Guilty Series (17 page)

She stared at the painting, thinking of Anthony, and she lifted her hand to touch her mouth with the tips of her fingers, just as she had done countless times during the past few weeks. She closed her eyes and imagined far more. A kiss, a touch, his hand on her breast.

The sound of the door opening made her jump, and all her pleasurable speculations vanished as she turned around. Through the storage room doorway, she could see Anthony as he walked into the antika. He caught sight of her, and came to a halt. After a moment, he shut the front door and came toward her.

Careless of her not to have shut the storage room door, she realized, knowing there was no way to hide the pieces now.

“Good morning,” she said as he entered the stor
age room, trying to look nonchalant. “I heard you had returned.”

“Last evening.” He crossed the room, and Daphne's stomach felt as if it were full of butterflies by the time he halted in front of her.

She cleared her throat and hoped she wasn't blushing, hoped her body shielded the fresco from his view. “Did you have a nice journey?”

He leaned sideways, and one side of his mouth curved in that one-sided smile of his. “You were not supposed to see these,” he commented as he straightened and looked at her. “Mr. Bennington was very particular about that.”

“Yes, I am sure he was,” she answered, looking straight into Anthony's chin. “But I am a professional antiquarian.”

“I believe Mr. Bennington was thinking of you as a young lady, not as an antiquarian.”

“I have seen dozens of them before.” God help her, the words came out in a whisper. All she could think about were the man standing in front of her and the sensual image behind her and how much she wished he would touch her.

“Excellent,” he replied, and before she knew what was happening, he had turned her around to face the fresco. “I would appreciate your opinion on this one, Miss Wade.”

Daphne stared at the image, unable to even pretend an intellectual interest when there was this deep, hot hunger inside her that made her skin tingle and her knees feel weak. She was acutely aware of his body behind her.

“What do you think of the artist's skill?” he asked over her shoulder. “Is this of purely historical value, or does it have artistic merit as well?”

Her cheeks burned. She tried to move away, but he put his hands on her shoulders to keep her there. “Come, Miss Wade, give me your opinion. Do we see gods depicted here or just an ordinary man and woman?” He leaned closer to her. “Give me some instruction on the academic aspects. For myself, I find it quite erotic, but I know you could not be moved by anything more than an intellectual interest.”

Those words thrown on her already seething emotions ignited like brandy thrown on a fire. “Why should you think me unmoved by the sensuality of this painting?” she cried. She tried to turn around, but his grip on her shoulders kept her where she was. “Do you think I am so cold as that? Do you think that I have no desire in me? Do you think I am not a woman of feeling?”

“You cannot blame me for wondering,” he said softly beside her ear. “You hide your feelings very well, Miss Wade.”

She drew a deep, shaky breath and wrapped her arms around her ribs. “But I have them. I have the same hungers and desires as any other woman. How could you think I do not?”

“Perhaps because you would not kiss me,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear and making her shiver. “I was hoping—very strongly hoping, I might add—that you would, but alas, you did not. And as I told you, I am a gentleman and not really permitted to kiss you.”

When she did not reply, he straightened away from her and his hands slid away from her shoulders. “You have diverted me from our discussion, Miss Wade,” he said, and reached around her, his arm touching hers as he pointed to the fresco. “Do you suppose this red color of the background comes from red ochre or cochineal?”

She stared at his hand as his fingertips brushed the upper right corner of the background. “Ochre,” she whispered. “Am I tormenting you with the promise of a kiss?”

“Most assuredly. But you were quite right to remind me that friends are what we ought to be. It was the proper thing for a young lady to do.”

She looked at the plaster pieces on the table, at the man and the woman lying there. She did not feel very proper. “I suppose it was,” she agreed, her voice just above a whisper, “but what do you suppose Cleopatra would have done?”

There was a long pause. After what seemed an eternity, he bent his head close to her ear. “Why, Miss Wade,” he murmured, “have the tables turned? Are you asking me to kiss you now?”

“No, I am not asking.”

“I rather thought you were. I must have been mistaken.” He leaned forward enough that his body brushed hers as he touched the fresco again, as he traced the line of the woman's hip with his finger. “This particular image is remarkably fine, I think. Would you not agree?”

“I did not realize a woman had to ask a man to kiss her.” She held her breath, watching the move
ment of his finger back and forth across the painted woman's body, waiting in an agony of uncertainty.

“Not unless the man has already thrown propriety to the winds, made an attempt to steal a kiss, and has been rejected. Then it is up to the woman to make the next move.” His arm fell to his side, and he took a step back away from her. “If a kiss from me is what you desire, Miss Wade, all you need do is make your wishes clear.”

It wasn't as if she were in love with him anymore. She no longer cared what he thought. She had no doubt he'd kissed dozens of women, and he would know how to do it properly. She would so hate her very first kiss to be disappointing.

She knew this was a game between them now, and he was giving her an opening. Daphne took it.

She drew in a deep breath and turned around to face him. She curled her fingers around the edge of the shelf behind her, raised her chin and looked him in the eye. “I should like it very much if you would kiss me.”

She sounded so prim about it, which was a hypocrisy, since there was nothing prim about the way she felt. She gripped the edges of the shelf, her body tense with anticipation, a hungry sort of waiting. She watched him smile, those laugh lines forming at the edges of his eyes, but she knew he was not laughing at her. He just looked pleased.

“That is clear enough.” He stepped closer to her, and her heart began to thud in her chest like a Somali drum as he pulled off her spectacles and leaned sideways to set them on the shelf behind her.
His hand touched her cheek, he brought his mouth closer to hers, and she felt a queer, weightless sensation in her stomach as if she had just dived off a cliff. His lips pressed to hers.

Pleasure unfolded inside her like a butterfly opening its wings to fly. Never in her imagination had she experienced anything so piercing and sweet as this.

Her body came keenly alive at this moment, all her senses heightened and focused on him and herself and the touch of his mouth until nothing else mattered. Everything else in the world receded into insignificance.

She breathed in the scent of lemon soap and the taste of him. She felt her hands relaxing their tight grip on the shelf. She brought them up between them, not to push him away, but to feel the hard muscles of his chest against her palms through the linen of his shirt, the rise and fall of his breathing, the beating of his heart.

His palm cupped her chin. There was a callous on his middle finger. She could feel it as his fingers splayed across her cheekbone. His free arm wrapped around her waist, lifting her onto her toes, pulling her closer. He parted her lips with his own, a lush, full openness that tasted her, that enabled her to taste him. Oh, how could anything as simple as this bring so much pleasure?

Daphne wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him as an ache spread through every part of her, a sensation never felt before, yet oddly familiar. Yes, her body seemed to say, this is what
poets write and artists paint, this rush of joy and this need, this warmth of his body so close to her own and the exquisite tension that came with it.

She slid her hands up into his hair, and she pressed against him. Her leg curled around his, wanting to bring him even closer. It was as if her entire body knew just what to do, even if her mind did not. She rubbed her ankle up and down along the back of his calf and heard a sound, the mixture of his stifled groan and hers.

With an abruptness that startled her, he turned his face away, breaking the kiss, his breathing uneven. His arm around her relaxed and fell away. Taking her cue from him, she uncurled her leg from around his, and sank back down until her feet were flat against the floor.

Still touching her face, he bent his head to rest his forehead close to hers. “You see,” he said, his breathing ragged as he looked into her eyes, “how much power you have when you choose to wield it?”

She did see. It awed her, it excited her—that she, who had been hauled across half the globe by her wandering father, who had convinced herself she had no influence over anything in her life, who had placed herself in the position of worshiping a man who had never even noticed her—she had power, power over the very man she had once worshiped.

Suddenly, plain, ordinary, Daphne Wade felt as captivating and alluring as Cleopatra, and a joy she had never felt before blossomed inside her. “Thank you,” she whispered, “for making my first kiss one of the most extraordinary moments of my life.”

“That is high praise indeed, but I think that I should let you go while I still can.” His hand slid away from her face. He took several steps back and clasped his hands behind him. “For your very first kiss, I am honored that you chose me, Daphne,” he said quietly.

Then his serious expression changed. She saw a glint of amusement come into his eyes, and he slanted her a wicked look. “In exchange for giving you one of the most extraordinary moments of your life, may I have another month?”

K
isses for time. Anthony thought it one of the most intriguing suggestions he had ever made to a woman, but Daphne seemed unimpressed. “It is just like you to think up something like that,” she said, laughing as she walked away from him. “It is one where you win both ways.”

That was so true, he could not help laughing with her, but during the three weeks that followed, he found it to be no laughing matter. For he could not prevent his thoughts from returning to that kiss a dozen times a day. The exquisite tease of her ankle caressing the back of his leg, her arms coming up around his neck in a wave of delicate gardenia scent, the soft feel of her mouth and the heat of her body. Most of all, he remembered her face after
ward, the astonished, genuine pleasure in her smile, pleasure that his kiss had given her, pleasure she had not been able to hide from him.

He'd been right. All that passion was within her. It simmered just under the surface. He had been driven to unleash it, and that was coming back to taunt him now, for he wanted to unleash it again.

In the afternoons, they sorted artifacts and debated which ones were worthy of his museum and which were not. Every night he held her in his arms and danced with her. He asked her endless questions about places she had been—demanding vivid details of the pyramids, the Coliseum, and the marketplaces of Marrakesh and Tangier. He argued with her, he teased her, he flirted with her, but during all the time they spent together during the three weeks that followed that kiss, not once did he make an attempt to kiss her again.

Kissing would be the prelude to all the delicious imaginings in his mind, imaginings that would compromise his honor and her innocence. He was a gentleman, he reminded himself again and again, something that had never been this hard to remember. Over seventeen years of fulfilling the obligations and duties of his position, a lifetime of obeying the strictures of society, an upbringing of self-imposed discipline, all served him well now. No matter what his rank and title, a true gentleman did not corrupt an innocent woman, especially one in his employ. It was not quite so low as shagging one's servant girls, but low enough that Anthony
was always able to stop himself from kissing her. But he wanted to. God, how he wanted to.

The implications of his suggestion to her tantalized him unmercifully. In his mind, he came up with endless ways to pleasure her in exchange for time, ways that crept into his thoughts during the day and invaded his dreams at night.

She learned to waltz well enough that he began showing her some of the basic movements and figures of country dance. Not an easy task, since even the simplest country dance required at least four people. Explaining and demonstrating moves such as a
moulinet
or
interchassé
without other couples present was close to impossible, but he made the effort anyway. Holding hands was the greatest intimacy of country dance, and from his point of view, it was much safer than the waltz.

The presence of others would be a much more effective deterrent than his own determination, of course, and she was proficient enough now at dancing that it probably would not embarrass her to have an audience. But he did not suggest it to her, for God help him, he did not want to give up the tormenting delight of being alone with her. He was becoming addicted to it, addicted to the game of testing his desire for her against his resolve. A very dangerous game.

He knew he was playing with fire, but it was risk that made a game exciting. Resolve untested was moot, and three weeks after that kiss in the antika, he found himself pushing his resolve to the limit, for he put the cylinder for a waltz in the musical box.

“We are waltzing tonight?” Daphne asked as a now-familiar tune began to play. “We have not done that for a long time.”

Anthony lifted her hand in his. “You must practice it on occasion.” He pulled her closer and put his other hand on her waist. “Besides, I would rather waltz with you than parade about the room in the stiff, stylized moves of a quadrille.”

“Would you?”

“Yes, even though my partner is very cruel to me.”

“I am cruel?” she repeated, smiling at the teasing tone of his voice. “How can you say so?”

“You know how important my museum is to me, yet you refuse to give me any time in exchange for that kiss a few weeks ago, a kiss I know you enjoyed.” He saw a hint of blush come into her cheeks, and he wondered how he could ever have thought her plain. She was the most enticing thing he had ever seen. He raised the stakes higher. “Perhaps we should reopen our negotiations about that.”

“Oh, no, no.” She shook her head, smiling at him, for she enjoyed their game as much as he did. “You are not getting another month.”

“I would settle for two weeks.”

“How conceited of you!” she cried, laughing, pushing playfully at his shoulder with the heel of her hand. “Do be serious in your negotiations or do not bother with them at all.”

He pulled her a bit closer than was proper for a waltz. “What would you consider a serious offer?”

Daphne pretended to think it over. “That kiss
was two minutes long at most. I shall be happy to give you two minutes of time in return for it.”

Anthony looked at her in mock dismay. “Two minutes? Is that all I am worth? Daphne, I am insulted. I believe my kiss should be valued more highly than that to a young lady who is soon to take her place in the fashionable world. I am a duke, after all.”

Her beautiful eyes sparkled with mischief. “It might be worth more, if I could have bragging rights. But I could hardly go about telling London society how well you kiss, could I? It would ruin my reputation.”

He grinned, liking this flirtatious side of her. “But it would do wonders for mine,” he answered. “I rather like the idea of all the women in London knowing my prowess in that regard.”

“And you say you do not enjoy all the attention you receive.”

He pulled her another inch closer. “Ah, but Daphne, being considered a good lover is far more gratifying to a man than any other sort of gossip that might be said about him.”

He thought he heard her catch her breath, but he could not be certain. Her reply, when it came, was cool and prim, but it was belied by the tease in her eyes. “They will not hear about your skill at kissing from me, your grace.”

“You do not kiss and tell?”

“No.” Her lashes lowered, then lifted as she met his gaze. “Besides, if you wish me to stay longer,
you need to offer me far more tempting bait than a mere kiss.”

He could. Ideas flashed across his mind of all the places he could kiss her—the velvety skin of her earlobes and the silken strands of her hair, the insides of her wrists and the round curves of her cheeks.

His imagination went wild. Her full breasts, rosy nipples hard and aroused by his mouth. The dent at the base of her spine and the dip of her navel. Curls of golden brown and the sweet, hot cleft at the apex of her thighs.

“A mere kiss,” he said, his voice sounding strangled to his own ears, “can be far more tempting than you realize.”

Somehow, they had stopped dancing again. Some way, he had brought them to a standstill without even realizing it. Somewhere in the far distance, he could hear the music slowly come to a halt.

He was going to kiss her again. He was going to let desire have the upper hand again, if only for a few stolen moments. He could keep his wits.

Just one kiss. Just one. He bent his head.

“The music stopped.” She pulled back and turned away, then took one step toward the musical box on the mantel.

He would not let her take another. He wrapped an arm around her waist and hauled her hard against him. Both of them froze, her back pressed to his chest.

He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of gardenia. Her hair felt soft, so soft, beneath his jaw. He could
feel her breath quickening beneath his arm and the press of her buttocks against the tops of his thighs. The underside of her breast was warm against his thumb. All he had to do was lift his hand a little higher.

He leaned back a bit instead and opened his eyes. His throat went dry as he stared at the exposed skin along the back of her neck. Her hair was fashioned into intricate twists and puffs at the back of her head that Ella must have created for her. Tiny pewter combs somehow held it all in place, and it gleamed in the candlelight like amber. He wanted to take it down, slide his fingers through the heavy mass of it. Instead, he lowered his head to kiss the back of her neck. The tendons there were as tight as harp strings.

“Are you certain another kiss would not tempt you?” he asked and tilted his head to press his lips to the column of her throat.

“Not another month,” she whispered over her shoulder. “The kiss wasn't
that
good.”

He laughed softly, blowing warm breath into her ear. “Only the most extraordinary moment of your life,” he whispered back. “I cannot recall any woman ever giving me a higher compliment than that one, Daphne.”

He flicked his tongue against her earlobe, and she gave a shivery little gasp, but she still tried to spar with him. “I said…it was…was one of the most extraordinary moments. One of m-many. I have had others, you know.”

“Have you?”

“Besides, I think two minutes was…gen…generous of me. I believe you should find kissing me to be its own reward.”

Reward? He was rock-hard against the base of her spine, and he was shaking with the effort of holding back. This was torture, not a reward. Nonetheless, at this moment, if she were to demand a month back in exchange for letting him stand here and hold her like this, he would agree. God, yes. In a heartbeat.

He moved his hand, cupping her breast in the V of his thumb and forefinger. That startled her, and she turned around in his embrace, her hands coming up between them in a defensive move, flattening against his chest as if to push him away.

He could not let her. Not yet. “Is it my reward?” he asked, sliding his arms around her waist. He lowered his head. “Show me.”

His lips grazed hers, parted over hers. As he kissed her, he moved his fingers up and down her spine in lazy, circular caresses, but Daphne did not move. She did not kiss him back. Instead, she remained rigid and still, her lips pressed tight together.

Now that he had given in to this temptation, the last thing Anthony wanted was resistence, and he knew he needed to entice her if he were to savor this delight a little longer. He brought his hands to her face and caressed her cheeks with the tips of his fingers as he ran his tongue lightly over her lips, back and forth, again and again, coaxing her to yield.

Her lips trembled, softened, the first response to the feather-light caress of his tongue against her
mouth, but she was not ready to give in. He opened his mouth against her closed one. “Daphne, Daphne, kiss me back. I will even say please.”

“I—” She broke off, but just the sound parted her lips against his, and he took advantage of it, deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth as he felt her rigid pose softening. He lowered his hands to her waist and leaned his body into hers, stepping forward, pushing her back, one step and then another, until she was against the wall. Her fingers curled into his shirt, grasping folds of fabric, pulling him. Her mouth opened wider against his, her tongue meeting his. Silent permission. He grasped her wrists and laced his fingers with hers, pulling their joined hands downward, breathing in the essence of her, as bit by bit, she relaxed in his hold and her body yielded to his.

He let go of her hands, wrapping one arm around her waist and sliding his free hand up along her ribs. Thank God she had not taken his advice about the stays; the last thing he wanted right now was that sort of impediment. His hand moved higher to embrace the full, round shape of her breast, her nipple hard against his palm. Only two layers of fabric between sanity and madness.

I will stop
, he promised her silently.
I will
.

He tore his lips from hers and trailed kisses along her jaw as his hand shaped and caressed her breast. Her soft curves burned him wherever her body was pressed against his. Her hips moved, arching against his weight, and shudders of pleasure fissured through his body.

All he wanted was to pull her down onto this hard, dusty floor and feel her hips move like that beneath him, feel those long legs wrap around his body. He wanted her to say his name, over and over while he made love to her. He would not let it go that far, he could not, but he wanted just a few more tastes of her before he let her go.

He tore his lips from hers and buried his face against the warm skin of her throat, kissing her skin, savoring the tiny gasps of pleasure she made as he shaped her breast against his palm. When he closed his thumb and finger over her nipple, teasing with a slow, coaxing motion, her gasps became tiny moans, the sweetest, softest sounds he had ever heard. Each one shattered a piece of his resolve, reminding him that he was going to stop. But not yet.

He trailed kisses up her throat, along her jaw and over her chin to her mouth. He recaptured her lips, and this time they parted at once, all her token resistence gone now. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. Before he could even think of stopping, she wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging to him. Her tongue entered his mouth and drove any stupid notions of honor from his mind.

He felt his wits slipping as he slid his hands down her ribs and around behind her to cup her buttocks. He lifted her off the ground, pulling her up until her hips met his. Her legs parted within the confines of her skirt, and the insides of her thighs squeezed his hips. She rocked against him, each instinctive move bringing exquisite pleasure, to her as well; all his senses knew that. He could hear her soft sounds
against his mouth, taste her tongue against his own, feel each exquisite lash of her hips. He allowed himself only a few more seconds of heavenly torture, then he tore his lips from hers with a groan. It was time to stop.