A Rake's Midnight Kiss (23 page)

“I know.” Tucking her head under his chin, he cupped a possessive hand under one breast. He pressed his lips to her temple with a tenderness that stifled doubt. Almost.

Gradually passion subsided to a gentle flow, in tune with the river and the soft breeze shifting the willow. The erratic dance of the sunlight mirrored the erratic dance of her heart until even that slowed.

She’d never imagined lying quietly with him, breathing as if they shared one life. Always he’d picked and pried at her, making her as jumpy as a flea on a cat. While the warm afternoon drifted, Genevieve forgot time, although she never forgot whose arms encircled her in perfect peace.

Genevieve awoke to lazy pleasure. Behind closed eyes, she was aware of golden light. The day wasn’t over. Slowly, not sure that she wanted to return to the real world of responsibility and consequences, she lifted her eyelids. Christopher studied her with heavy-eyed delight as he dipped his hand under her bodice to stroke her breasts. She shifted and realized that his other hand slid beneath her skirt.

Voluptuous enjoyment kept fear just far enough away to ignore. “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked drowsily.

He kissed her briefly, then returned to kiss her more thoroughly. “Taking advantage, Miss Barrett.”

His hand traced elaborate patterns under her drawers. With each pass, he ventured higher. Her sex ached for a touch where no man had touched her before. The distant alarm became a blaring shriek. Still she had to force herself to stiffen in his arms.

“I’m not Hecuba.”

“You purr like she does,” he whispered into her ear, his breath disturbing soft tendrils of hair.

“You promised.”

He stared at her, his gaze steady. Almost trustworthy. “I give you my word you’ll be as pure when I’ve finished as you are now.”

“Take me back to Little Derrick.”

Desperation lit his eyes. “Not yet. Please, not yet.”

His need sliced at her heart. She felt as though she poised on a cliff. One reckless step and she tumbled down to the rocks below.

She took the step.

“Kiss me before I change my mind,” she said, her throat tight with nerves.

His mouth took hers and the world faded to hot darkness. When his hand rose higher, she clung to his shoulders. Then his hand slipped between her thighs. The seeking touch so close to her center made her close her legs.

“You’ll like this,” he whispered.

“I’m sure I will,” she said unsteadily. “But that doesn’t make it right.”

“I’ll stop if you ask.”

Despite apprehension and gnawing frustration, she gave a choked laugh. “Once you start, I won’t want you to stop.”

She sighed and loosened her thighs. Scattering thought, he kissed her again. Then he stroked her through the slit in her drawers.

She tensed with surprise. “Oh.”

His thumb brushed a spot that set her trembling. She moaned against his lips as clever fingers circled and caressed. Her skin felt too tight. She shifted against his hand and the change in pressure throbbed through her. Hot moisture welled against his palm and she hid her face in his shirt, his musky, lemony scent intoxicating her.

Dear Lord, what magic his fingers contained. His body curled over her and still those deft fingers teased. She went rigid when he slid one long finger inside her.

She grabbed his wrist. “That feels strange.”

Strange. Terrifying. Wonderful.

“Don’t fight it, Genevieve,” he whispered, curling his finger to coax another shudder of response. “Don’t fight
me
.”

Saying yes seemed too brazen. Saying no meant he’d curtail this astonishing journey.

She’d never imagined a man would touch her like this. Especially a man who made no promises beyond not hurting her. Beneath her cheek, his heart raced. If he’d remained unaffected, it would be so much easier to remember that she’d always been chaste.

When she didn’t speak—coherent words were beyond her—he stroked his finger in and out, setting up a driving rhythm in her blood. His arm tightened around her back, bringing her closer. She lay across his lap, as open as a door flung wide in welcome.

The pressure deepened. Exquisite sparks lit her blood. He invaded her with two fingers. Gently, inexorably, he pressed inside. She trembled at the glorious fullness and tightened her grip on his shirt.

This time when he withdrew, she instinctively lifted her hips to follow. He buried his head in her hair, muttering encouragement. His jagged breathing filled her ears as he fueled her response. He stoked a fire inside her, a fire that flared higher and higher until it raged out of control. She gasped her frustration against his chest.

Suddenly, torment dissolved into brilliant light and her body flowered into pleasure. She cried out in surprise and delight and rose toward that adept, tormenting hand.

A
s they drove home, Christopher remained quiet. At first, Genevieve was grateful. His silence gave her a chance to come to terms with what they’d done. But as they wound along the country roads, she began to wonder if her wantonness disgusted him. The pelisse covered her rumpled dress and he’d helped to fix her hair, but she had a painful suspicion that what had happened on the river was written across her in letters a foot high.

Long after she’d succumbed to those unearthly sensations, he’d held her tight against him. He’d kissed her when she’d floated back to earth, but not since, and his smile when at last he’d released her had been strained. With hardly a word, he’d packed up the remains of their meal, then while she settled onto cushions that carried the scent of their bodies, he steered them back to Oxford.

Conflicting emotions had gripped her as she’d watched the willow grove recede. Surprise. Shame, although not as sharp as it should be. Satisfaction.

Her response to his touch had been a revelation. So much
for clever, self-contained Genevieve Barrett. She’d all but fainted in his arms. Even now, as she sat beside him in the elegant carriage, the glow lingered. The frightening truth was that she loved his touch. She wanted him to touch her again. And if he did, she had a horrible inkling that the encounter wouldn’t stop at kisses.

They’d collected an exhausted and overexcited George from the stables. The boy now slept behind them, wrapped in a rug that Christopher had produced from beneath the dog seat. Another rug covered her legs. The evening wasn’t cold, but it had cooled since the day. Or perhaps she’d been too occupied this afternoon to notice any temperature other than her own. She bent her head under its bonnet and contemplated the rug’s plaid pattern.

What was in Christopher’s mind? His demeanor offered no clue. He used that inscrutable expression to distance people. Now he turned it on her and she hated the experience. With George so close, she couldn’t ask. Instead she stewed over her rashness.

Christopher took a corner at what felt like dangerous speed and she reached under her rug to curl her fingers around the edge of the seat. Ahead lay a straight stretch, empty of traffic. Christopher spoke a word to the horses who settled to a trot. He caught the reins in one hand and tore the leather glove off his other hand with his teeth. Genevieve watched from the corner of her eye and wondered what he intended.

He lowered his bare hand and slid it beneath her rug. She tensed with appalled denial. Surely he couldn’t plan more seduction. George might wake any second.

Then she felt the glance of Christopher’s little finger against hers. A brush, almost accidental. He touched her again.

Such insignificant contact. Yet she felt it. In a strange way, as strongly as she’d felt those brazen caresses on the river.

Her turmoil eased. She chanced another peek at his face. He concentrated on the road ahead, but a softness about his mouth indicated that he too felt the bond. She stared unseeingly over the horses’ pricked ears as warmth seeped up from that chaste, sweet communication.

Everything would be all right. Everything would be all right.

Richard drew up outside Mrs. Garson’s cottage as evening edged toward twilight. He leaped to the ground and strode around to lift George into his arms. The boy was sound asleep. He hadn’t been much of a chaperone, praise heaven.

Keeping George wrapped against the nip in the air, he carried the boy up the path. Before he reached the door, it banged open and Mrs. Garson rushed out. “Thank heavens you’re back, Mr. Evans. And Miss Barrett too. Such goings-on.”

“What’s happened, Mrs. Garson?” Gently, he handed a stirring George to his mother, even as foreboding settled in his gut. The day had been perfect. Its very perfection tempted fate.

Mrs. Garson broke into a confused tale about strangers breaking into the vicarage. Genevieve climbed down. “Is my father unharmed?”

Mrs. Garson hardly paused. “Tied Vicar up, they did, and locked him in his library. Goodness knows what else.”

“Dear Lord…” In a whirl of green skirts, Genevieve hurtled toward the vicarage.

Richard scrambled into the driving seat and whipped the horses to a speed risky in the high street. He clattered around
the back of the vicarage and drew the vehicle to a juddering stop. Williams emerged, almost hopping in his urgency.

“Mr. Evans, Mr. Evans, you’ve heard then.”

Richard flung the reins to the groom and jumped down. “What happened?”

“I’d taken Vicar’s cob to the blacksmith and Dorcas was doing the marketing. The buggers must have been waiting. Locked the vicar and Mrs. Warren up right and tight and ransacked the house.”

Hell. Richard should have made sure the vicarage was safe before he went to Oxford. He’d been too busy worrying about Genevieve to pay proper attention to her family. “Is Dr. Barrett hurt?”

“He’s pretty bad shaken up.”

Whatever the hell that meant. “Did you see the intruders?”

“No. They were gone before I got home. I headed out to see my sister after dropping the cob. Only got back half an hour ago. Vicar was nigh gaga with fear when I let him out.”

Poor Dr. Barrett. Poor Mrs. Warren. They’d been through the mill, by the sound of it. Richard clapped Williams on the shoulder and told him he was a good fellow, then strode through the kitchen.

Each room he passed was in chaos. Pictures. Crockery. Furniture. Hundreds of books. All lay scattered. From the front of the house, he heard raised voices.

As he neared the parlor, the voices sorted themselves into the vicar’s whine in response to Genevieve’s urgent questions. And Fairbrother’s unctuous tones. Richard should have guessed that Fairbrother would hover like a vulture at a massacre.

“So that’s agreed?” Fairbrother said from the center of the room as Richard appeared in the doorway. “I’ll make arrangements for my man to move in tomorrow.”

Richard hardly heeded Fairbrother’s blatherings. Instead, he sought Genevieve. Today in the willows, she’d claimed at least part of his soul. Probably all of it.

She kneeled beside her father, her attention on the old man. The vicar hunched in a low chair near the fire, a knitted shawl around his shoulders. He looked small and frail, his shaking hand curled around a posset cup. For the first time, Richard saw him as something other than an absurd creature with a nasty habit of claiming undeserved credit.

Pity jammed Richard’s throat. Pity and envy. Despite her father’s sins against her, Genevieve loved the old man, just as she loved her aunt. Genevieve belonged to a family, something he’d never had.

“Let me help, Papa.” Genevieve steadied the cup. Her sweet concern made Richard’s belly cramp with futile remorse. Damn it, he should have prevented this.

“Was anyone hurt?” Richard entered the room.

Mrs. Warren summoned a smile from her usual chair, although she looked haggard and not her rosy-cheeked self. He hated to imagine her terror while ruffians vandalized her home. “Mr. Evans, we’ve… we’ve had quite the excitement.”

He admired her spirit in making light of what must have been a hideous experience. “I heard. Are you unharmed?”

“I’ve got a few bruises. Ezekiel was in his library so all they needed to do was bundle me in with him and barricade the door. We shouted and shouted, but nobody heard until Williams came back.”