Cheryl Holt (28 page)

She buried a smile; he’d been missing her, at least a little, and she hugged the phenomenal notion close to her heart for subsequent dissection and contemplation.

He’d dressed for supper, even though he never went down, and she admired the superb sight. Rarely did she behold him primped and preened. By the time they had a few solitary minutes for themselves, he was ordinarily naked or, if he deigned to cover himself, he sported a robe.

She acutely appreciated this side of him, this civilized coating over the rough core. In the middle of a London ballroom, surrounded by the
beau monde
, he’d be spectacular. With his refinement and arrogance, he’d fit right in, his aristocratic Stevens bloodlines keenly apparent.

The fabulous dark blue of his velvet coat set off the vividness of his spectacular eyes, eyes that were focused on her with a dazzling potency. Without a polite word of welcome, he turned her and nibbled at her nape—a spot he particularly relished—and goose bumps slithered down her arms.

“Where’ve you been?” He was chafing, restless, lusting for her. His cock firm and obstinate against her bottom, he gripped her waist, pulling her closer. “I thought you’d be here an hour ago.”

“I couldn’t leave until that blasted soprano finished her aria.” And what a hideous delay it had been! When the concert had begun, she hadn’t been paying much attention to her surroundings, distracted as she was by her musings of Michael, and she’d permitted herself to be seated near the front, making it impossible to slip away undetected.

“You’re here now.”

“So I am.” She tipped her head, granting him more space to sample.

“Are you hungry?”

“Famished.” And hoping he was geared to indulge in a prurient feast.

“Good.”

Gradually, her vision sharpened to encompass more of the room, and she saw that he’d had an intimate supper for two delivered. A square table, covered with a pristine white cloth and immaculate china and silver, had been placed by the fire. Candles glimmered romantically in the center, and the crystal stemware gleamed, reflecting the flames in the hearth.

“What’s this?”

“Supper, milady.”

“What a sweet idea.”

He kissed up her neck, toying with her ear. “Will you join me?”

“Absolutely.”

As though parading her into a grand dining room, he slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and escorted her across the floor, gallantly holding out a chair.

Scarcely capable of breathing in her elated state, she glided into it, clinging to every second of the unexpected, impulsive surprise. Up until now, she’d persuaded herself that—from his perspective—their trysts were purely sexual, that he’d prevailed with his objective of downplaying their significance, but evidently, she’d been mistaken. For him to have initiated this nonlibidinous activity was the most precious, most dangerous, eventuality he could have concocted.

Sharing a repast was a wholesome diversion, the sort of enterprise friends might undertake, and made it seem that they were companions and confidants, rather than two strangers who’d more or less bumped into each other and who were illicitly dallying after a succinct acquaintance.

“What brought this on?” she couldn’t help inquiring, peeking up at him over her shoulder.

As if they regularly met for supper, he kissed her, then casually rounded the table, seating himself across from her and pouring the wine. “I decided that I wanted to have one memory of you with your clothes on.”

“Beast” she chuckled. “If you wished to see me dressed, you only had to request it.”

“Plus, it’s so fun to remove everything”—he stared at her over the rim of his stemmed goblet—“piece by piece.”

“Would you like to start straightaway?” Deliberately, she leaned forward, and the low-cut neckline of her evening gown provided him with an arresting exhibition of creamy flesh.

“Momentarily,” he murmured, transfixed by her bosom. “Let me enjoy the view for a bit.”

“Certainly.” She adjusted herself so that he had an unobstructed display of cleavage.

His brow rose. “Are you flirting with me, madam?”

“Naturally.”

“A hazardous business, considering my state of enamoredness with your copious charms.”

“I’ll risk it.”

Vigilantly, he studied her. While he’d always been an intense man, suddenly he seemed vastly altered, as though he’d reached an intricate resolution, as though he had confessions to make, tales to tell, feelings to recount.

But instead of relating the introspections that plagued him, he shifted back. “Are you really hungry?”

“Ravenous. I left the party before the buffet was presented.”

“Let’s eat, then.” He stood and went to the dresser where an array of covered dishes had been arranged. After filling several plates, he carried them back, situating them before her with a grand gesture. “
Voilà!
”

“Thank you.”

Fleetingly, he looked abashed. “Sorry about the lack of servants, but we’re fending for ourselves.”

“We’ll manage.”

“I’d thought about engaging one of the footmen, but they’re such tattlers that I couldn’t have offered a bribe large enough to keep them from spilling all to Lady Carrington.” Braced for her to object to the isolation, to the informality, he gazed at her across the table.

Was he mad?

She was euphoric that they were alone, and categorically enchanted that he’d gone to so much trouble. There was fish and fowl, vegetables and fruits, cheeses and breads. Everything was perfectly prepared, eye-catching, and when he stabbed a miniature carrot with his fork and held it out for her to taste, she was spellbound by how effortlessly he wended his magic.

“This is the main course,” he declared. “Later, I’ll provide dessert.”

From the salacious gleam in his eye, she understood that he wasn’t referring to food. “Do I get to pick my favorite?”

“With my avid assistance.”

She nibbled, taking the tiniest possible morsels, drawing out the delectation. In the process, she learned—with no small amount of surprise—that it was abominably romantic to have a man feed her. He rendered various delicacies, and she eagerly participated, feeding him, as well. Lingering, delaying, savoring, they puttered with the cuisine, and it was fascinating to watch him perform such elementary feats as chewing and swallowing.

Inevitably, she was full to bursting, and she pushed her plate away, laughing when he coerced her into one bite, then another. She had difficulty refusing him, even over so trivial a subject as how much he wanted her to eat.

While he cleared the table, she loafed like a pampered princess. He tidied until there were only the wineglasses and the candles he’d shoved off to the side. When he sat across from her, once again, she was balanced on her forearms, and he assumed the same pose, the position bringing him so near that she could make out the gold flecks intermingled
in the blue of his pupils, the mark where his razor had nicked under his chin.

His left eye was slightly blackened underneath, from a blow he’d sustained in his fight with Brigham, and she reached out and traced a finger across the wound, never tiring of the excuse to touch him.

“Where will you go when you leave here?” he queried, taking her hand, linking their fingers. “Back to Scarborough?”

“Yes.” She was relieved that he’d thrown the prohibited topic of
the future
out into the open, but as delighted as she was that he’d raised it, she also regretted that he had. His interrogatory reminded her that the time for separating was very close indeed, and she had to prod her next comment past the lump in her throat.

“How about you?”

“I’m not sure. Another party, I suppose.”

The thought of him persisting with his licentious habits was disturbing, and she couldn’t bear to conceive of him whiling away at cards, women, drink, and other senseless pursuits.

“Why don’t
you
go home? I wish you would.”

“I will eventually. I can’t just now.”

“Why did you leave in the first place?”

“I was angry at my mother. I walked in on her and my father when they were . . .” His cheeks flamed with color; apparently, he couldn’t describe what he’d caught them doing.

“They’re married?”

“They weren’t then, which made me angry; they tied the knot a month or two ago.”

“You’re not close to your father, are you?”

“No, not at all. He was horrid to my mother over the years, and I’ve never forgiven him for his bad behavior.”

“It must have been quite shocking for you to stumble on them together.”

“It was, and I behaved like an ass.” He chuckled, but
without mirth. “At the time, it seemed appropriate to be furious . . .”

His voice trailed off, and he couldn’t explain why he’d fled or why he couldn’t go back. Gently, she nudged, “You can’t deduce how to return?”

“After making such a monumental fool of myself in front of my entire family, I find it’s easier to wander.” Shrugging, he gulped at his wine and deftly changed the subject “I’ll try to picture you in Yorkshire.”

“Then get a ‘picture’ of something very dull, very mundane, very sedate.” He laughed, which warmed her. With her eyes, she added,
And ‘picture’ me missing you. Every second. Every minute. Every day
.

The silence stretched, jarred, and she boldly suggested, “You could visit me. If you were in the north.”

Meticulously, he scrutinized her and, after a good deal of painful deliberation, he ultimately pronounced, “I never would.”

Nodding, she stoically accepted his rejection. Probably, she should have been hurt but, as he’d rebuffed her proposition, he looked so forlorn that she couldn’t be aggrieved.

A stronger woman might have argued or begged for a different response, but she couldn’t elicit a single lure she could utilize to induce him to travel so far. Besides, if she believed he might actually come, she’d very likely spend the rest of her life gazing down the road, moping and hoping that it would be the day he’d show his sorry face. She repeated, “You should go home.”

“I know.”

“I hate to imagine the calamities you’ll create if you trot off to another party. You’ve been an utter terror at this one.”

“I didn’t mean to be. Pamela proposed various diversions, and I agreed, and then—”

She interrupted. “You’re blaming Pamela?”

“No, I just . . .” He languished again, the color on his cheeks heightening, his chagrin conspicuous. “Come here,” he interjected, and he tugged on her hand, guiding her
around the table till she was sitting on his lap.

Dipping under her chin, he nipped against her neck, causing her to giggle and writhe. “I don’t want to talk about me,” he asserted. “I want to talk about
you
, and how rapidly I can have you out of these clothes.”

Whenever she probed into his affairs, he adroitly steered her away from further review of his dubious character by reverting to sexual banter but, for once, she wasn’t irritated by his evasive action. She was as anxious as he to move the assignation to the physical realm where they connected so naturally.

“I’ll ring for the maid.”

“We don’t need the maid.”

“You’ll aid me?”

“I’m renowned for my ability with corset strings.”

“And you are a cad to mention such a disreputable skill,” she teased, but she abhorred having him refer to his other women, those scores who’d come before her and who’d come after, but she cast off her dolor. He was determined to warn her that she must never get too close, must never crave too much, or desire too badly. It was but a component of the odd game they played. Their meetings were vital to her subsistence and peace of mind, but he was bent on acting as if they were trivial and inconsequential.

He squired her to the dressing room. She carried the candelabra and held it while he lit the lamp, and she perched herself on the stool in front of the vanity. Silently and expertly, he took down her hair, combed it out, then worked at the tiny buttons on her dress. With great interest, she observed, loving how he tarried to brush his lips in just the correct spot, how his hands loitered, or his fingertips explored and searched while he seemed to be innocently proceeding with his tasks.

The haphazard touching wasn’t any such thing, and by the time she was stripped down to drawers and chemise, her body was thrumming, her feminine parts on fire, so that when he was done and urged her to her feet, she zealously
spun into his arms, ready for a blistering kiss, but she was graced with a tender one, instead.

“Thank you,” he said, his breath warm on her cheek as he pulled away.

“For what?”

“For humoring me.” He fluffed her hair about her shoulders and back. “This was another memory I fancied.”

“Of you undressing me?”

His manifest sentimentality had him overtly perplexed, and he could only mumble, “Well . . .”

“I’m delighted. It was wonderful.”

“Yes, it was,” he managed to express. “I’m
delighted
that I had the opportunity.”

Stark emotion, on which he’d never expound, was visible in his beautiful eyes, and she dared to take a chance, pointing out what was so onerous to discuss. “We don’t have many days left.”

“No.”

The heat in his gaze seared her, and she was convinced that he would finally profess how much he’d valued their time together, or how much he’d miss her after, but he merely stared, then stared some more, committing the interval to his budding store of reminiscence.

“I’m glad we did this—” she started.

But he cut her off before she could wend the conversation in a direction he was bound and determined it wouldn’t go. “I want to love you all night.”

“I’d like that.”

“In your bed, for a change.”

“I’d like that, too.”

He blew out the lamp, then clasped her hand in order to lead her out into the other room. In the abrupt darkness, a glow penetrated the shadows, and she glanced up, amazed to discover the peephole shining like a flare.

She stopped.

“What is it?” Michael inquired, and she pressed a finger to her lips, signaling for quiet.

“Someone’s in the hidden room.” Turning, she went
back, grabbing the footstool and positioning it below the hole, then climbing up on it.