Cheryl Holt (26 page)

Yet, here she was, furtively climbing the rear stairs
of the mansion, hand in hand with John, creeping in like a pair of love-starved adolescents. They were bound for the safety of his bedchamber and the privacy they would enjoy once they were sequestered inside.

He was especially good at stealth, and she guessed it was a knack he’d developed as a child when, she was positive, he’d had extensive practice at racing down back hallways due to his penchant for mischief and trouble.

Oh, how confident she’d been that they wouldn’t have a subsequent assignation! She was so weak of character!

After meeting the woman who was—or wasn’t—his fiancée, she’d steadfastly avoided him. Then, he’d shown up at her door and, with a minimum of sweet-talking, she’d stupidly succumbed to his charm, privately thrilled that he’d fretted enough over her absence to find out where she lived, had expended the energy to check on her.

Still, after he’d gone, she’d vigorously scolded herself. She unequivocally was not going to the manor the following afternoon as he’d requested! Depressed about her decision, but determined, she’d risen and faced the day.

But then the irritating knave had sent a maid out from the mansion, with a huge basket of food draped over her arm, and an elaborate, personally written message from the viscount to Jane as to how he’d selected specific treats for her, and how he hoped they were her favorites.

Once the gift had been delivered, there was no way Emma could refuse it. Jane would have been shattered.

John had informed the servant—an older, reliable type with whom Emma had been acquainted for years—that Emma’s presence was required at the main house, that she and John would be making estate visits together.
As they’d previously done just that numerous times, the retainer hadn’t thought twice about his ruse.

John had also obligingly said that they would be late, that Emma would join him for supper, so the woman had to remain at the cottage to assist Jane until Emma returned. The servant hadn’t doubted that prevarication, either. The viscount was her employer and her master, so she’d done his bidding without question or complaint.

The maid was convinced that Emma had a scheduled appointment with the viscount, so Emma hadn’t had the nerve to dispute his claim, for she wasn’t about to stir gossip as to why she’d dare spurn Wakefield’s demand that she attend him. She’d freshened up and headed out.

As she’d strolled along her usual path through the woods, she’d incessantly reviewed why she’d so easily acquiesced, what she would say when she arrived, what she expected to accomplish before she left. Initially, she’d conjectured that it was another occasion where she would keep John at bay, but somewhere between her leaving her own house and trekking to his, her resolutions had gotten horridly jumbled.

She didn’t want to be strong. She didn’t want John at arm’s length. Her prospects for interaction with him were swiftly dwindling. How long would he tarry at Wakefield before boredom or duty drew him to London?

It was that blasted kiss, she knew. The one he’d bestowed out on the lane in front of her cottage. With the summer sun shining down, and his confessing how much he’d missed her, her heart had cracked into tiny fragments as he’d voiced aloud her deepest, darkest secret: She was in love with him! How marvelous! How terrible!

He was everything she’d ever dreamed about, but
he was also everything her dear, departed father had counseled against. Yet despite how often she’d heard her father’s prudent advice, where John was concerned, she couldn’t heed it.

Her entire life, she’d pined for a man like John to sweep her away. He had, yet in a few days or weeks, he’d vanish like smoke, disappearing so rapidly that she’d eventually speculate as to whether she’d really known him, at all.

What a forlorn, miserable crossroads that would be!

She’d marched out of the forest and advanced on the manor, when he’d accosted her at the servants’ entrance. Without a word, he’d yanked her inside, then ushered her upstairs, and she’d accompanied him with nary a reservation or objection. There’d been such a sense of the inevitable, a destiny she couldn’t alter or prevent.

They reached a landing, and he covertly opened the door that led to the corridor, touching a finger to his lips to motion her to silence. As if she’d have made any noise! If they’d stumbled across a servant, she couldn’t have formulated a sufficient falsehood as to what she was doing.

He glanced into the hall, which was empty, then he tiptoed out and tugged her after him. In moments, they were scurrying into his bedchamber, and he closed and locked the door behind them.

She did a hasty survey of her surroundings. It was a grand, masculine room, befitting John’s importance, with dramatic, heavy pieces of furniture, red drapes and bedding, lush carpets and chairs. His massive bed dominated the center, with carved headboard, crimson drapings, and velvet quilts. It was on a pedestal, two steps above the floor and situated toward the large window,
so that the occupants could recline and imperiously gaze across the rolling lawns of the estate.

Though she’d been inside once prior, at the fateful bath she’d given him, the decor hadn’t made the same impression. As she’d been preoccupied that day, she’d barely noticed the imposing bed, or the sensual colors and fabrics. Now, in light of what was about to transpire, the room seemed downright hedonistic.

Suddenly, she was in dire need of sensory contact. She yearned to run her hand along the nap of the rich material, to peel off her stockings and curl her toes into the opulent rugs.

Off to the side, there was a table laden with refreshments. Bread, cheeses, pastries, cakes—enough to feed an army for a week. Several bottles of wine, as well as a decanter of brandy, were also available for her delectation.

He’d been so assured of her capitulation!

Certain she’d accede, he’d already untied the bow on her bonnet and tossed it away, had already pulled the pins from her hair so that the lengthy mass swished down her back.

“I missed you,” he said, taking both her hands and ducking down to steal a kiss.

“I didn’t miss you,” she peevishly remarked.

“Liar.”

He laughed and wrapped his arms around her, picking her up and twirling her in such fast circles that she was dizzy, and she could recollect no other episode that had been quite so precious. There was nothing so sublime as having John Clayton focus his undivided attention on her.

How would she manage after his departure?

“Maybe I missed you a little,” she admitted as he set her down.

“I swear, Em, you drive a man crazy.”

“I? How?”

“I didn’t think you were coming. Do you have any idea how long I’ve been lurking by the back door and peeking outside?”

“No. How long?”

“None of your damned business. That’s how long.” She started to chastise him as to his language, when he halted her. “I know, I know. Don’t curse.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m understanding you awfully well.”

How frighteningly true. “Yes, you are. Tell me what you’re about, dragging me up here to your bedchamber.” As if she had no inkling! “I can’t stay.”

“Of course you can. There’s no one to say where we are. The staff presumes I left an hour ago, and you’re not needed at home. We’ve sneaked off.”

“To do what?” She wasn’t sure why she was playing dumb. Inside his trousers, she could feel his cockstand, firm and compelling at her belly.

Could she do this? How could she not?

“I want to make love with you, Emma. All afternoon. All evening. All night if I can keep it
up
.” He laughed again, scooping her up and carrying her to the bed, and he eased her down so that she was on her knees and toward him.

“Say yes. It will be so wonderful.”

It would. How could she resist?

Smiling at her, with those magnificent blue eyes, that dimple in his cheek, he was sin incarnate, a walking, talking magnet of vice and iniquity that lured her basest impulses to the fore.

I’ll pretend it’s my wedding night
, she rationalized.

Now that she’d consorted with John, she had to confront reality: She’d never marry. After falling in love
with him, she couldn’t pledge her troth to another.

Why not relent? She could learn what it was like to be a woman, a wife, and long after John went to London, she would have her priceless memories. Why not seize this chance?

“I want to make love with you, too,” she bravely conceded.

Her surrender was worth it just to see his reaction. He tumbled her onto the bed and followed her down so that his torso pressed her into the mattress from shoulders to toes. Her most sensitive areas were flattened to his, her breasts to his chest, her loins to his phallus, and she was ecstatic that she’d yielded. Like a lazy cat, she stretched, each subtle movement teasing her with the knowledge of what was to come.

“I’ve been waiting an eternity to do this,” he said, and she agreed. It seemed as though the drudgery of their lives had been but stops on the road to this fantastic event. As though they’d both been merely existing until Fate could convey them to this juncture.

“I want to go slowly,” she said, “so that later on I’ll recall every detail.”

“I’ll try my best, but I can’t make any guarantees. If I don’t have your clothes off in the next five seconds, I can’t say what I might do.”

She grinned like a half-wit. How could she fail to be enchanted by the insolent rogue?

“Why are you smiling?” He was grinning, too.

“Because you make me happy.”

“Good.”

Tenderly, he stared down at her, and his regard made her wish for so many things that were beyond her ken, and she shoved away the disturbing wave of longing, determined to concentrate on the present and nothing more. When their rendezvous was over, and she was
alone at her pitiful cottage in the woods, there would be plenty of opportunity for recrimination and regret.

The encounter became more profound. He was so beautiful that it hurt to look at him, and she had no illusions: If he’d been anyone else, she wouldn’t be lying with him. No other man could have enticed her so completely or so effortlessly.

She was doing this for him. Because she loved him. Because she wanted him to be content.

He whispered in her ear, “It will be all right.”

“I know,” she whispered in reply.

“Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not.”

Gentle yet urgent, he kissed her, and she hugged him tightly so that she could lose herself in the act. She wanted to be inundated by uncontrollable passion, so overcome by what she was about to do that neither prudence nor discretion could dissuade her.

He intensified the kiss, his tongue engaging hers. Down below, his hands were at her breasts, kneading the soft mounds through her dress, pinching and trifling with her nipples. She spread her thighs, anchoring her feet behind his legs. Her skirt was bunched around her crotch, creating a pillow against which he could push and flex, his hips matching the rhythm of his tongue.

Leisurely, he unfastened her bodice, and as each enclosure was freed, her anticipation mounted.

Finally, he urged the front open and tugged the sleeves down, exposing her thin, worn chemise. He drew that down, too, baring her breasts. Transfixed, he fervidly assessed her bosom.

“Did I ever tell you that I adore your breasts?”

She blushed, unaccustomed to his sexual banter. “Yes.”

“They’re so fine. You were made for me, Emma.”

He tarried at her cleavage, kissing her, making her wild by squeezing her nipples. Just when she was ready to explode from the delay, he suckled at one of the aroused tips. Showing her no mercy, he worked at the extended nub until it was raw and inflamed, then he went to the other, dabbling until she was writhing and making pitiful begging noises.

She was wanton, burning up, but for once, she didn’t care. She intended to float on the tide of rising desire. Whatever happened was allowed.

His nimble fingers resumed their task, propelling the remainder of her apparel past her waist, her hips. Through it all, he was kissing and caressing her, murmuring endearments that encouraged her in her licentiousness.

Ultimately, her attire was down her legs, over her feet, and she was clad only in her stockings and shoes. He sat on his haunches so that he could gaze upon her naked torso. She was embarrassed and wanted to hide herself, her instinct to grab for a blanket or to toss an arm over her breasts and private parts, but she forced herself to submit to his scrutiny.

He commenced at her toes, rambling languidly up her legs, her calves, studying her womanly hair, then he slid two fingers inside. His thumb fondled her sex, and she arched up, desperate to come.

“You are so pretty, Emma.” He hovered over her, his naughty hand titillating her. “God, I’m going to ride you so hard.”

“Finish it!” she barked. Her untended body was at a precipice from which there could be no retreat. “Don’t make me wait.”

“You have to. You beseeched me to go slowly. Remember?”

He widened her nether lips, revealing her moist, pink core, as he visually evaluated her.

“John!” She couldn’t decide whether she wanted him to desist or continue, but she couldn’t abide much more torment.

He leaned down, zeroing in on where she frantically needed him to be. “Let’s see if we can make you forget you’re a vicar’s daughter.”

With a few deft strokes of his tongue, he prodded her to the edge and flung her over. She came in a torrid rush, her hips bucking against his zealous mouth. She tried to escape the turbulence, but he held her down, pinning her to the mattress as she soared.

Gradually, she descended to earth, and he was chuckling, languorously roaming up, lingering at her navel, her breasts, her nape. He kissed her deliberately, erotically, and she could taste her sex on his tongue. The tang was an invigorating stimulant that left her exhilarated with the need to touch him, to smell him, to absorb his essence into herself.

He was removing his shirt, fumbling with the buttons, and she took over, swiftly unveiling him. She’d changed her mind about the pace. Abruptly, she was in a hurry to have him stripped, to run her hands over that sinewy muscle, to have his virile male flesh melded intimately to her own.