsides on its own if one thinks about something else. Or, if you weren’t in the mood and it mattered that much to him, he could have taken care of it himself.’ She knit her brows. ‘Pleasured himself, you know. Like you pleasure yourself in bed.’

‘No, I—’ Her hands flew to her mouth. She was so transparent; she couldn’t admit it, but neither could she deny it.

He couldn’t help chuckling. ‘Like this.’ He squeezed his cock through the fabric of his breeches, pulling on it, half closing his eyes. ‘It feels good, as I’m sure you know from playing with yourself.’

‘I—’

‘Did he ever play with you? Like this?’ Before she could stop him, he brushed the back of his hand up the apex of her thighs. She sucked in a sharp breath, and he pulled her close, cupping her mound, kneading gently through her skirts, watching her head fall back and her breathing quicken. She moaned.

* * *

He kissed her again. His hand slipped away, and she moaned again, this time with dismay.
Don’t stop…
But now he dropped kisses from her ear to her throat, while that wandering hand slowly, tantalizingly raised her skirts.

‘Do you want me to play with you?’ His voice and hands sent tremors of need shimmering through her.

‘Please,’ she whispered, and his other hand trailed up her thigh, slowly, unbearably. She whimpered, wanting his touch, wanting it
now
…

His fingers delved into the wetness at her core, slipped and slid over her most sensitive spot, then settled into a rhythm. She pulsed wildly around his caresses. This was
nothing
like she’d done to herself alone in her chamber. She’d controlled it then; now she couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, could only writhe against his fingers and moan for more. His fingers drove her higher, helplessly higher and faster, on and on until she exploded and convulsed, over and over again.