In The Prince's Bed (12 page)

Gritting her teeth, she let her hand go limp in his.

“That’s better,” he murmured, then reached for her glove once more. He stripped it off each finger inch by inch, the way Alexander the Great himself had probably stripped the female captives he’d made his wives.

Heat rose in her cheeks as she stared at the dais, vainly trying to absorbSydney’s words. Unfortunately, Sydneyhad read this poem to her before, so her mind readily drifted to the thrill of Alec baring her hand. He tossed her limp glove into her lap. Then began the real distraction. Turning her hand up so that the back rested on his thigh and the soft palm lay exposed to him, Alec traced her fingers. She swallowed hard. No man had ever touched her like this. Who could have guessed it would be so…

so…

Erotic. This seemed every bit as naughty as the pictures in Papa’s book; especially since it was actually happening to her.

She could hardly breathe as he burrowed lightly in the crevices between her fingers, drew circles in her palm, then dragged his thumbnail up until he reached the pulse beating frantically in her inner wrist. Pressing his thumb against it as if to relish the throbbing of her blood, he stretched his other fingers wide over her open hand to multiply his caresses fourfold.

Lord preserve her, she might just faint. No, that was silly—what ninny would faint simply because a man stroked her hand… caressed her flesh… made love to each of her bare fingers…

“Did Helen grow to hateParis’s touch / As she observed the smoking ruin?”Sydneyread from the podium.

Not for one minute, she answered. Not ifParis’s touch had been anything like Alec’s. Katherine wanted to hate it. She wanted to hate him for doing it. But how could she? It wasn’t all that improper. And
The Rake’s Rhetorick
had never mentioned hand fondling as a tactic for seduction—though clearly it was.

Each sweep of his fingers was a whisper, each press of his thumb an endearment that inflamed her senses. She might actually burn a hole in the bench before the reading was over. The longer it went on, the more she ached to explore
him
. Casting him a furtive glance, she stilled his hand, then began her own discovery.

His gaze locked with hers. If there’d been even a trace of arrogance on his face, she would have tossed his hand aside. But his eyes shone with need and heat as her fingers moved tentatively over his rough masculine flesh.

He sucked in a harsh breath as her touch grew bolder. His hands were certainly not those of a gentleman. His skin bore hard calluses, and a scar split the knuckle of his thumb. When she stroked the raised ridge with her forefinger, Alec curled his fingers into hers, stroking, seeking.
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By the timeSydneyfinished hisTroypoem, her blood was thrumming wildly. She’d never been so aware of a man as a
man
in all her life. What would it be like to have Alec’s strong hands on her shoulders, her ribs, her breasts—

The applause began, and the blood flamed in her cheeks. Quickly, she tugged her hand free of Alec’s so she could clap.

And break his spell, before he turned her completely into mush. Because if she wasn’t careful, she’d soon be begging for his kiss—and that would not do at all.

Women are particularly susceptible to

romantic verse. Never underestimate

the power of a flowery sonnet.

—Anonymous,
A Rake’s Rhetorick

Alec hated releasing her hand. The exquisite play of fingers had only whetted his desire. It had taken every ounce of his will not to flatten her hand on his inner thigh, then drag it to the embarrassing fullness growing in his trousers. He’d never been so aroused by something so innocent in his life. By God, the woman would drive him mad before he got her to the altar. She had the curiosity of an innocent, but the passionate impulses of an experienced woman. If she were like this here, imagine what she’d be like in bed. He hardened instantly at the thought.

As soon as the applause ended, he recaptured her hand, intending to renew their reckless intimacies. Then Lovelace’s voice forced its way into his awareness.

“This next poem is dedicated to the most important woman in my life,” the man said. Alec glanced to the podium, scowling when he saw Lovelace’s gaze fix on Katherine.

“The title is ‘The Muse,’ ” the poet added.

Alec rolled his eyes. If that idiot thought Katherine would fall for such a blatant ploy…

Then her fingers slipped from his. Alec shifted his gaze to her, wincing to see the mixture of pleasure and guilt on her face. With grim determination, he grabbed for her hand, but she held it back.
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“Please, Alec…” she whispered.

God rot Sydney Lovelace. So the poet knew the way to her affections after all. She might respond to Alec’s caresses, but that blasted baronet all too easily made her feel guilty for it. He relented and released Katherine’s hand, relishing the audible sigh that escaped her lips as she hastily dragged her glove back on.

But he felt bereft without her fingers entwined with his. Nor did the sound of Sydney’s voice, sure and strong, make him feel any better.

Sydneyread with quiet authority:

When all my visions creep away

When verse eludes my fevered brain.

I seek my comfort in her voice,

That cadence is my cure for pain.

God rot Sydney Lovelace. It was simple, elegant, and most importantly, not silly. Instead—

She’s my poetry, my song

My sighs of woe she turns to grace

And in her smiles I find my will,

For hope lies in her lovely face.

Why must the man be a halfway-decent poet? Even Alec, who only enjoyed the kind of verse sung by drunk cavalrymen in taverns, could tell thatSydney’s talent exceeded that of most amateurs. Annoyed, Alec glanced over to find that hope did indeed lie in “her lovely face.” She hoped that Sydney, not Alec, might care for her, might marry her… might love her. As Alec watched, a tear rolled unheeded down her cheek.

Jealousy struck him then, so powerfully he could no longer deny it. Finally, Alec understood what she saw in Lovelace. The man’s facility with words drew her as surely as an army officer’s masculine skill with a sword drew other women. She might let Alec caress her hand, but it was Lovelace she listened to and Lovelace she admired. God rot the man, it was Lovelace she wanted.
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Lovelace finished the poem, and for a second silence hung in the air, rich with the wonder of a crowd enraptured. Then enthusiastic applause broke over them. Several leaped to their feet—Katherine among them—and as Alec rose grudgingly beside her, he watched Lovelace’s reaction to the thundering applause, hoping for an arrogant glance to tarnish the man’s character. All he got was Lovelace’s hesitant smile, as if he were pleasantly surprised by the effect of his words on his listeners. Scanning the crowd until he found Katherine, Lovelace beamed at her like a boy basking in the approval of his tutor.

That’s when it hit Alec.

The poem’s title was “The Muse,” not “The Lover” or even “The Betrothed.”Sydneywanted someone who would inspire his creations and praise his talent, someone who “understood the delicate dance / Between the pen and the poet’s trance,” as one of his lines read. Alec’s mood lightened. Lovelace didn’t want the warm-blooded Katherine who yearned to be kissed and touched and desired. He wanted to keep her frozen on his pedestal, and that could never suit her. She’s my poetry, my song.

Ruthlessly, Alec thrust the blasted line from his head. She would
not
be Lovelace’s “poetry.” She wanted something better than that—excitement and passion, as well as companionship. And only Alec could give
that
to her, thank God.

The applause faded into chatter now that the reading was over. Ladies gathered their shawls and reticules, and men stuffed their programs into coat pockets. A few people converged on the dais to speak to the poets milling there.

Katherine rose without looking at him. “I’ll be right back. I want to congratulateSydney. It won’t take me long.” She hurried to the end of the row. But instead of going to the front, she swept through the doors bordering the auditorium, clearly headed for wherever the poets congregated after the reading. Alec stood there flummoxed. Should he let her have her few minutes alone with Lovelace? She’s my poetry, my song.

Alec’s eyes narrowed. Not a chance.

Stuffing his gloves in his coat pocket, he pushed through the crowds until he emerged into the less choked hall adjoining the other assembly rooms. Within moments, he spotted her. Since she moved against the flow, she hadn’t gone far in her steady press toward the upper end of the hall. TowardSydney

, blast her.

“Miss Merivale, wait!” he called out.

By some miracle, she heard him and halted. As he approached, color rose in her cheeks, but at least she didn’t run. She even waited for him, eyes flashing.

“What is it, Lord Iversley?” she asked primly, as he reached her. Only then did he realize he’d come after her with no plan whatsoever. A thousand comments rose to his
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lips.Sydneyis an ass… You deserve better… I want you, and he only admires you. But he wasn’t skilled at pretty words like her poet suitor. His skills lay elsewhere. He glanced over at the open doorways leading to empty assembly rooms. “This way,” he said, taking her arm and tugging her across the now-thinning flow of traffic into the nearest room. Thank God she went willingly. But as soon as he closed the door, she set her shoulders. “What do you want? I told you I’d only be a moment.”

“I’ve held up my end of the bargain. Now you owe me my reward.”

As awareness dawned, she swallowed visibly. “Why here? Why now?”

Because I want to banishSydneyfrom your thoughts. “Why
not
here and now?” he countered, striding up to haul her into his arms.

She shot him her best imploring look. “Please, Alec—”

“No,” he snapped. “I’ve heeded your ‘please, Alec’ too many times already today. So before you trot off toSydney, I’m getting what I came for.” Giving her no more time to protest, he kissed her. He’d expected some resistance, but what she did was worse. She stood still, not fighting him but not responding, either. It was like kissing a statue.

Temper flaring, he jerked back to glower at her. “Kiss me back, blast you.”

Her expression was eerily composed after the heated confusion she’d shown when their hands were caressing.

“You didn’t mention anything about my having to kiss you back. You wanted a kiss, that’s all. And now you’ve had it.”

“I said a reward. And this is no reward.”

Though her blush acknowledged the truth of that, she wriggled free of his hold and headed for the door.

“It’s all the reward you’re getting from me.”

He reached her just as she laid her hand on the doorknob. Catching her by the arm, he dragged her as far from the door’s inset window as the small room allowed. Then he lifted her onto a nearby table, ignoring her shriek of protest as he trapped her between the hands he braced against its surface.

“I let you talk me into sitting through two hours of damned awful poetry, so by God, you’ll give me my rightful reward if I have to keep you here all day.”

Challenge shone in her face. “Kiss me again if you wish, but I can’t help my response. I don’t feel that way about you.”

“The hell you don’t,” he bit out, then grabbed her by the shoulders and covered her mouth once more with his.

The anger that rode him made him kiss her too hard, too fiercely, so this time she did fight him, fisting her
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hands against his chest and nipping his lip like some wild thing. As her resistance registered in the midst of his anger, he fought to bring his volatile emotions under control. He forced himself to be more gentle, to kiss her with the consideration she deserved. She wasn’t going to accuse him later of assaulting her when he had merely wanted her to fulfill her promise. He rubbed his lips over hers, measuring their softness. He tugged playfully at her lower lip with his teeth. And the longer he worshiped her mouth with his, relishing the tender lips and drinking in her hot little breaths, the more she yielded, until soon she was kissing him back. Only then did he deepen the kiss. Exulting in her response, he delved over and over into the sweet heat of her silken mouth. She flattened her hands on his chest, then clung to him, her fingers grabbing fistfuls of coat as she strained higher against his mouth.

By God, she was soft everywhere—not just her lips, but her hands and her waist and her hips… He would never get enough of this heady enjoyment, never be able to drink his fill of her delicious mouth. Only when she stiffened and tore her lips from his did he realize he was cupping her breast. Her achingly soft breast. The one he wanted to take in his mouth and suck—

“Touching me isn’t… part of your reward,” she gasped.

But she didn’t push his hand away or slap him, which told him plenty. “I know.” He branded her neck with kisses, his hand still kneading her breast.

“You shouldn’t… do it.”

“Why not? Because you don’t feel ‘that way’ about me?” he growled against her ear. He rubbed his thumb over the tip of her breast, fiercely pleased when her nipple hardened.

“Please… Alec…”

The breathy little sigh fired his need to greater heights. “Tell me again how you hate having my hands on you, my mouth on yours—”

“You don’t play fair,” she grumbled.

“The man who plays fair loses, sweetheart, and I hate losing.” He pressed an openmouthed kiss to her blush warmed cheek. “Tell me you hate this.” He caught her earlobe in his teeth, her delicate little earlobe he could nibble on all day. “And this.” He kneaded her breast. “And this.”

“I hate… I… don’t want…”